One Nation, Under Jupiter

SEPTEMBER 13, 2766

"And on that day they read the book of Moxi, reaching the ears of the people." I shut the book. Couldn't take anymore. It's nonsense, all of it. Nothing but a bunch of fairy tales and false prophecy. Different gods, different people, same bullshit. Some of the stories are even the same. Like that one near the beginning, about a guy named Nuoya. Gods make a big flood, killing everyone but the one guy that built a boat? That's just Deucalion all over again. I bet that lunatic over at the museum would have a field day with this.

Some of the stories are pretty interesting, I'll give it that. Still, I can't believe I'll have to send some of my last precious denarii to Lang, all for a book I've got no use for. My mind flashed back to the Chinaman, telling me how important this book was for my mission. That crafty bastard used me. If he had his way, the gods of Rome would be gone, all for a new flavor of lies to take their place. If there's any comfort I have right now, it's knowing he won't get his way either.

I surveyed the desolate apartment, clothes and empty wine bottles strewn all over the floor. Servius was always the one who did the cleaning, and since nobody else comes in here, there's not much point to making the place look presentable. In a month or two it'll become the landlady's problem, anyway. On the couch was Youtai's manuscript, a book that I was done with. Behind me were my assorted notes, a book that'll never be done. It still burns me up to think about it, the awful black joke the world's decided to play on me. The Emperor's still living large, free to keep spouting bullshit until the day he dies. And me, the guy who fought for truth? I'm the king of a dirty one-man apartment, at least for a little while longer, with nobody's ears except my own. If there was any kind of proof the gods were out there, this right here was it.

I made my way to the fridge, pulling out the pork from last night. With an uneasy hesitation, I picked up a slice of meat, taking a small bite from it. Cold and bland, but I suppose it beats starving. This is how it's going to be from now on, it looks like. I eat whatever the dole's willing to provide, then I sit around and think about what could have been. Then the next day comes and the cycle repeats, again and again until Mors finally shows up and takes me.

It's kind of funny, when I think about it. The whole time I was going around, doing interviews, I was scared about what would happen once I was outed. I expected getting the same kind of treatment Relicta did. People whispering my names on the street, calling for my head. Getting locked up, sent to court, maybe even put up on the cross. Instead I get a few minutes of infamy, then the whole world decides to forget about me, no punishment save to languish in obscurity and be unemployable. I bet the Emperor even planned this out, knowing him. Like how way back in the day Maxentius killed the blasphemers quietly. He wouldn't let me be a spectacle. I think I'd almost prefer the cross, to be honest.

I took another bite of pork, letting the meat roll around my mouth, never quite swallowing it. There's something about the taste of pork that always struck a nerve with me. So naturally, that's the only meat available on the corn dole. Thanks, Gaius. I put the putrid meat back in the fridge. I didn't feel like eating. I just wanted to turn on the television, see what's going on in the outside world, pretend I'm somewhere else. The newswoman was on the screen. I'd spent so much time this past year listening to her drone on I feel like I could draw her face from memory. This time was different, though. Every time I watched the news, the anchor stayed stiff. Read the news, stay cool, don't act personal. This time, she was smiling.

"A blessed Ides to all of you!" said the newswoman, beaming for the camera. Pollux, is it the Ides already? Feels like the Kalends was just yesterday. "As we speak, preparations are underway for the Epulum Jovis, to be held in the Pratusian Palace. Attending will be Emperor Piissimus, Legate Aurelius Taurus, still recovering from his wounds incurred in the Arabian War, countless Senators and priests, and of course, the gods themselves." The screen cut to the palace's familiar halls, a lavish wooden table being assembled over the spots I once walked. A crewman pushed forward a plush armchair, with four others lifting a sitting statue of Jupiter into the seat. They always do this, pretend the gods are sitting at the table, eating along with everybody. It's an awful farce, pretending to feed the best food money can buy to a bunch of statues while people like me are stuck with third-rate pork. I don't know where the Emperor gets off, thinking he can pull stunts like this in public.