No Alternative

It is a bright cold day in early April and the city’s clocks are striking XIII. In his tiny cell in the Tombs a small slight figure is pacing up and down, three steps one way, one aside, then three steps back, his deep dark eyes in a thin pale face. Soon, Rosenberg knows, the centurions will come to escort him and his wife to their deaths at the base of the island of New Rome, chief city of the great western empire of Rome. 

In shape the city of New Rome resembles one of Rome’s ancient war galleys, its beak or rostrum at the southern tip of the island occupied by a large open area known as Soldiers’ Field, reserved for parades and other public functions. There, side by side, the Rosenbergs have been sentenced to suffer ceremonial crucifixion in the presence of the Emperor himself in distant sight of the colossal Statue of Power, its one arm bearing aloft a short sword, the gladius, the other the fasces of rods and axes, together symbolising the might of Rome. On the statue’s pediment giant red neon letters flash out their message: ‘Send us your proud and powerful and we shall lay them low’.

Rosenberg’s bowels loosen as he imagines the ordeal they are about to endure, but his resolve is firm. He has done the right thing. There was no alternative. His only anxiety concerns his wife alone in her cell somewhere in the labyrinth of this vast prison. But he is sure her resolve equals, probably exceeds, his own. Would, though, that he could be with her! But perhaps there will be a chance for a few final words as they are borne along the Via Latissima that snakes slantwise down the length of the island, bound together in the ritual chariot reserved for traitors and surrounded by jostling, jeering crowds.

Stretching up on his toes and craning his neck so his eyes are on a level with the tiny grille in one wall of the cell, Rosenberg manages to catch a glimpse of the sun glinting on the crests of the city’s skyscrapers. Today, in the soft spring sunshine the city of towers is strangely quiet and peaceful. For once the honking horns and shouts from its fuming oil-driven chariots and delivery carts are silent. Then he realizes: the Via and its adjoining streets have been specially cleared to make way for their execution procession.

Rosenberg’s aching calf muscles give out and he drops back onto the cell floor. Stretching out on the thin, stained prison mattress, he picks up the battered paper-bound codex he had found in a corner when he was thrust into the cell, a fantasy written by some science fabulist. Rosenberg had heard rumours of this work before his arrest. It had apparently incensed the Emperor so much that it had been immediately suppressed and its author liquidated. Some previous occupant of the cell must have brought it in with him, and the prison warders, knowing nothing of the ban – ignorant oafs that they are – had simply booted it into a corner once its owner had been led out to face his fate.

With nothing else to fill his days Rosenberg had read the book over and over and by now can recite it by heart. It depicts an alternative world, one that splits off from actual history in order to head off in a strikingly different direction. In it the Natural Philosophical Revolution never took place – or not until much later. The Greek genius Giorgio Stephano never went to Britannia with the occupying army. Never experimented with the sea coals that wash up on its shores to replace wood and applied this amazing new source of power firstly to pump out the tin mines in the western part of the island, then to drive other machines and engines, making possible the steam galleys that helped discover and exploit the New World

As a result no iron roads got built to ferry messages, supplies and legions with incredible speed across the empire. Nor was there any Great Compact with Cathay whereby Rome exchanged the secrets of coal and steam for those of printing and gunpowder, thus powering the new ballistas that repelled the invading barbarian hordes with such contemptuous ease and. In the novel by contrast the barbarians overrun Rome, plunging the world into a long dark age. A bizarre new superstition emerged and became dominant, based on the worship of a humble Jewish carpenter crucified by the Romans.  

So instead of the three great imperial blocks, Rome, Cathay and Muscovy, the world consists of hundreds of warring mini-states. It is a world of chaos and conflict but for all its flaws it is in many ways kinder and gentler. Slavery has been abolished and some nations have enshrined ancient Greek notions of freedom and democracy. Who knows? Rosenberg reflects, it might yet come to pass.

