Plutarch smiled at the young girl as she wheeled the food cart next to his desk, causing the pretty maid to blush and leave with a clumsy curtsey. It was early in the morning and the sound of the swallows calling in the trees from the courtyard signaled to the busy official that another day was dawning. He grinned, reaching over to take a piece of toasted bread from the cart. A new dawning day for most of Rome, but for the ex-priest, he had been awake for the better part of two hours and at work for the better part of that time.
As the years had moved forward and his hairline moved back (he chuckled, running his palm across the top of his head absently) Plutarch had found himself needing less sleep. Instead of sitting alone and staring at the wall, he figured he might as well make some use of his time and come in to work.
Efficiency. He sighed. To some in Rome, they bandied the word around like it was a mantra to defeat anything that stood against them. By claiming efficiency, they might reduce whatever failings they had or furthered without suffering under any blame of their own. Reality didn’t work that way – no matter how many inspectors, reviewers, or committees you had answering to you.
He took another bite, this time dipping the bread lightly into an open plate of jam. This early morning he was looking over the annual crop number for the empire, a tedious job that would require his attention for the next week plus and then some. Plutarch didn’t mind, especially since he was able to do his work without having to worry about the capricious presence of Chairman Nero looming over his shoulder.
He often thought back on his last two and a half decades of service to a man he still couldn’t explain why he followed. From a frightened minor novitiate in an overrun section of the one time kingdom, he had been drawn to Nero like a moth to the flame. He found himself abandoning his congregation, pledging himself to the charismatic man’s service without thinking through the gravity of such a vow.
Working with the Chairman was far from easy, and as the years had gone on, there had been more bad times than good. However, since the death (he refused to think of it as an execution) of Matron Mia, there had been a calming tone to Nero’s rule. Rome was still an often time turbulent place, but the current incarnation of the government had a broader and softer hand than the original ruthless establishment had been found using.
He was reaching for a linked sausage, ready to spear it from the plate with a two pronged fork, when a telesermo operator entered with a brisk knock and even faster salute. “Brother Plutarch,” he said crisply, holding a folder paper out for the ex-priest to take. “Urgent news for you, Brother.”
“Thank you,” taking it, Plutarch unfolded it and held it under the dim bulb of the electric lamp so he could read the tightly spaced letters.
TO CHAIRMAN NERO SENATE OF ROME STOP ROMAN CONSULATE OVERRUN IN CUZCO STOP STAFF IMPRISONED STOP TORTURED STOP EXECUTED STOP EMBASSY TORCHED RECORDS AND ASSETS SEIZED STOP ELEVEN OUT OF TWO-HUNDRED SIXTEEN ROMAN AMBASSADORS ESCAPED CAPTURE STOP INCAN ASSAULT IMMINENT STOP TAKE WHATEVER MEASURES NECESSARY STOP END
Plutarch dropped the paper and leapt from his chair. “To the telesermo office, now!” he ordered, running out of his chambers and down the still empty halls of the governing building. The operator followed close behind the racing official, both men’s feet pounding loudly on the flagstones as they ran.
Down one half flight of stairs and across a short hall brought them to the telesermo agency. A bank of machines were lined up along two of the walls, fresh faced operators manning their devices with somber expressions and watchful eyes. Plutarch ripped a fresh sheaf of paper from the waiting pile, a graphite stick snatched clumsily from a nearby cup.
With broad strokes and a heavy hand, he scribed a short message across the brownish page before signing off on the bottom and thrusting it to the nearest operator with a frantic, “Here! Send this immediately to Huamanga, Aden, and Fustat! It MUST get to the Chairman’s eyes as soon as possible!”
The operator took the page, turned to his machine, and began tapping out a sequence of short and long pulses on his metal transponder, reading the missive aloud as he translated it.
“TO CHAIRMAN NERO STOP INCAN ASSAULT AND DECLARATION OF WAR STOP GET OUT OF FUSTAT ADEN OR HUAMANGA IMMEDIATELY STOP PLUTARCH STOP END.”
“Brother Plutarch,” the original telesermo operator said, placing his hand on the ex-priest’s forearm. “The message will only get as far as Luetitia. It will then have to travel over the Serenic Ocean by ship. Once across the waters, a telesermo operator there will have to send it to its final destination.”
“What!?! Is there no other way to get warning any faster!?!”
The operators shook their heads grimly.
Plutarch watched the men and women working their machines feverishly, sending his message again and again to wherever it needed to go. “Zeus save us,” he muttered. Numbly he turned and left, walking with a shuffling gait back to his office.
Before he had made it half way back, Plutarch found himself falling back on what he knew best to do. He found himself praying.