B007IIXYQY EBOK (116 page)

Auriane bolted through the final door and into the hall of the novices. Sunia, Coniaric and a number of others pulled her into their midst. Moments later a dozen guards flooded in. Whips snapped; they wrenched her free of the protective knot her tribesmen formed about her. Still more poured into the little room, glutting it with armed men until all began to feel slightly foolish when they looked upon their quarry: one miserable, unarmed woman. Gradually an embarrassed quiet fell over them, broken only by the distant echoing whoops of the slave boys putting out the fires and the sound of an oaken table being dragged back into place.

After a moment Torquatus was there, taking over the room; those eyes glittered with a savage edge that subdued the guards; now they were like chastised hounds. Close behind him as if pulled on a chain was Corax, and following Corax, brow furrowed in concern, was Erato.

“Give her to me,” Corax was begging Torquatus, desperate as though he pled for his own life. With a sweep of the arm he indicated the guards. “These scoundrels did nothing when I told them she broke loose, except laugh like drunken catamites. I’ll chastise her properly, as
I know you’ll want to chastise these guards.”

“You’ll boil alive in your own broth this time, Corax,” retorted a guard who was tying Auriane’s hands behind her back with hemp rope. While nodding at Corax, he said to Torquatus, “This donkey in human skin pulled the great alarm. Send
him
out to explain to the Prefect of the Urban Cohorts that he summoned them because one woman stole a chicken.”

“Wolves! Murderers of guests! I did not steal.” Auriane’s voice was clear and arresting.

“Silence her,” Torquatus ordered. A guard struck Auriane across the face, but not as hard as he might have; something in her spirited wildness appealed to the guards. To Corax, Torquatus said, “If I catch sight of your tick-ridden hide skulking about this place tomorrow, I’ll have you driven off with whips and brands. Begone!”
Then he turned back to the guards, who had by now secured Auriane.

“And now, as to the fate of this criminal…when is the next date for executions?”

“Two days after the Nones,” one guard replied.

Erato spoke up with soft insistence. “My lord, please stop and reconsider. What happened was not entirely her doing—”

“Erato, when a man becomes as mellow-hearted as you, it’s time to retire to a sheep farm.”

Erato leaned closer and spoke quietly so that only Torquatus could hear. “You must listen. This sounds incredible but you must believe me, she is valuable beyond price.
I know what you’re thinking, it’s only a woman. But in truth I have not seen a fighter of such…such intelligence
since your own favorite in the time of Nero, that man called Narcissus.”

“Whoever told you I enjoy practical jokes maliciously misinformed you.”

“This is no jest—You must believe! She’ll draw crowds like any luminary of the First Hall, maybe even more so, due to the oddity that she’s a woman. I beg you—”

“I do not care if she draws crowds or flies,” Torquatus interrupted, enunciating as though Erato were a schoolboy slow at his lessons. “We have under this roof over a thousand highly trained killers, who, should they revolt in concert, could slit all our throats in the blink of an eye, then go wreak havoc in the city. Such scum can only be controlled by fear. She assaulted a trainer. And the whole school witnessed her attempts to sack the place. Perhaps you’d like to pay for her damage from your own purse so we don’t have to make a report of this debacle to the Ministry?” His smile was brisk, avuncular, distracted. “Discipline before sentiment, my good man. Now get on to your duties and be silent.”

Torquatus turned back to the guards. “Here is my judgment. On the second day after the Nones, at the noon recess of the animal shows, let her be tied to a stake and torn apart by bears, for the greater amusement of the people.”

Sunia gave out a low-pitched wail. Coniaric let tears flow, not caring who ridiculed him. Thorgild leapt up, eyes filled with a wild, lost rage, and began shouting curses; five guards were needed to subdue him.

Erato wheeled sharply about, panic and desolation rising, his mind full of hasty, half-formed plans. He realized, amazed, he was near to tears for the first time since his wife died in the great pestilence during the reign of Titus. This woman has ensnared me, he thought, and has become, in some fashion, my child and heir. It is perhaps a thing only an aging teacher can know when given the most promising charge of his life.

He knew then that she rekindled long-expired hopes. It was as though she were a panel on which he could repaint his life and perfect it. He had hardly begun instructing her and he wanted more than wealth, promotion or imperial favor to see her fight and win.

Erato set out at once for the Palace, hoping to gain the ear of some influential official who might be persuaded to aid his cause. He reached the Office of Petitions just before they shut up for the night, but its secretaries received him with great coldness. It would be two months, he was told, before he could be given an audience with Domitian, and did he really intend to bother the Emperor with a matter so trivial amidst his preparations for the war with Dacia? Erato went next to the office of the City Prefect, whose secretary told him scornfully the Prefect would summon the “humble witnesses” to that riot in his own time, and to go home and wait until he was called upon.

Frantically Erato thought where else he might turn. The Emperor’s advisors? They were all wolves who would devour their own children to increase their influence. Except for one, who reportedly would give ear to anyone, no matter how low in station.

And so he repaired to the suite of chambers housing the secretaries and recorders of the First Advisor of the Imperial Council, Marcus Arrius Julianus. Erato had heard Julianus often labored until the sixth hour after sundown, only to retire to his great-house to work far into the night on his own books of philosophy. True to common report, Julianus was still in the Palace and hard at work long after the other ministers of state had departed. Erato was amazed to find himself immediately and courteously conducted into Julianus’ presence. And he was further surprised to discover that Julianus already seemed to possess a detailed account of the incident, and even knew of the sentence imposed on Auriane. The man’s informants, Erato mused, should enter footraces in the Emperor’s next Hellenic Games.

