Lest Darkness Fall by L. Sprague de Camp Page B

being locked up. And that information seemed
hardly useful in the present circumstances.
     
                A small, snapping Italian
who had been lounging on a bench got up. "What's this, a sorcery case
involving a foreigner? Sounds like a national case to me."
     
                "Oh, no, it
isn't," said the clerk. "You national officers have authority in Rome
only in mixed Roman-Gothic cases. This man isn't a Goth; says he's an American,
whatever that is."
     
                "Yes, it is! Read your
regulations. The pretorian prefect's office has jurisdiction in all capital
cases involving foreigners. If you have a sorcery complaint, you turn it and
the prisoner over to us. Come on, now." The little man moved possessively
toward Padway. Padway did not like the use of the term "capital cases."
     
                The clerk said: "Don't
be a fool. Think you're going to drag him clear up to Ravenna for
interrogation? We've got a perfectly good torture chamber here."
     
                "I'm only doing my
duty," snapped the state policeman. He grabbed Padway's arm and started to
haul him toward the door. "Come along now, sorcerer. We'll show you some
real, up-to-date torture at Ravenna. These Roman cops don't know
anything."
     
                " Christus ! Are
you crazy?" yelled the clerk. He jumped up and grabbed Padway's other arm;
so did the black-bearded man who had arrested him. The state policemen pulled
and so did the other two.
     
                "Hey!" yelled
Padway. But the assorted functionaries were too engrossed in their tug-of-war
to notice.
     
                The state policeman shouted
in a painfully penetrating voice: "Justinius, run and tell the adjutant
prefect that these municipal scum are trying to withhold a prisoner from
us!" A man ran out the door.
     
                Another door opened, and a
fat, sleepy-looking man came in. "What's this?" he squeaked.
     
                The clerk and the municipal
policeman straightened up to attention, releasing Padway. The state policeman
immediately resumed hauling him toward the door; the local cops abandoned their
etiquette and grabbed him again. They all shouted at once at the fat man.
Padway gathered that he was the municipal commentariensius , or police
chief.
     
                At that two more municipal
policemen came in with a thin, ragged prisoner. They entered into the dispute
with true Italian fervor, which meant using both hands. The ragged prisoner
promptly darted out the door; his captors didn't notice his absence for a full
minute.
     
                They then began shouting at
each other. "What did you let him go for?" "You brass-bound
idiot, you're the one who let him go!"
     
                The man called Justinius
came back with an elegant person who announced himself as the corniculatis ,
or adjutant prefect. This individual waved a perfumed handkerchief at the
struggling group and said: "Let him go, you chaps. Yes, you, too,
Sulla." (This was the state policeman.) "There won't be anything left
of him to interrogate if you keep that up."
     
                From the way the others in
the now-crowded room quieted, Padway guessed that the adjutant prefect was a
pretty big shot.
     
                The adjutant prefect asked a
few questions, then said: "I'm sorry, my dear old commentariensius ,
but I'm afraid he's our man."
     
                "Not yet he
isn't," squeaked the chief. "You fellows can't just walk in here and
grab a prisoner any time you feel like it. It would mean my job to let you have
him."
     
                The adjutant prefect yawned.
"Dear, dear, you're such a bore. You forget that I represent the
pretorian prefect, who represents the king, and if I order you to hand the
prisoner over, you hand him over and that's the end of it. I so order you,
now."
     
                "Go