B007IIXYQY EBOK (161 page)

Fools, Nerva thought. You are getting in victory’s way.

Two of his eight Cappadocian bearers were knocked to their knees. The litter pitched; Nerva rolled out into the muddy street. A booted foot stepped on his hand. Three of his chair-men hastily lifted him and dragged him into a cleft between two massive tenement blocks.

This is catastrophe, Nerva thought. If I’m not there to secure the office when the deed is done, the Praetorians will be allowed too much time to think. They cannot be left without a master even for an hour—they might well tear the city apart in vengeance.

That is, if the deed is done at all. The odds are not with us. Too many know of this. The conspiracy had one necessary flaw from the beginning—to render it safe afterward, too many had to be let in.

His eyes watered in a gust of thick, foul smoke. From above came shrieks of terror, a rain of poor possessions. He covered his head as tin vessels, patched clothing, jars of foodstuffs wrapped in rags dropped sloppily all about him. A mother threw a crying child into the waiting arms of a man below. The tenement that sheltered him had been fired by the mob.

Carinus’ heart contracted with dread as he padded about to each of the bedchamber’s five servants’ entrances, bolting them from without, converting his Lord and God’s bedroom into an escape-proof chamber of death.

Suddenly he heard a muffled disturbance within—a woman’s bristling protestations, followed by her angry sobs.

Mother of the gods, the Emperor has walked in on my lady just as she replaces the coverlet. She will fall at his feet and confess it all. We are good as buried.

Carinus felt his heart was compressed in a vise. He put an ear to the door and caught blurred words here and there of an ugly, clumsy verbal duel. First came Domitia Longina’s voice striking out in bold flurries, rising in pitch, as if she advanced with a weapon she did not want to be forced to use. Then came the Emperor’s voice, sulkily defensive, pushing her off, the flatness in his tone betraying he thought her a petty annoyance rather than a true threat. Gradually Carinus put it together—the Emperor had indeed surprised Domitia Longina in the act, but Carinus guessed Juno had preserved her—Domitian had not
seen the shredded covers. The Empress, to prevent him from guessing the true reason for her panic, erupted into a fine display of jealousy, most likely over Domitian’s haughty new concubine, too highborn in Carinus’ opinion not to bring Domitia Longina public shame.

Wisely done, dear, clever Mother. It sounds as though he believes you. All is well.

Domitian was seated on a gold and ivory curule chair set on a dais near the east apse of the grand bedchamber. On his right rose a sturdy, maternal Minerva in Parian marble, her divine head angled toward him, her gracefully angled spear poised to protect. Behind him, the imperial bed appeared as formal and unused as funerary furniture. A shaft of hazy illumination from a lightwell shrouded him in sallow light. The Emperor appeared waxen, preserved, a thing scarcely living, his eyes inflexible and remote as that of a god-figure in an Egyptian tomb painting. The imperial gaze was fixed somewhere just above the heads of the five prisoners chained before him. He had shed his prison-fouled clothes and was now freshly bathed, oiled, laurel-bedecked, and magisterially draped in a purple toga embroidered with silver stars.

He was in a fine, grand mood. The Prefect of the City Police had assured him the unruly crowds would soon be brought under control. A dangerous plot had been exposed and crushed. There was still the ghastly matter of Aristos’ death, but was not that sign of divine disfavor evenly counterbalanced by his bold outmaneuvering of Marcus Julianus?

Domitian had long reserved the imperial bedchamber for settling matters he preferred kept quiet—those occasional embarrassments a ruler must attend to, whose sad solution he knows will not add luster to his name. He allowed his gaze to move unhurriedly over the five wretched specimens of humanity in fetters before him.

All persons, all creatures, all nations have their heaven-appointed place, he philosophized grandly as was his habit when he felt keenly his magnificence. This is the most fundamental law. When people stray from the niche in which wise Minerva put them, this is the source of all impiety, all strife, all criminal acts.