But that is not the main reason why the book intrigues Rosenberg so much. It is the fact that it is peculiarly prescient about one issue of supreme importance. In the novel the leading states have developed nuclear energy and invented – and indeed on two occasions actually deployed – terrible bombs harnessing its power. That is why the book was suppressed, Rosenberg is certain. Could its author have learned about the secret programme that Rome has been pursuing?  It was the betrayal of those secrets by Rosenberg and his wife that led them to these cells and will later this day take them to their deaths.

To his surprise Rosenberg hears the lock of the cell door click. He looks up from his mattress in surprise – it is not yet the hour for the centurions to fetch him. There in the doorway stands the Grand Imperial Inquisitor himself, beaming broadly. With his black toga of office flapping about him he looks like some monstrous crow, all the more grotesque for the crest of close clipped red-gold curls on top of his head.

‘Brion!’

‘None other. The very same, my boy, the very same.’

The sound of Brion’s brogue softening the hard inflexions of his Latin is strangely comforting to Rosenberg but, as always, he senses underneath something feral about the man, the reek of some barely contained animal rage. The Inquisitor steps neatly through the cell door and closes it quietly behind him. He has the heft of a heavyweight pugilist but like many big men is surprisingly light and cat-like on his feet. The great pink ham of his face is wreathed in a genial smile but behind Brion’s pince-nez the blue eyes are hard and watchful. Rosenberg senses – although violence has never passed between them – that Brion, if he chose, could hurt you very badly indeed. 

Brion stuffs one of his paws into his robes, pulls out a silver flask, unscrews the top and holds it out to Rosenberg.

‘One last drop together for old times’ sake? 

Rosenberg shakes his head.

‘No? You should. You’re missing a treat. It’s twelve years old Hibernian. Takes the palm from any other liquor in the Empire.’ He laughs. ‘Ah, Hibernia, home of the bravest and the best!’

Brion takes a long, hard swig, further inflaming the scarlet veins spidering his nose and cheeks. Eyes closed, Rosenberg waits patiently, lying on his mattress with his arms folded behind his head.

‘Come on, Brion, something tells me this isn’t just a social call. What brings you here? Come to gloat over me one last time, have you?

Brion shakes his head with a condescending smirk. ‘No, there, my boy, you do me wrong. I’m offended. I was always fond of you, even respected you in an odd way. I’d like to try to see the world through your eyes. So, bear with me, while you tell me one more time exactly why you did it.’

Rosenberg lets out a long sigh.

‘Brion, I have been through this a thousand times.’

‘Well, indulge me one more time. I might just hear something I missed before.’

Rosenberg hesitates, then launches into the confession he has repeated time and again in cells and courtrooms.

‘In passing the papers to the envoys of Cathay and Muscovy – an act I freely and openly admit – my motive was solely this: to try to initiate a lasting peace between the three empires. A lasting and stable peace. For centuries the empires have fought each other or in ever-changing alliances between themselves in order to compete for the resources at their fringes. Meanwhile the heartlands of the empires have always remained untouched. But that cannot last. As my wife and I worked together on the nuclear programme we became convinced that if Rome alone held this new power it would inevitably use it and this would bring about unimaginable chaos and destruction. On the other hand, if the secrets were shared and all three empires possessed these new weapons none would ever dare to use them. A new balance would be established and war between them – all war, whether nuclear and conventional – would wither away. It would be a new world, if you like one permanently frozen into an age of perpetual peace. It would be a second Great Compact – but this time an everlasting one.’

Brion regards Rosenberg for a long moment almost pitifully.

‘Oh you Jews, you’ll be the death of me, I swear it! So upright, so ethical, so convinced of your own righteousness. And so stiff-necked! And in a way I actually respect you. Yours is the only religion left with any life left in it, while we Romans cling to the old empty shells of our beliefs. Bless me, just fancy it, a common Celt of barbarian stock, a kern, a taig, has now been elected a fully elected member of the College of Pontiffs officiating at the state auguries!  But just look at our gods – that bunch of cartoon deities – who except complete idiots honestly believes in them anymore, either here or in Rome? No-one, any more than the mandarins of Cathay believe in the green-eyed gods that litter their altars.’

