Crown and Capitol

Ten days into his second term, President Richard Blackwood had already decided the White House restroom off the West Wing hallway was the finest room in the building. It had good lighting, a mirror the size of a door, and nobody could bother him in there. He locked the door, straightened his red tie, and pulled his phone from his jacket pocket.

"Time to light this thing up," he muttered, thumbs already moving. He had a line about the Middle East situation that he was sure would get ten million views before lunch. Something big. Something tremendous. He typed the first word and smiled at his own reflection.

Then the wall behind him started to glow.

It was not a normal light. A bright gold ring spread out on the cold floor tiles, burning hot like warm metal, and small sharp lines carved themselves around the circle in a perfect ring. Richard turned around slowly, phone still in his hand.

"What in the world is this, some kind of prank? Flavia, is this you? This isn't funny, I got a briefing in six minutes."

Nobody answered. The air in the room started to pull, like someone had opened a window on an airplane. His hair did not move ever, but now it moved. His tie flapped straight up. And then the golden circle opened like a mouth and swallowed him whole.

At the exact same moment, across an ocean and across centuries, a young man named Tiberius Gracchus stepped into his private privy, shifting his head to stop the gold crown from pinching his scalp and heavy metal pushing down on his forehead.

He had just finished his coronation. Down below, in the courtyard, hundreds of common subjects were waiting for their first glimpse of their new king. Tiberius smoothed the front of his embroidered doublet and took a breath.

"A king must appear calm," he whispered to himself. "A king must never show fear before his people."

He noticed the wall of the privy was glowing gold. He assumed it was some blessing from above, some divine sign that heaven approved of his reign. He reached out a delicate hand to touch it.

"Is this providence?" he asked softly. "Have the heavens come to bless my rule?"

The wind answered him first, tearing at his powdered wig and pulling his silk robes tight against his body. Then the gold circle opened and pulled him straight through, crown and all.

Richard Blackwood hit the ground hard. He fell on cold stone floor in a room smelling like wet wood and smoke. His suit was covered in dust. He looked up and saw a man with dirty hands staring down at him, holding a wooden bucket.

The bucket hit the floor with a loud clatter.

"Lord have mercy," the man said, dropping to his knees. "Your Majesty, forgive me, I did not see you enter, I swear on my mother's grave I did not—"

"Who are you calling Majesty?" Richard barked, standing up and brushing off his sleeve. "Where's my phone? I had my phone right here. Buddy, do you have Wi-Fi in this place? Any bars at all? I need one bar, that's all I'm asking."

The man with the dirty vest and messy hair pressed his forehead to the stone floor. "Your voice, sire, it sounds different, like thunder from a foreign land. Have you been possessed? Shall I fetch the priest?"

"I don't need a priest, I need a signal," Richard snapped, holding up his phone and turning in a slow circle, searching for bars that would never come. "This is a disaster. A total disaster. Do you know who I am? I am the President of the United States."

Desmond only groveled harder, muttering prayers in a language Richard didn't recognize, certain that some roaring demon from across the sea had crawled inside his king.

Meanwhile, in the White House hallway outside the Situation Room, Agent Beatrice Montague stood guard exactly where she always stood, watching the restroom door with the same bored patience she brought to every shift. When the door swung open, what stepped out was not the president she had escorted all morning.

It was a young man in embroidered silk robes, a powdered wig sitting crooked on his head, and a face pale with something close to terror.

"Sir?" Beatrice said, her hand moving instinctively toward her earpiece. "Sir, are you all right?"

Tiberius Gracchus stared at her, at the hallway lights buzzing overhead, at the strange humming boxes mounted on the walls, and let out a sound that was half gasp and half scream.

"Guards!" he shouted. "Guards, to me! Where am I? What sorcery is this place?"

Beatrice caught him by the shoulders as his knees buckled. "Whoa, whoa, easy. Nobody's hurting you. Is this a costume thing? Did the campaign team set up some kind of stunt for the cameras?"

"Unhand me, woman!" Tiberius cried, though his voice cracked with panic rather than command. "Do you know who stands before you? I am the crowned king, blessed by God's own hand!"

“Okay, sure, you’re the king,” Beatrice said, keeping her grip firm and her tone even. This was the way she’d been trained to handle this kind of situation, even though nothing in her training had ever covered a powdered wig.

That was when Flavia Sabina came storming down the corridor, heels striking the floor like gunshots, a folder tucked under one arm and a phone pressed to her ear.

"Yes, I understand, tell the Joint Chiefs he's two minutes out," she snapped into the phone, then hung up and grabbed Tiberius by the arm without so much as a glance at his strange clothing. "Mr. President, we do not have time for this. The generals are already seated. The satellite feed from the region just updated and it is not good news."

"Release me at once," Tiberius said, trying to pull free, though Flavia's grip was surprisingly strong for a woman of her size. "I do not know this Sabina woman, nor this room, nor this strange corridor of humming lanterns!"

"Cute bit, very theatrical, save it for the cameras," Flavia said, dragging him forward. "Beatrice, walk with us. I don't care if he wants to do a whole royal cosplay thing today, he can do it after the briefing."

Beatrice fell into step beside them, watching the young man's wide, terrified eyes dart from the ceiling lights to the framed photographs on the wall to his own silk sleeves, as though he had never seen any of it before in his life.

"Ma'am," Beatrice said quietly, "I don't think this is a bit."

"Everything is a bit until proven otherwise," Flavia muttered, and pulled Tiberius Gracchus, trembling and gasping, straight toward the doors of the Situation Room, where a room full of generals and cold coffee waited for a president who was, at that very moment, kneeling on cold stone floor an ocean and three centuries away, shouting at a terrified peasant about cellular service.