For long moments Domitian glared punitively at the five miscreants who had crawled from their place. He saw this task as not too different from that of the Palace slave who oversees the taking of the day’s garbage to the middens.

First on the left was the gladiator called the Cyclops. A peculiar scar in the midst of a broad forehead earned the man his name; it resembled a bold, staring eye. His squat, powerful body, stooped shoulders and overlong arms gave him a decided resemblance to an ape; idly Domitian considered if there might be some obscure causal connection between the man’s criminality and his bestial conformation. The Cyclops watched him with alert indifference, a calm Domitian surmised was the product of the discipline of the gladiatorial schools. He wanted to say: This is
certain
death, you ignorant brute—in the arena your chances are better.

Next to the Cyclops was Stephanus, a family steward, whose placid, inoffensive face was familiar to Domitian since boyhood. Stephanus’ participation in this affair was to be expected—he had been caught embezzling from the household chest. Domitian looked briefly at Stephanus’ heavily bandaged arm—three days ago he had broken it in a fall. He smiled at Stephanus, thinking, why bandage it at all? It won’t have time to heal. Stephanus nervously smiled back.

Domitian’s gaze moved hastily over the next man, Clodianus, a Centurion of the Guard, for in that soldier’s active black eyes was a raw, unrepentant contempt that threatened to capsize Domitian’s fine humor. Next to Clodianus was Satur, a tall Libyan with copper skin who was his wife’s chamberlain. Domitian tarried over Satur’s voluptuous lips and mentally caressed that lean, supple body. Domitian would have had Satur destroyed long ago because he knew his wife’s blood was fevered in the man’s presence; often he felt her eagerness to possess that neatly formed male body. But he himself had, almost accidentally one day, discovered Satur to be a master of the arts of the bedchamber and, until now, had not been able to bear the thought of giving him up.

Last was Parthenius, his own chief chamberlain, who until this day he had trusted more than any man. Parthenius alone of the imperial household had been granted the right to wear a sword. He was the tallest of men, causing Domitian to wonder if Parthenius’ great height might not the cause of his seeming awkward distance from his fellow men. The chief chamberlain had pleasantly battered features, distressed brown eyes, and a yellowed complexion physicians claimed was caused by a lingering malaise of the liver. Parthenius avoided Domitian’s gaze; he seemed distinctly ashamed of himself.

What an amusing collection of criminal suspects, Domitian observed. Each embodies a quality— Loyalty, Deference, Doggedness, and so forth. They’ve a single trait in common, however—they’re all
fine
physical specimens. They look a bit like characters in a country Satyr play, ready to fight over who’ll play Priapus.

Unaccountably, an unease overcame Domitian then, a sense this hour was somehow marked, that the world was slightly ajar in a way that should awaken him to danger. He recoiled in his soul, as if he heard an owl’s call at midnight.

Why do I feel a sixth man is here, brooding over them all? I sense closely the presence of Marcus Julianus—in each man’s face, I almost see that irksome, bemused smile, those eyes that apprehend with a cursory glance what most men won’t notice until tomorrow.

Vigorously he banished the apparition from his mind.

“Come forward!” Domitian called out in sonorous voice. For a moment the Cyclops’ impassiveness frightened him, but he was reassured by the slide-and-clink of the prisoners’ heavy chains and by the knowledge that just beyond the anteroom was a double guard.

I could not be more secure. Why, then, this prickling sense of dread?

“All of you are impious scum, and you know it. The gods alone know what mix of bestial cunning, crippled intelligence and faithlessness inspires such acts of futile viciousness,” he proclaimed importantly. “Now I want you to tell me in your own words
why
you tried to destroy your Lord and God. If you’re honest and forthright in your replies, you’ll get a quick death and a decent burial. If not, we’ve a variety of more entertaining deaths in our stock. Afterward I’ll meet privately with each man and you’ll give me the names of the others involved in this plot. The man who gives me the
fewest
names will earn the right to die on a cross.”

They watched him with tense patience. Did he imagine it—or were they bunching more closely together?

