B007IIXYQY EBOK (107 page)

“Where was the enemy—couldn’t you find him?”
came a bellow from a rooftop. Domitian was glad of the red paint; it concealed his scarlet flush.

The foul ingratitude
, Domitian thought bitterly.
Five captives died in their cells and so I was forced to put in five of my own slaves to make an even row—and the people behave as though this proves the whole war was a hoax. Any reasonable man in my place would have done the same.

So, you mewling herd of miscreants, you have shown me your true face. You despise my works and all I am, and for no cause but your own perversity
.

As they approached the solemn beauty of the Basilica Julia, Auriane found her growing rage lent her strength. She sought out individual faces in the crowd and met them with bold contempt. She knew Sunia was crying.

But Auriane did not know that, all along the route, she had roused deep sympathies. Quiet voices continuously pointed her out, and heads nodded in approval. And in this part of the city the feeling for her was even stronger. Fragmented tales of her had come to them over the years, always badly distorted or made fantastic, lately given greater clarity by the speech Marcus Julianus had caused to be delivered in the Senate. They knew she had once pulled down Domitian’s statue and set off a mutiny among the legions at Mogontiacum. These poorer and more wretched people saw something of themselves in her pitiful bravery, her stubborn pride.

As the crowd began to lose control of itself, becoming drunk with the possibility of making Domitian look ridiculous, fruit pits and pottery sherds sailed through the air. It was in the spirit of teasing at first; most missiles struck the pavement or the wheels of the wagons. No one dared aim too near the triumphal chariot itself. The culprits were concealed in high windows and felt themselves safe.

Then one daring rebel pitched down a roof tile, meaning for it to fall just short of the polished hooves of Domitian’s four white horses. But a companion knocked his arm as he threw, spoiling his aim, and the roof tile struck Auriane.

She fell to one knee, clutching her ankle; the pain was momentarily blinding.

Sunia stopped as well, jerking the rank ahead to a halt.
“Vile beasts!”
Sunia shrieked. “Who would strike a person bound!”

Auriane could not move; she lost all feeling in her leg. One by one the ranks ahead of her were reined in, as all were attached by their fetters, and those behind were forced to stop as well. Eventually Domitian’s white horses were brought to a nervous, dancing halt.

Tradition and piety demanded Domitian not speak or move. He stood in silent, trembling fury.

Who in the history of triumphal processions has been made to put up with being halted like this? Indignities stalk me like buzzards. If one of those filthy animals fell, whip him up, drag him! The Prefect of the City Cohorts will pay for this. The gods in the heavens shall be called to account for this
.

In back of Domitian the army halted, vaguely mystified looks on their faces.

It is an omen,
Domitian thought. A disastrous one. Because it befalls me on such a grand occasion, it can only portend far-reaching catastrophe. It means my
life
will be halted at a moment of glory, and in my prime. I will consult with the augurs tomorrow—but they will prattle on, not meeting my eyes, saying what they think will please me.
I need no augur to tell me this foretells my assassination.

The crowd about Auriane fell into awkward silence when they saw her injury, as if some ponderous beast were pulled up short and made to feel ashamed of itself. For long moments they watched her on her knees until collective guilt spurred them to act. It was as though each individual in the crowd of poor tradesmen and freedmen felt he had personally struck her down.

Without warning, effectively as if it had been planned and timed, a mass of them charged through the line of soldiers. They were aided by surprise; six men of the City Cohorts were knocked down before they had a chance to draw a sword, and one was trampled to death.

Fifty or more swarmed about Auriane. Numberless hands reached out to her. Carefully they helped her up; the women uttered soft sounds of encouragement. One tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her stola and made a bandage, knotting it about Auriane’s ankle with sure hands.

Auriane was as confounded by this strange outbreak of kindness as by the magic mountains all about. She got trembling to her feet; the crowd stayed protectively about her until she showed them she could walk. Sunia, buffeted by this friendly crowd, looked on with a stupefied expression, as if she had seen a wolf pounce on a lamb and lick its face instead of devouring it.

The people then fell back to give her room. When the greater part of the crowd saw her recovered, a raucous cheer arose. Auriane was not ashamed of the tears that stung her eyes. Fria led her through barren waste to a deep, hidden spring of humanity and pity. The mob of Rome no longer had one single demon face. The men and women who helped her had suffering hearts, frail hopes, the eyes of kin.

I am not weaponless. I am not alone. This land has its fertile places like any other. Ways can be found to carry on.

The cheers were punctuated now with cries of
“We are not fools! There was no war!”
Auriane knew suddenly the people had never been mocking the captives, but rather their Emperor. She felt an even greater kinship with them.

“Auriane,”
a faceless voice called to her.

“Aurin, Aurin,”
cawed a toothless old woman. Dozens now called her name, saying it softly lest it reach the ears of the Emperor.

Moments later, behind her the crowd let out a great groan, as of some heavy animal in pain. This was followed by the clatter of horses’ hooves and a series of piercing shrieks. Auriane turned quickly round, almost pulling Sunia off her feet, striving to see the place where the people had come to her aid, but the cobbled street had curved around.
The Emperor has unleashed his soldiers on the people who lifted me up. As ever, that craven soul lusts for petty vengeance.

She closed her eyes as she walked, trying not to think of bodies torn and bleeding strewn in the street.

Still people stubbornly called her name, despite their terror at the sound of the slaughtering. Domitian committed an act of grave ill-omen, they muttered, in committing a savagery on a day of public celebration. He will bring down a curse on the city.