Julianus seemed in a state of great alertness and agitation and shot Erato a series of short, direct questions of a puzzling nature, mostly concerning details of Torquatus’ business dealings. Erato answered as thoroughly as he could; some sure instinct told him this was not the time to be discreet about his superiors. Julianus dismissed him, then called him back at once, asking Erato a question that made him wonder if his ears had begun to fail.

“Erato, if you had to, could you run that school?”

“I’ve always thought it idle to speculate on things which are not possible.”

“Let us not judge too hastily what is not possible.”

“Well, yes, then—of course I could. I’ve no birth, but I know every rathole in the place—as well as who’s got what on whom. And I at least have the wit to know skill in a swordsman, which is more than can be said by that string of preening equestrian epicures who’ve holidayed there in the last years under the pretense of governing it.”

Erato liked Marcus Julianus’ smile; it was swift, genial, knowing.

“Good enough. You may go. Do not be alarmed if you receive a rather surprising message in the morning.”

CHAPTER XLI

W
HEN
E
RATO WAS GONE,
J
ULIANUS DEPARTED
at a half-run to hire a carriage. The Emperor was in residence at the Alban villa, better than an hour’s drive through the windy, rain-dampened winter night. While still in the vaulted corridors of the Palace, he realized, dismayed, he was too informally dressed to go before the Emperor—he wore a good tunic and cloak, but Domitian would count it gravest insult were he not clad in a toga. And if he returned to his great-house he might not arrive before Domitian retired. He thought it dangerous to delay until tomorrow. His plan might be put in motion too late.

He happened to pass a freedman of Gallus’ whom he knew slightly. Hastily he greeted him, then said, “Polybius, my good man…that’s a fine, remarkably clean toga.”

“So it is,” he replied, puzzled.

“I’ll buy it from you.”

“What sort of game is this?” But the intensity in Julianus’ eyes told him it was no game.

“But—it’s
cold.”

“Are five thousand sesterces enough to warm you?”

“You’re completely mad.” But he began unwinding it slowly; he was not a rich man. “It’s been to the fuller’s ten times.”

“It’s beautiful. Here is a note for the money; pick it up from Diocles tomorrow.”

Soon Julianus was speeding through the winter dark in a carriage hired at the Capena gate. Throughout the jolting journey down the Via Latina, he occupied himself with framing charges against Torquatus. It must be something that warranted exile, but not death. He despised the man, but that seemed not sufficient reason to commit judicial murder. To accomplish this, there were three factors to consider: Torquatus’ rank, the nature of the offense, and an unknown one—Domitian’s mood. He was still not certain what he was going to say as the guard at the villa’s gate admitted him without question to a chamber where Domitian sat entranced over what was, in these times, his favorite pleasure reading—his informers’ records of Senators’ conversations at their private dinner parties.

He found Domitian in an affable temper. The Emperor had just received word his wife was with child, and a welcome dispatch had arrived from North Africa while he dined, informing him his legion posted there had annihilated an irksome nomadic tribe that had long refused to pay its taxes. This fine humor was enhanced by the fact that Julianus drove a distance in haste to see him. As always, he hungered for small signs his First Advisor still held him in regard. Julianus feigned having come for another purpose; Domitian’s suspicions would be roused if he too suddenly showed a predisposition for the role of informer. He first asked Domitian’s advice on a case he was overseeing involving a dozen jurymen accused of taking bribes in the Courts of Inheritance. Then, offhandedly he mentioned he had devised a new move for the Alexandrian board game the Emperor often played with the advisors. As he hoped, Domitian demanded to be shown it immediately. While they played, Marcus Julianus made an enigmatic reference to the great number of comments he heard in the streets during the past year alluding to the “tarnished magnificence” of the games. This disturbed Domitian far more than he would reveal; he considered the arena contests to be the constant visible evidence of the glory of his rule.

Domitian then asked him anxious question after question, which made Julianus’ first hints that Torquatus could not handle money appear most natural. Julianus threw out tantalizing scraps of information, then withdrew them, letting Domitian snap at the bait several times until at last, with great reluctance, he told the entire tale. Torquatus had, he knew, lost a good fraction of the school’s revenues for the first half of the year on a ludicrous shipping venture—and he had been trying for some time to recover the money by overestimating costs to the Finance Ministry and by cutting vital expenses. He was acquiring inferior fighters and reducing their rations, so much so that a destructive and expensive food riot had just occurred, the news of which would very soon come to his ears.

Domitian listened in black silence; then, gradually, he began to look wickedly pleased. “I say we let the frozen north chill that ardor for business ventures,” he said at last. “And since you ferreted the bungler out, I’ll reward you by letting you
choose some edifying place to pack the scoundrel off to.”

With a stylus Domitian indicated a portion of the painted map of the world that covered two of the chamber’s walls. “On the south coast of the Black Sea is lovely Bithynia, a grim and nasty place created by the gods so I would have a place to send Cynics, bad poets and fools. You may choose a village, a small, primitive
village…”

Julianus masked his dismay, thinking, how shamefully easy it is in these times to ruin a man.

He encountered more difficulty in securing the post for Erato. His early attempts brought only sulky replies and sullen looks.

“Some might say you’re playing me for a fool,” Domitian complained, “naming a man of such low birth.”

“That’s in his favor—he’ll not regard it as a station along the way while he frets restlessly, waiting for promotion.”

“It’s an equestrian post. If I give it to a freedman, the whole order will take offense.”

“It might be good for them, considering how poorly they’ve performed in it of late. They are all soldiers with war records, and not surprisingly, they’re running it as if it were the army. Have you ever tallied up what you’ve lost, just from the continuous revolts against harsh discipline? Erato would run it as a school.
The man in that post speaks for you as no other. Others merely pass through those doors, but to Erato that school is his life. He’ll be so grateful, you’ll find him much easier to keep in hand. Do it, or invite the same troubles over again.”