In the corridor a door slammed shut with a rude clang. In a rough singsong voice a Guard cried out the ninth hour.

Carinus stood stiff and straight as a votive image while he poured a libation before the altar of the household gods set up in the antechamber. His hands shook; glistening red wine splashed down on the altar, onto the alabaster floor.

Mother of the Gods, give me the heart of a lion
…
. Now the volcano erupts. And I must stand quietly in its path.

In her own chambers Domitia Longina took an inscription plate bearing her husband’s name and titles and dropped it into a burning brazier.

Fall away, prison walls
, she prayed.
Now, Juno! It is my life or his
.

In the gloom of the
Ludus Magnus
the four guards posted before Auriane’s cell looked on in puzzlement as their charge rose up purposefully, suddenly restless. Auriane dragged herself painfully to the cell’s window; fresh blood appeared on the woolen bandages binding her thigh. Her eyes were excited, alive. Later they would report that at the ninth hour she looked directly at the Palace, just as the event occurred that would later be on everyone’s lips.

Domitian realized Stephanus was slowly, furtively unwinding the bandage that bound his broken arm.

He leapt to his feet.

“Halt! You! What are you about?”

All five prisoners sprang forward as if a rope dropped at the start of a race.

Vigorously they threw themselves against their chains, with the Cyclops slightly in the lead.

Carinus gripped the altar, shut his eyes, and muttered a jumbled prayer to Syrian Atargatis, goddess of his homeland. In the bedchamber all erupted into shrieking chaos. The earth dropped open beneath his feet.

As Domitian looked on, a frozen ghost, the prisoners’ fetters snapped as easily as if they had been made of lamp’s horn. Amazement stifled the scream forming in his throat. In Stephanus’ hand he saw a silvery flash.

Of course. The traitorous dogs. Of course a dagger would be concealed in that bandage.

Domitian saw the bloody visions of a hundred nightmares tear through the veil of dream. This could not be. But it was.

“Die! Tyrant! Die!”
Stephanus’ voice rose above the others as they jostled each other in their eagerness to get to him. Domitian stood stiff as a pillar while the assassins flowed round him like wolves at a kill.

The Cyclops seized him from behind in a bear-grip, holding him steady for Stephanus’ dagger thrust. But Domitian finally roused himself from paralysis and met them with brutish energy, striking out with fists and feet. In his fright his strength was past nature. He knocked Satur down with one frenzied kick to the chest. Then he lunged at Stephanus, struggling to gouge out his eyes. The dagger ripped harmlessly through the air while Stephanus thrashed about, evading those frantically clawing hands.

Clodianus combined his strength with the Cyclops’ and gradually they managed to secure Domitian’s arms. Satur, from the floor, got a vise-grip on Domitian’s leg.

Carinus stopped his ears, unable to bear the torn-off howls and multiple yelps. It sounded as though a dozen dogs were being put to the torture.

Somehow Domitian managed to seize the dagger—but he caught it by the blade. Again and again he sliced his hands as he fought for a grip; the assassins’ tunics and grappling hands became reddened with Domitian’s blood.

It could not be, but it was.
Domitian felt a perverse twist of satisfaction. This was the triumphant confirmation of all he believed to be true.

I truly
was
surrounded by wolves lusting for my blood.
The prosecutions were just.
They were, in fact, not stern enough—here now is proof.

Marcus Julianus, you were wrong.

“
Guard
!” Domitian’s shout rose like a kite’s screech over the assassins’ grunts and curses, over the animal scuffling. For Domitian, all seemed to move with a peculiar, slowed-down tempo, as if the beat of the world were coming to a halt, and so at first it did not seem odd when no Guards came.

By sheer force of their weight the five assassins succeeded in holding their quarry still. Then Stephanus’ knife whipped down, tearing once, then twice, into Domitian’s groin. Crying out in baleful agony, their victim twisted off with superhuman strength and struggled toward the imperial bed, dragging all five assassins along with him, toppling a fragile table, a tall urn, as he made his way.