Auriane looked into the thousands upon thousands of alien but friendly faces and all at once felt fear for Marcus Julianus. Why was he not here? Had Domitian learned his true sentiments, and murdered him as well? She was surprised at the stony chill this brought to her chest, the wild emptiness weighted with dull terror. This was more unpleasant than fear of death.

What has become of me? Never have I loved like this. I did not truly know it was possible. It is terrifying, for I give up my last scrap of freedom, the mind’s freedom. This, too, is new country. Fria, preserve me, but first preserve
him.
And curses on the Fates for entangling me so.

As the procession started forward once more, Domitian felt his pride had been savaged by dogs. Within, he was a mangled thing, a body without skin, to which the barest touch brought excruciating pain.

I give the people a heartfelt gift, a gift of victory. And they fling it in my face. They show more affection for the enemy than for their conquering general.

From this day, I will simply reward their good behavior and punish the bad, as a man does his pet hound. The rabble is my enemy, now and forever
.

Diocles momentarily lost sight of Marcus Julianus in the gloom. He stopped breathing and flattened himself against a damp stone wall. This section of the Old Palace made him uneasy. Unlit, low-ceilinged passages led nowhere, footsteps sounded where footsteps had no right to be, and every kitchen slave and chambermaid knew this hall was haunted by the ghost of that reptile-hearted mistress of Domitian’s father, the harridan Caenis, whose only redeeming virtue had been that she loathed Domitian and had been bold enough to do something about it. How his master could ever have conceived a passion for her was a greater mystery than Titus’ death, than the Sphinx’s smile.

There it was again. A duet of sharp, determined steps, approaching rapidly. Diocles called out softly—“We are done!”

Julianus appeared suddenly from a wall niche where he had been probing for the hidden entry to Caenis’ shut-up chambers. “It’s only the third watch and they are right on time,” he whispered. “They’ll turn before they get this far.” He added in gentle remonstration, “You should not have come.”

“Somebody has to keep watch on you. I’m not certain you’re in your right mind.” Craving the comfort of light, Diocles scurried into a section of the hall illumined by a window with a balcony.

“The door is not here,” Julianus whispered at last. “And we are short of time. By now, they’re slaughtering the bullocks. We’re going to have to break glass—but we prepared for that. Come.”

Diocles came out to the balcony and found that Julianus had climbed into a cracked marble planter formed of satyrs’ heads and was standing in dry earth and long-dead hyacinths. He was inspecting a small glazed window. The glass was thick and clouded, far from the finest of the glazier’s art, but the chamber within was only a storage room.

“You’re moonstruck if you go in that way.”

“You always were a comfort at critical moments. Give me the fire poker.”

Diocles reluctantly obeyed. Julianus waited for long moments, choosing a time when the noise of the crowd rose to a mountainous swell. Then he struck hard, shattering the glass in one blow.

“I beg you one last time, reconsider!”

“We’ve come this far. When will we have another chance like this one?” It would be a long time before the Palace would be so lightly guarded as today; nearly every man of the city who could legally carry a sword was pressed into the service of controlling the crowd during the procession.

Julianus pulled himself through the window and into a storage room accessible only from the chambers that had been Caenis’ private library. He prayed silently the letters were here. Diocles gripped the sides of the window, meaning to follow him. Julianus wheeled about.

“No.
And I mean it. Stay out of sight. But first…the jewel casket.”

Diocles handed up to Julianus a finely worked bronze case, complaining in his tremulous whine, “You could have given a banquet that would shame Lucullus with what you’re tossing away here. Did you have to fill this thing?”

“Yes. It has to look right. If there’s no apparent reason for a thief to break in here, they’ll look for the
real
reason.”

Julianus stepped into the musty gloom. The rooms had been sealed for a decade. A dust cloud arose about him like funereal incense, and he felt closely Caenis’ melancholy presence. He thought briefly of their long-ago embraces. He was eighteen, she, thirty-five. Youthful rebellion was not
the motive, as everyone had claimed. It was her uncanny ability to survive that fascinated him. She rose from slavery to become what was, in fact, Vespasian’s unofficial minister of finance. She had a prodigious memory, a wit faster than a viper’s strike, and no patience with pretension. It was the last that caused her to fall out so badly with Domitian. He felt vividly for a moment Caenis’ wintry presence, the ragged scars on her back from the lash, borne with a strange pride, the bitter caresses of those cool, strong fingers, that lean body that seemed to emit just enough heat to stay alive. How was it that Auriane, dearer than life itself, whose existence had been even more brutal, seemed beside Caenis like a day in full summer when forest and field are flushed with life?

Julianus let the jewel case drop; its bright contents flew in all directions. Yes. It appeared the thief was frightened off in the act. It was natural enough to expect someone would try to break in on such a day. He prayed Domitian would not question too closely his last-hour message of regret that he was unable to attend the official sacrifice because Arria was suddenly dangerously ill. She
was,
but only with her regular and predictable attacks of asthma.

He turned round to Diocles, who still stood in the window. “Go!” he said fervently as a worried father to a favorite son. Were they caught, Diocles, as a slave, could by law be tortured to give evidence against his master. “I would never forgive myself if you were found in here.”

Diocles braced himself, ready to sputter a new stream of protests. But at that moment Julianus caught sight of a movement in the garden below—the blood red of a woman’s stola flashing beneath the myrtle trees.

“Nemesis!”
He reached out quickly, caught Diocles’ arm and pulled him inside.

Julianus then went to the wall with its hundreds of niches. Here Caenis kept her private records. She was in the habit of collecting information about men she thought might be dangerous to Vespasian, but the most intriguing documents she kept, Julianus knew, could have been dangerous to herself. He quickly probed the panels of the wall, looking for a hidden door. After a quarter-hour he found a panel that gave way. Slowly, he pushed it in.