B007IIXYQY EBOK (147 page)

“He looks as always to me, Auriane.”

“Then look more closely, Sunia…he’s like a pendulum, swinging off balance again and again. Praise to the Fates! This
is what I waited so long to see.” She observed him in silence for a time, rehearsing how she would take advantage of the openings he left. “Rodan is a fool,” she muttered once. “He’s intimidated by that rage. He should fear him less
now, not more.”

A drunken man reeking of tannery smells began pawing at Auriane’s cloak. “What’s this,
my fine fellows? A leper?” Roughly he pulled back her hood.

“Blood of the Gorgons,” the man said as he laughed theatrically and held Auriane at arm’s length, examining her. “Look, friends, it’s our own
bellissima Aurinia,
walking amongst us unknown, trying to hide.”

“Release me,” she said in a low voice. When he did not, she kicked him in the ankle and wrenched herself free as he bent over in pain. Instantly a dozen more idlers swarmed round, rudely prodding her, pulling on her cloak. Those cursed guards, she thought. I drag them about everywhere and when I need them, they’re not here.

“Aurinia! Carissima!”
came a delighted series of cries.

“Darling! Give me a kiss!” one man cried, making a clumsy attempt at embracing her from behind.

Another leaned in front of her and dramatically bared his breast. “Kill me,” he cried. “I’ve got to die anyway one day— I’d rather our beloved Aurinia ran me through!”

One of his fellows knocked him aside. “Not him—me.
That wastrel doesn’t deserve such a noble death!”

Sunia fought to shield Auriane with her rangy body. By the time the guards came to rescue her from this aggressive homage, Auriane was crawling on the floor, trying to escape between their legs, holding her sword hand close to her body in a frantic effort to protect it, and wondering if she would live long enough to face Aristos.

CHAPTER LIV

O
N THE
N
ONES OF THE MONTH
of Augustus, Julianus summoned five of the principal conspirators to a meeting in an upper room of Matidia’s brothel at the foot of the Aventine Hill. Her brothel-house, a squat structure of yellow stucco, had been built over a section of the Great Drain. Should they be bothered by unwelcome interruptions, escape was readily at hand—in the reeking alley beneath her balcony, footpads had cut a tunnel into the sewers, an exit unknown to the Vigiles.

There was little speech among the five as they waited for Senator Nerva to be brought in. Matidia turned her business rooms over to them. Through the thin walls they heard the frolics in the adjacent room—yelps and eloquent groans to the rhythmic accompaniment of a rocking bed. Her accounts room lay in comfortable chaos: Scattered over a floor sticky from hot mulled wine were rolled papers covered with scratched-out figures, women’s wigs, empty scent bottles, rusted curling irons. A clothes chest with a broken door spilled its garments onto the floor; from it drifted the gently exotic scent of cassia. Statuettes of Venus and Eros, glossy from handling, were respectfully kept in wall niches. Over Venus was nailed a fresh palm branch; Matidia changed it daily to signify her sympathy for the opposition.

At last Senator Nerva was carried in on a wooden pallet. His eyes were scummy pools; his slack mouth hung half open. He grunted in acknowledgment as they greeted him, then lapsed back into solitary torment. When all were settled, Julianus began quietly addressing the company, among whom were Petronius, one of the two Prefects of the Praetorian Guard, the Senators Senecio and Herennius, who on the fateful day would make the opening speeches proclaiming Nerva Emperor, and Apollonia, the wardrobe mistress of Domitia Longina, who came on the Empress’s behalf.

“Do all who answer to you know their places?” he asked, his gaze moving from one taut face to another. Heads nodded in assent. Julianus lingered for an instant on Senecio, a Senator of the old aristocracy recently admitted to the plot; a lifetime of surly discontent had left deep furrows on the man’s brow. Senecio seemed to watch the others with particular care, his chin faintly drawn in—a protective gesture that recalled a turtle half retracted into its shell. Everyone in the room was distinctly uneasy, but Senecio’s nervousness had a furtive quality, as though he feared not the vengeance of Domitian, but the wrath of the men in this room.

