B007IIXYQY EBOK (151 page)

“No mistake. Fetch her out of there and be quick about it.”

“But Erato—”

“This is not Erato’s business. Step quickly or answer to Plancius and the givers of the games.”

The reluctant guard entered, then prodded Auriane’s arm with the butt of his javelin. “Step along there, Cleo. It’s time to get dressed for your day’s audiences!”

Auriane pulled Sunia to her breast and held her for long moments. “Don’t grieve! Our people will be watching your face to see how I fare. Stay near Thorgild and Coniaric. Sunia!” Auriane drew the
aurr
from her tunic. “This is the hearth of the world. Why was it returned to me if not to lead us back to our own ground?”

Sunia pressed the earth amulet to her lips. Then Auriane disengaged herself from Sunia and put on the hooded cloak that one of the guards held ready for her. Sunia saw that Auriane’s hands shook as she fastened it.

“Remember that I loved you,” Auriane said, her voice pale. “You are my sister. May we meet again on earth.”

At the third hour of morning the throng in the Colosseum was a placid sea; no one could have guessed at the titanic storm waves to come. Though no favorites were expected to appear today, the amphitheater was filled past capacity with thousands standing in the wooden upper gallery because word had gone round that the Emperor was to appear alongside Plancius, the Praetor who was official giver of the games. Loathed as Domitian was, still he drew crowds like kites to a kill.

Erato had not slept. He had scarcely calmed himself enough to sit since the hour he was brought the news of Marcus Julianus’ arrest. Before the day was done, the loss of his patron would prove disastrous. He discovered Plancius had brazenly cheated him of payment for the five hundred men and twenty women he provided for the Augustan Games, paying less than half the agreed-upon price. When he raised this with Plancius’ procurator, Erato found himself accused of slandering a member of the nobility, a dangerous charge difficult to fight—and Plancius fully intended to bring it to the courts. Before Julianus’ fall, Erato would have laughed at Plancius’ feeble attempts to cheat him. But now he stood helpless and alone against a ruthless aristocrat. Since dawn he had frenziedly gone over his figures to help prove his case, knowing the matter was hopeless, for half the judges in the city owed their positions to Plancius.

His panic was not eased when he entered his offices at dawn and discovered his bust of Domitian shattered into dust on the floor. He was dumbstruck with spirit-fright, as if he had come upon bloodied cock-feathers in an alleyway.
What vileness does this portend?
As he cursed the clumsy slave who had knocked it from the shelf, a more earthly terror settled in—he had allowed an image of the Emperor to be abused. Men and women were executed for less than this. Hurriedly he swept up the pieces himself, fearing to leave the mess for a slave, who might allow word of this to reach the wrong ears.

And so when Meton came to Erato at noon to report that Aristos was missing, he found the school’s Prefect too distracted to listen or care.

“Meton, if you are burdening me with this and you’ve not searched every tavern and brothel—”

“But they are closed. It is a festival day.” Meton frowned, surprised Erato had not thought of this.

“Then imitate Penelope and bide patiently. I wouldn’t fret overmuch—it’s bad for the color and complexion.”

Meton flushed; he despised references to his womanly appearance.

“But the Acrobat and the Eel don’t know where he is. What if Musonius Geta made another try at packing him off to Hades—”

“Go busy yourself with something, Meton. You’re spreading laziness. Just looking at you makes me feel like taking a nap. Are all your men ready? Go curl your hair again. Leave me!”

If Acco had come just then to tell him that Auriane was missing as well, Erato’s suspicions might have been roused. But Acco was struggling to keep the agitated Chattian captives quiet—they were unusually restless today, even for captives recently taken. Their behavior put him in mind of animals before an earthquake. Two had savagely attacked a guard and had to be killed. He could not afford to lose more; their full number was needed for the mock naval battle set for the eleventh hour.

And so in the guarded chambers where the school’s costumers laboriously painted, combed, masked and dressed the contestants, Auriane’s and Aristos’ preparations continued undisturbed.

At the fourth hour of the morning Petronius was lost in the office work that beset every Commander of the Guard; as he reviewed the names of men he was considering for promotion, one of his senior Centurions sought an audience with him. The man greeted him, then said simply, “Today, you must sacrifice five doves to Venus.”