‘If that is so, Brion why carry on with the charade?’

Brion leans towards Rosenberg and hisses in his ear.

‘Why? I’ll tell you why, my friend: because everyone needs something, however threadbare, to believe in. Oh to be sure, we Romans believe in power and conquest, all right. But that’s nowhere near enough. And what else do we have except Rome itself – our institutions, our history, our destiny – and the old pantheon lies at the heart of all that.’

Brion pauses, removes his gold pince-nez and slowly polishes its lenses, then re-positions it carefully on his thick nose, before looking Rosenberg straight in the eyes.

‘But you Jews have to be different, don’t you. You’re the moral ones, the smart ones! But I tell you, Rosenberg, for all your fine motives and intelligence, you’re a fool. Do you really think we’d have let you pass on those secrets if it hadn’t suited us. We could have arrested you any moment but that was the last thing we wanted.

‘I could burst my sides laughing. Just to think that all along you thought you were a free agent working away in accordance with your own conscience. You were never anything except a dupe, a pawn in our game. You were our chosen one, our very own Messiah who would lead us into the Promised Land. We picked you out years ago, groomed you, watched your doubts grow, fanned them even and helped point them in the right direction. What a joke – the prince of jokes – we shared the same aim! You see, like you, we wanted our enemies to have the secrets.’

‘Oh, to be sure, we could have gone through official channels and formally passed the details to Cathay and Muscovy ourselves, But that would have been messy and complicated. They would have suspected a trap. But in you, the idealistic Jewish scientist, we had the perfect conduit.’

‘But why … for what possible purpose?’

Brion laughs again: ‘And to be sure, isn’t that another joke?  Our goal is exactly the same as yours: fixing the status quo in lasting concrete. Of course, you’re right: no-one will ever dare use these new weapons, but you can forget about your dream of an era of eternal peace. On the contrary, they will guarantee the permanent continuance of small scale wars using conventional weapons. The constant little battles, the brush fire wars on the fringes, the fluctuating alliances all of that will now stretch out to the crack of doom.’

‘But why? What is the point?’

‘You know, Rosenberg, for an intelligent man and a Jew you can be incredibly dense. If a population is to be kept under total control, it has to be constantly aligned and polarised. One way to achieve that is a continuous but predictable external threat. We don’t want perpetual peace like you, we want permanent endemic, low level paranoia. Your world of peace and freedom and democracy is a recipe for chaos. And that’s what you were meant to learn from this piece of trash.’ He picks up the novel and hurls it against the wall. ‘This by the way wasn’t left lying around here by accident. I arranged for it to be left here as my little gift, my little lesson, for you. 

‘No, everywhere – whether in Rome, Cathay or Muscovy – the ultimate objective has been, is, and will always be the same: total subjection, total order, total control. Oh I know the three empires look superficially very different but under the surface they are fundamentally the same: interchangeable, unchangeable monoliths. You and your kind rabbit on endlessly about everlasting peace but those are just words, empty words. We’re going to make it reality. Forever! Put a stop to history and even to time itself! And soon we’ll be able to. I tell you, boyo, if you want a picture of the future, just imagine a fist smiting endlessly the soft defenceless face of a slave!’

Brion’s voice has risen to a scream. The gaolers, hearing it, come running down the corridor and hammer on the cell door, but Brion bellows at them to go away. He pauses, pulls out a packet of nicotinas, pulls one out and lights it up. For a few seconds he contemplates its glowing tip. ‘Here at least is one pleasure Hibernia can’t take the credit for. For this weed alone we must thank the New World.’

He holds out one of the thin white tubes to Rosenberg who shakes his head, ‘No – you will soon wish you had.’

Brion resumes in a gentler, almost wheedling voice: ‘As I said, my boy, the external threat is vital. But we need more. Constant pullulating, low level paranoia. We need in addition an internal threat, an enemy within – a class of people that, once recognised, is clearly identifiable.’