I must be mistaken, Julianus thought. That harmless old man has been, for twenty years and more, one of Nerva’s greatest friends.

“Apollonia, your lady’s part has been changed,” Julianus said to the wardrobe mistress, a woman of smooth, handsome features and grave demeanor. “Unfortunately, since the Festival of Neptunalia, the Underchamberlains have been inspecting the bedchamber five times a day.” After lengthy deliberations at previous meetings, Domitian’s bedchamber had been selected as the site for the deed. “She now
follows
Carinus. At the eighth hour, when Carinus locks the servants’ entrances, that
is her signal to remove the sword from beneath the pillow. But not before. Is that understood?”

“My lady will acquit herself with honor,” Apollonia said with simple solemnity.

Petronius broke in like a restless ox.

“Are you sure he’s going to be
standing
on the final day?” he said with a curt nod at Nerva. Petronius meant to speak so Nerva could not hear, but was incapable of it; his voice was made for barking orders on a parade ground. The Praetorian Prefect’s brawny shoulders were permanently stooped—a result of lifelong resignation to ceilings that were too low for him—and he had a precarious temper oddly at variance with a harmless, youthful countenance. With his ruddy cheeks, adolescent pout and zealous blue eyes unclouded with the least sign of ambivalence, Julianus thought of him as a savage boy. “It won’t look right, our fledgling Emperor taking over on his back. To my mind, that Greek charlatan’s giving him too much of the sick-potion for a fellow in his dotage. It wouldn’t surprise me if Anaxagoras was in league with the loyalists. Life’s vital juices have been squeezed out of him. And those don’t come back.”

“I’m ill, not deaf,” Senator Nerva spoke up in a voice that displayed a surprising feistiness. “And, Petronius, if you want to remain Commander of the Guard after my accession, I would advise you to at least learn to imitate a man
of manners.”

Petronius sulkily withdrew. Julianus smiled in amusement. Respectfully he wiped the saliva that streaked from Nerva’s mouth, then reached for his wrist to feel for the pulse. “I suppose we dare not ask you how you fare.”

“I suppose you shouldn’t. This had better be worth it.”

“Be of better cheer,” Julianus said amiably. “Once Anaxagoras stops poisoning you, in a mere eight days you’ll go from teasing the Ferryman to sitting, hale and healthy, on top of the world. Domitian does
seem to be taking the bait, if that makes it easier to bear. What I want you to do now is to free a quarter of your slaves—it’s what a dying man would do.”

“You are right. It shall be done tomorrow.”

“It should be the bath,
not the bedchamber,” young Herennius interrupted. “If it’s the bath, we don’t need Domitia Longina.
Dice
are more reliable than that woman.”

Apollonia gave him a murderous look.

“This has been settled,” Julianus replied with controlled annoyance. “It must
be the bedchamber—it’s more private. The deed can be kept secret a little longer. Time is against us from the moment the death blow is struck. Whether we’re condemned as criminals or hailed as liberators—all hangs upon whether we get Nerva confirmed before chaos erupts. We need every extra moment we can snatch, if we’re to tie the loyalists’ hands.”

“You seem not much concerned that there’s been no affirmative sign from the Syrian legions,” Herennius nudged him again.

“We’ll have to let it go,” Julianus answered evenly. “We’ve got every Rhine commander, and they’re closer to Rome. When the men of the East see the way loyalties are going, they’ll capitulate. It’s our own Servilius who bothers me more—and his fellow loyalists of the Guard. The man is a fanatic. Domitian could skewer a baby before his eyes, and Servilius would say, ‘Nobly done.’” Julianus looked at Petronius. “You’ll have to contain him somehow. Must he be assigned to the private apartments that day?”

“Servilius’ post never changes. If I moved him, it would rouse suspicions.”

“Post him outside Domitia Longina’s chambers then. There’s an echo in that passage, and it will be difficult for him to determine the direction of any shouts he might hear. If he figures it out too quickly, your men will have to physically restrain him. I don’t need to remind anyone of the horrors that will result if the deed is done halfway and Domitian somehow survives.”

