As tears, commixing pride, relief, and grief, streamed down my cheeks, I looked, as all the world did, at the little temple opposite the Rostra, with its double doors at each end, roofed in vine-patterned tile and framed with leaves of stone. The Temple of Janus stands barely forty meters from the Rostra, almost a toy temple, shed-sized, small enough to be shaded by the laurel trees beside the Senate House, happy to be ignored. I have never understood Janus. He is one of those few gods the Romans didn’t borrow from us: their two-faced god of beginnings, changes, doorways, enterprise, and many other vague, liminal concepts that are difficult for my mind to pry off the domains of more familiar deities like Hermes. The Temple of Janus itself I understand better. It was the dark twin of the Altar of Peace, not a gathering place or haven like the larger temples, but a declaration. When its double gates stood open, exposing the sanctum of the god of enterprise and change, Rome was at war. Only when golden peace touched every corner of the Empire could proud Emperors close and seal those gates. Few enough to count on one hand were the happy Caesars who had the privilege of draping binding garlands across those doors, and many were the generations who never saw them shut. Our copy of the little temple, faithful to the images on ancient coins, was built closed, its bronze gates sealed by its builders with garlands of carved stone in hoped-for permanence. Hope no more, builders. Hope no more. No hope for peace, at least, but He Who Visits brings a new and different hope to give us structure. One hundred and twenty-eight days, His test to see if the human species, which would shoot a Tribune on the Rostra, could respect, if not its own laws, at least its own excellence. We will pass. Thirteen days left now before the ceremony, reader; we must pass.

“Also—” He pressed.

“Enough,” Ancelet urged. “Haven’t you made enough enemies in the last five minutes? Let me speak. Let me calm things down. This was supposed to be about the Olympics, not you conquering the world.”

Jehovah stood firm. “One last thing. I must introduce our guide in this time of testing.” He gestured behind Him, to a small, fit figure almost ready to step out into the light. “President Ancelet, honored Committee members, human race, this is Achilles.”

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH

The Five Gates of Esperanza City

Written August 12–14, 2454

Events of May 3

Esperanza City