Petronius felt the man struck him a hard blow in the stomach. These words were only known to Marcus Julianus and himself. “Five” and “doves” symbolized the freedom and peace the assassination would bring. But
today?
There was no mistaking the meaning of the words, or from whom they had come. He guessed at once that something must have gone gravely wrong down in the prisons.

Julianus has seen or heard something he fears will give us away. Today it must be, then.

He had somehow to inform, secretly and at once, the Senate and those Centurions of the Guard who were part of the plot. And they in turn needed to inform those who answered to them. And what of Nerva? Petronius wondered. He had begun with the antidote only yesterday morning. It was too soon for him—at the ninth hour he would hardly be able to stand without aid. And today it would be doubly difficult to draw Domitian off from the games. Those absurd costume battles, he thought. Domitian takes perverse pleasure in them. Petronius cursed Julianus, then silenced himself, knowing well the man would never have sent this message if all their lives did not depend upon it.

At the same hour of morning the throng in the Colosseum dropped into respectful quiet, for the originator of the show that commenced then was Domitian himself. The Emperor stared glassily at the gladiators’ entrance as twelve gold-helmeted swordfighters came forth, two abreast. Domitian saw all about him as a gauzy waking dream that grew sharp and dangerous only when he thought of Julianus’s arrest. In one moment, it made him powerfully anxious, as if he had offended some ineffable power, and he half expected a punishing hand from the sky to smite him down. But in the next, he felt he carried the scepter of Jupiter.

I am the stronger. Marcus, my truthtelling friend, this was a truth you missed. Philosopher and seer, how is it that you failed to foretell your own fall?

The Numidian attendants removed the helmets from the twelve contestants and whisked off their scarlet cloaks. Domitian, sharply alert, forgot the thousands arrayed about him. Twelve women of the tribes of Germania were revealed; each was comely and tall, with hair of red-gold sleeked into a knot at the back of the neck. They were clad in leopardskin tunics that hung from one shoulder, leaving one breast bared; all were armed with wickerwork shields and Samnite swords. Terror was quite visible on several faces. At a long tone from a horn, twelve dwarfs attired as Thracian gladiators entered the arena and faced the women in a line. A shriek from the horn ordered the attack.

The slaughter lasted less than a quarter hour. When ten women and eight dwarfs lay dead, the horn signaled a halt. The crowd broke into nervous applause in deference to the show’s creator. Domitian gave the order that the two women who survived were to be sent as they were, armored and bloody, to await his pleasure at the Palace. He examined them as they were brought close to the imperial box, feeling the familiar hot, anticipatory stirrings in his loins. Their faces bore not a trace of Aurinia’s insane stubbornness; they were openly terrified of his majesty.

When I take them they will think they have been raped by Zeus.

The herald then announced that from this hour forward, all combatants would appear in historical costume, and that wagers could only be made before identities were revealed. A man in the plebeian seats with a voice as penetrating as a hound’s howl called out in a moment of quiet, “No more stupid, dull shows! Give us Aristos!”
Scuffling ensued as guards seized the offender and dragged him off.

Plancius, sponsor of the games, seated at Domitian’s right, felt a covert surge of satisfaction.

You shall get him, you lowbred herd of human cattle. And my games will be remembered forever.

CHAPTER LVI

T
HE
L
UDUS
M
AGNUS WAS GIVEN OVER
to the mob. They spilled into every available space and pushed against the rope corridor that stretched from the armory to the barricaded passage leading to the Colosseum. The throng’s cries echoing off vaulted stone were as violent to the ears as the din of a cheap bathhouse.

Sunia fought to get close to the rope. She felt like cloth in a press. This crowd was composed mostly of those citizens too poor or too late to get a seat in the amphitheater, many of whom were intent on getting a close, critical look at the costumed contestants before they laid their bets.