Julianus paused, alert once more to Senecio’s behavior. Had the man been silently talking to himself a moment ago? As he continued to speak to Petronius, he watched Senecio with every sense, aware of the man’s rough, irregular breathing, his fretting hands, strained calm.

“Now, the deed is set for the ninth hour—midway through the watch of Petronius’ young recruits, who are with us. Petronius, to you must fall the task of drawing Domitian off from the games—no one else would be admitted without question to the imperial box. It must be done no later than the eighth hour. This could prove difficult if he’s watching thirty oiled Chaucian maidens wrestling with panthers and trying to select one for the night’s frolics—so the method must be foolproof.
So I want you to interrupt him with the news that you’ve uncovered a small Palace conspiracy involving certain confidential, high-placed servants of the bedchamber.”

“Are you off your head?” Petronius said. “That runs perilously alongside the truth!”

Julianus quietly noted alarm in Herennius’ face, and also in Apollonia’s—but Senecio’s expression remained the same.

“No, it is the best way, because it’s the sort of thing that vindicates his deepest fears. He’ll not be able to resist examining the miscreants at once. Present it as a hastily arranged affair confined to a few disgruntled Palace chamberlains—he knows how they all loathe and fear him. Tell him Stephanus organized them. Domitian will believe it at once, for Stephanus has been charged with embezzlement. He hasn’t a chance of life unless he helps end Domitian’s. The other three you will name are his trusted chamberlain Parthenius, whom you know is with us, and Clodianus, and Satur.”

“Clodianus and Satur? You enlisted these men?” Petronius asked. “You are saying, then, these are the assassins?”

“Yes. The assassins—and the lure. Each loathes him, and for reasons Domitian does not particularly want known. Clodianus, for example, knows everything the Emperor’s tried to hide of his near relatives’ consorting with the Christiani. Satur knows the sad details of how he caused his niece Julia’s death by forcing an abortion on her. And so on. You see, they’re men Domitian’s inclined to want to exterminate anyway. He’ll waste no time ordering them assembled for a private questioning in the bedchamber.”

“Yes. He would do that,” Petronius agreed. “I’ve seen him miss meals and mistresses and sleep for the pleasures of grilling suspected traitors. But he’ll have them heavily chained as he questions them, and he will hold the fetters himself, as always. How—”

“These fetters will be special ones I’ve ordered from the Palace armorer,” Julianus replied. “Two links near their wrists will be nearly sawed off—they’ll break when firm resistance is put on them. And, of course, you yourself, as Guard’s Commander, will be charged with inspecting them right before.

“Now this is what is unresolved,” Julianus went on. “We have four assassins, and we agreed no fewer than five should do the deed, if we want no mistakes. The two Chamberlains are solidly built men, but they’ve little experience in killing. A frightened, cornered man can perform amazing feats of strength. One assassin, at least, should know what he’s doing—killing should be his trade. The gladiator called the Cyclops might come with us. He declined my last offer, but—”

“Which was?” Petronius asked.

“One million sesterces.”

“A disgrace,” said Petronius. “The man’s a criminal to ask so much. That’s twice over enough cash for him to buy his way into the nobility. Can’t you find someone who’d do it for love of country?”

“Petronius is right,” Herennius agreed. “Killing’s nothing to scum like that—they do it every day. And who’s going to pay for all this? I sponsored a day of games last autumn and I’m drained dry. They sent Nero to Hades for nothing. Prices have
gone up in twenty years, but this is ridiculous.”

“Spoken like fools,” Julianus replied, his voice hard. “The man is risking a far more horrible death than a thrust through the heart in the arena. He deserves to be paid. You forget—we need him
more than he needs us, and that’s the simple fact of the matter. And as for Nero’s death costing nothing, that hardly deserves a reply. Do you call cities sacked in civil war, legions destroyed, coastal towns raided by pirates, and the near loss of the empire to the Gauls, not to mention thousands of innocents murdered, costing nothing? Prices are going
down
this time, friends. And if necessary, I’ll cover the Cyclops’ fee from my own purse.”

He turned then to Apollonia. “Lady, I want Stephanus to begin wearing that bandage three days ahead of the final day. Let Domitian get used to seeing it. Can he wind it so the dagger doesn’t show?”