Ilaria shrugged and flashed that quick, winning smile. "There are no
other motives, are there?"
Jay stared. What changes had taken place in religious philosophy in
this hard-bitten world of 2054?
Kevin Ilaria shrugged, smiling. "That's unimportant. Let's go on with
the history lesson. Then what?"
"Uh--oh, yes. As I remember Julius Lollabrigida, to be trite, launched
an 'all-out offensive' against Communist forces everywhere. People were
afraid of Russia, but they were afraid of Lollabrigida and Rome, too.
So they joined him. Aid poured into the UN. Czechoslovakia was taken
and Poland and Hungary and finally only the old Russia of pre World War
II days was left. And in they went.
"Then Lollabrigida's saboteurs exploded an atomic bomb in the heart of
Moscow. After that it was pretty easy sledding."
"Astounding how a nation seems to fall apart when its capitol and its
leaders are gone," Ilaria remarked.
"Everybody and everything folds," Jay said. "Morale dies.
"After the demolition of Moscow and other parts of the USSR, Italy
stood at the top. General of the Armies Julius Lollabrigida marched
back into Italy and into Rome and into the capitol and up on a
pedestal. He stood as Italy's utter ruler. His last name was lost and
replaced by 'Caesar II.' He was named Dictator.
"From mighty Rome, Caesar sent out linguists and anthropologists and
ethnologists and psychologists and military men and others. In twenty
years, twenty peaceful years, Italian had become the language of the
world. A few minor uprisings in America and in Japan were smashed.
Julius Caesar II was World Dictator of the Republic of Earth. Someone
in America denied him and was torn to pieces by the people. Someone
in Italy spread literature of dissension and was hunted down and
liquidated by Caesar's personal police, the Pretoriani. And so it went.
"Caesar adopted a prominent Air Force Colonel who became Caesar III on
Lollabrigida's death. Each year on his birthday men were silent. No
business was transacted. No one left his home. Except blue-and-silver
clad soldiers, wearing PR armbands. Caesar's Pretorians. No one _dared_
venture out.
"During the reign of Caesar III, every person in the world changed his
last name to an Italian one. The Ali bens and the Chicos and the Andres
and the Fritzes and the Johns became Marianos and Roccos and Caldinis
and Campisanos and diManos."
There was silence for a moment.
"The thing I can't understand," Jay mused, "is why in all these years
there hasn't been a 'bad' Caesar, or an uprising."
"What do you mean by 'bad' Caesar?"
Jay shrugged. "In the first Pax Romana there was Caligula, who was
insane. Nero, who preferred artistic diversions to politics. There was
Galba, who didn't know what was going on. And so on. And on and on.
Your three dictators so far seem to have done excellent jobs. They seem
to be damned conscientious leaders."
"When you re-create something," Ilaria told him, "you try to eliminate
its faults."
"Of course. But what if Caesar's son or a Caesar's adopted son goes
bad?" Jay elucidated.
"So far we haven't had that problem to deal with. But we're ready. Each
time a new Dictator comes to power, one thousand top military men draw
folded pieces of plastipaper from a 'bowl.' On twenty of these are X's.
The others contain O's. The twenty X's are a secret organization, sworn
to kill the Dictator if it should become necessary. When Caesar, as you
say, 'goes bad'."
"Brilliant!" Jay breathed. "And he--Caesar--never knows who they are?"
"_No_ one ever knows," Ilaria said. "Not even the members. They remain
in contact, but none ever knows who the others are."
Jay remembered Ilaria's previous mention of the system, and the
unconscious swelling of the Tribune's chest at the time. "You're one,"
he said.
Ilaria was caught off guard. "I--yes," he said. "I won't ask how you
knew."
"A guess. Then you've been a--whatever it's called--for nine years,
during Caesar V's reign."
"That's right."
"And you don't know any of the others?"
"Only one. I found out accidentally. He--" Ilaria stopped.
Jay shrugged. "I won't ask any more questions along that line," he
promised. "But I still can't believe there haven't been any uprisings!"
"None. Caesar II died of a heart attack. Caesar III had a brain tumor
which we learned about too late. His son never had a chance to prove
himself, other than that he was brave and foolish. He swam the Rubicon
at its widest point, then walked to Rome in his shorts in the dead of
winter. He died of pneumonia. Caesar V, our Dictator today, is strong
and quiet. He holds the Empire firmly unified. But he does nothing
extraordinary. And he is too lenient."
"I just can't conceive of such perfection!"
Kevin Ilaria smiled. He walked over to the window and peered out.
"_You_ couldn't. But this _is_ the perfect government. Everyone
is satisfied. One ruler. One capitol. One army. One language. One
nationality. One world. One religion."
"I realize--" Jay halted. "One religion?" he demanded.
"Yes."
"What is it?" He found himself afraid of the answer. The indications
were there, in plain sight. He guessed it before Kevin Ilaria turned
from the window and said:
"Caesarism."
* * * * *
The man called Gaius Julius Caesar Imperator V turned from the window
and rubbed his hand over his graying hair.
"This is the first time I've ever run into anything of this sort."
The President of the Senate shrugged. He was an old man who had been
placed in the Senate by his father in 1980. So long ago that people
wondered when he would die. They were tired of these old men dictating
to their ruler, as many people before them had been tired. The rise of
the President of the Senate to leadership of that revered group had not
been meteoric by any means. But his maintenance of the position had
been tenacious. He was a careful man.
The President of the Senate shrugged. "It is. It is the first time
anything of this sort has ever come up, Julius. Therefore it is up to
you to set an example."
Caesar glanced over at General Bonadella. The General nodded in
agreement with Senator Chianti.
"This sort of business can break up the Empire if it's allowed to
continue, Caesar," he said, in his pompous military way. "I say death."
Major DeCosta nodded quietly.
"Thumbs down all around, is it?" Caesar sat down behind his desk and
picked up the speaker of his private cable to London. He looked at the
three men.
"Commander in charge of Garrison C," he said.
There was a silent moment.
They looked up as Prefect Lamberti of the Pretorians, the Imperial
personal bodyguard (it had progressed far beyond that. Its enrollment
was tremendous; its power second only to the Dictator's) came in. The
Senator nodded. The two field soldiers turned quickly away. The men of
the field did not get along with the Pretorian dandies.
"Commander? This is the Dictator," Caesar said unnecessarily. The
garrison commander knew that only one person could call him on that
line. The phone would react to no voice other than Caesar's.
"Have you the fellow who was preaching dissension? I say one year in
prison. You heard me. Yes, one year. What? No! No torture!" He severed
connections and looked up at his advisers.
Prefect Lamberti shook his head. Senator Chianti turned and stalked
out. After a moment General Bonadella followed. The Major turned away
to stare out the window. He shook his head.
"del Ponta? This is the Dictator," that quiet, flat voice said behind
him. Caesar was calling the under-chief of the Pretoriani. "I will
speak tomorrow from the balcony. Yes. 1400. Of course. World-wide.
That's right. Oh, I suppose about a quarter 'til."
The man who ruled the world stood up and stared at Major DeCosta's
back. At forty-one, Caesar was a gaunt man with stooped shoulders and
sad lines running from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. His
forehead was lined and re-lined, and the keen brown eyes were dulled
with years of decisions and hard work.
He was tired.
They called him the Hound because his face bore the same sad, quiet
look worn by those dogs. And they called him weak because he let
offenders off too easily.
DeCosta turned around. The young Major met his Chief's gaze.
"Well?" The voice of the Dictator was quiet and calm.
DeCosta's eyes flickered. He straightened militarily. He shrugged.
"It is not for me to say, Sir."