After a time Sunia heard soft calls of awe—elephant handlers were coming down the passage, guiding a small Indian elephant. She saw only the top of its knobby gray head and part of a red leather harness flashing with hundreds of mirrors. Astride was a gladiator costumed as someone called Hannibal, Sunia realized from the exclamations all about. She watched in bitter quiet, hardly seeing, not wanting to comprehend. Hannibal’s opponent followed close behind; he was Darius, the Persian king. Sunia saw a flash of red-and-gold-striped robe, a ludicrous false beard, and the top of a sedan chair studded with garishly colored glass meant to look like precious gems. Hannibal and Darius went on to their fates, and after a tense wait, during which fights erupted over their respective identities and abilities, word filtered back that Hannibal, despite his fine entrance, was dead. As debts were paid or promised, the crowd shifted restlessly, impatient for the next contestants.

Sunia at last gained the rope. Now she could see Acco by the school’s entrance, shepherding his shackled herd of three hundred Chattian tribesmen, readying them for their chance to die at sea—the day’s mock naval battle would begin directly after the costume events. To Sunia her tribesmen looked like wild animals fresh from the deep forest, ready to dash their heads against the walls in blank fright. She was saddened by how remote she felt from them, and slightly shamed by the thought that seized her—
for certain, I did not look so when first brought to this place
. The Chattian prisoners were kept to one side so the avenue would be clear; they huddled together like cattle protecting themselves from a storm. Sunia suspected they were poor farmers taken in a raid.

Then to her astonishment they tuned their faces to the sky and called out in thin, pitiful voices: “Daughter of the Ash! Give us vengeance!”

Sunia flashed to attention.

Silence, fools, you’ll give her away!
Sunia looked about nervously, not thoroughly convinced that no one understood. But to the Roman mob her tribesmen’s speech was so much barbarous noise.

“
Daughter of the Ash, lead us out
!”

Sunia shut her eyes to stop the tears. It was soul-rending to hear the old battle-call in such timorous voices; she felt she gazed on a body once heroically strong now withered by plague.

And then a new chorus of shouts rooted Sunia to the floor.

“Cleopatra! She comes!”

“Hail, Cleopatra, Daughter of Isis, Queen of the Nile!”

Sunia threw herself against the rope, straining to see. For long moments the avenue was empty. Then four ibexes harnessed abreast came nodding into view—the sturdy goat-like creatures were graced with magnificent back-curved horns that formed a bold C, lending grandeur to an otherwise ordinary beast. Though the animal trainers had them lightly drugged, still the creatures were unnerved by the crowd; fretfully they threw up their extravagantly horned heads and walked with tight, mincing steps. Gradually she saw that these beasts drew Cleopatra’s chariot. The car was farcical, crudely painted to appear as though it were fashioned of ebony and ivory, and covered over with clumsily rendered Egyptian magical symbols. Affixed to the front were the horns of Horus, elegantly uplifted like hands in blessing.

Solemn and erect within the chariot was Cleopatra.

As the throng examined the stark, waxen face of the dreaded queen, they fell fleetingly into an uneasy quiet. Cleopatra was a much more recent threat than Hannibal, who had partly rigidified into myth; the oldest members of the crowd had heard her described by aged parents who had actually set eyes upon the strange, fearsome queen who nearly succeeded in making the Mediterranean world her own. Yes, all seemed to agree, that is how that cunning and voracious foreign woman must have looked.

As Cleopatra moved closer, Sunia was given an unpleasant start. This was a cruel farewell; there was little of Auriane here to see. A sharp loneliness bit into Sunia’s stomach.

Cleopatra’s headdress concealed most of her face; it was fashioned of countless strands of small polished ivory beads, creating the appearance of shivering pearly hair that hung thickly to her shoulders. Atop it was a bronze circlet that became, at the front, a snake with upraised head. Laid along the sides of the heavy headdress were two fanned hawks’ wings. She wore no mask, yet Sunia would hardly have known Auriane beneath that heavy red, white and black paint. Her serene, deathly-white face might have been carved in Pentelic marble; those pitiless crimson lips belonged to a stranger. But it was her eyes that disturbed Sunia most—they were coarsely outlined with a heavily drawn line of black paint that extended at the sides like a tail. It made her expression seem fixed, calm as eternity; it drew out Auriane’s soul and left her a hollow image.