Rosenberg trembles with sudden, terrible realisation.

‘You mean us, don’t you, the Jews? We’re to be your enemy within, your chosen scapegoats.’

Brion chuckles. 

‘Yes, my bonny boy, you’ve got it in one. Look, it’s no use feeling bad about it. It’s all been planned – down to the very last detail. It will happen. But there’s still a chance for you to do yourself a favour if you want to.’

‘What kind of favour? What on earth are you talking about? This afternoon I go to the cross.’ 

‘Look, Rosenberg, I came here to offer you one last chance, not to save your skin.’

‘I don’t get you, Brion.’

Brion fishes out from the folds of his toga one of the new-fangled electronic tablets based in shape on the old Roman cerae of wax and wood and holds it out to Rosenberg.

‘Simple, my boy. Just read this.’

Rosenberg rapidly scrolls down the screen. It contains a confession stating that he had not been acting alone but as part of a far-reaching underground conspiracy. The confession is long and detailed and names many prominent names, all Jewish, some of them figures whom Rosenberg knows personally. He lets the tablet slip through his fingers and clatter to the floor. 

‘And this will launch this witch-hunt, this pogrom of yours?’

Brion nods. ‘Yes, if you please, but we prefer to call it a vital programme of counter-subversion in order to ensure the security of the empire.’

He brings his face close to Rosenberg’s and whispers in his ear.

‘Is it too much to ask, my friend? Just a tiny little signature scrawled on a piece of paper and your wife lives and is spared a dreadful ordeal. If you cooperate, her sentence could still be commuted as a last minute sign of imperial clemency. She won’t even have to stay in prison. We could release her, restore her to her old position or, if she chooses, give her a brand new identity.

‘Of course you’ll be called on to provide more details in due course – which we’ll furnish – and state your evidence in person before the tribunals. But with any luck your execution could be postponed indefinitely. Why, man, you could live out your life forever on Death Row, maybe even – depending on how well you play your part, – get your sentence reduced or receive a pardon on the quiet at the end of the day.’

‘But the arrangements have already been announced, the streets cordoned off …’

Brion grins. ‘No problem there at al. We’ll simply cancel them. Say last minute evidence has come to light demanding urgent further investigation. Or we’ll blame a bad augury – an inauspiciously pale liver – or an act of sabotage – we’ll anything at all. Get it into that clever little Jewish head of yours: we can do anything we want. Reality’s our toy. We bend it every which way we please. You’re eminent in your field, Rosenberg, but you know nothing about advances elsewhere – the progress we’re making elsewhere: neural implants, operant conditioning, chemical enhancement. You see, I’m not just talking here about physical subjugation but total mental enslavement. But that’s by the by. So now, Rosenberg, just be a good boy and sign.’

For a second or two the temptation to give in and let go almost overwhelms Rosenberg. But then gets a grip of himself and shakes his head.

‘No, Brion, I can’t do it. It would be a betrayal of all I stand for.’

‘All you stand for!’ A dark red flush spreads over Brion’s face. For a moment Rosenberg thinks he is going to strike him. Instead, Brion drives his fist against the cell wall in rage and frustration. 

‘Upright to the last, eh, you stiff-necked little prick? You know we could easily make you sign. It would only take a minute or so with some of the techniques at our disposal. But why bother? We can easily forge your testimony. And anyway one confession here or there doesn’t matter a damn. We’ll be getting a whole raft of them soon enough, believe you me. And don’t think the Jews will be the only ones we’ll go after. Your sort will be the first but they won’t be the last. Once they’re are out of the way there’ll be others. There’ll be no shortage of scapegoats – tribe after tribe of them, I can assure you. There are always alternatives.’

For a few seconds the two men lock eyes. Then with a snort Brion turns and strides out of the door. Rosenberg hears a murmur of voices somewhere down the corridor, followed by a long period of silence, only broken finaly by the tramp of the centurions’ metal-studded caligae, louder and ever louder, as they near the doors of Rosenberg’s cell.