I hoped the night before a triumph might be an exception. I was wrong. The reinstated gatekeeper was either not there or deaf to my banging. Surely staff would have preparations to make at Jupiter Best and Greatest. Would the gatekeeper not be on duty for once, for them? No. The old man, perhaps with his old compadre the goose-boy, had locked up and bunked off. With Feliculus grieving his gullet-blocked goose, this would be a kindness. They had toddled down the Hill for a pre-triumphal, don’t-feel-suicidal-old-mucker drink.
I had to find another way. Hurrying as best I could, I pushed down the Vicus Jugarius. Fighting the throng around three sides of the Temple of Saturn, which is massive, I made it to the Clivus Capitolinus. Barriers were keeping the road clear, ready for Domitian’s chariot. I ducked under a barrier.
As I went up, I left behind the moaning hum of a city that would never sleep tonight. With gradual elevation came stillness and silence. Given the slope, I never tried to run, which would rapidly have exhausted me. I walked. I had come out in serviceable shoes. Their tread was soft upon the worn old road’s slabbed pavement.
It was very dark. Because this was the processional route, torches lined it, but they were all unlit, waiting for the Emperor’s late finale. Every masculine informer I have ever met would swear that on a jaunt like this he always brought his kit of useful implements: his folding knife, a length of string, his military pocket multi-tool, and certainly his flint for striking sparks. I had nothing. I would not manage to fire up a bitumen torch by rubbing together a cheap string of beads. Tonight’s were definitely not amber.
Don’t blame yourself, Albia. Hell, you only came out for a simple drink with your husband. Theoretically you were not working …
I could only just find my way. What happens to moonlight when you need it? Starlight, even? If you believe them, my male colleagues would all have pinched a torch by now—thereby rendering themselves, with their moving dot of light, a target. Better without: I thought I heard footsteps following. I was afraid: it sounded like a soldier’s boots. The last thing you want when you are chasing someone is to find that they are really chasing you.
I stopped. The sounds had gone. I kept moving.
I was still afraid. I am human.
* * *
I passed the Tabularium. Its three-tier bulk, blacker than the surrounding night, helped me know where I was going. At the top of the Clivus stood a monumental arch, set up for himself by Scipio Africanus, greatest of all triumphal generals; he built it at his own expense, after defeating Hannibal at Zama. That was before he retired bitterly from public life due to charges of corruption and treason. He said the charges were false. He would. Perhaps they were. Indeed, that was likely. Such is politics: envy and back-stabbing. Disgusted, Scipio refused to have his body buried in Rome but he left this stonking monument to remind us of what Rome owes him.
By the arch there were flaming lights on stanchions, in case anyone wanted to see and be impressed. Scipio’s memorial to his deeds was set into the wall around the temenos, the ancient fortification that secured the sanctuary. Fortunately, the arch’s passageways had no metal gates blocking entry tonight.
Once inside the sacred area, I picked my way on rough, narrow paths through the confusion of altars, statues and trophies. The Temple of Jupiter loomed above, from which I found my bearings; from memory I came to the little shrine of Jupiter Custos. At Domitian’s folly, crackling flames were providing an eerie light. I recognised voices, which eased my nervousness.
Callipus and Gemellus were burning possessions left by Gabinus and Egnatius. Egnatius might have something to say about that, but they thought they were safe because he had been arrested by Julius Karus. I knew his stay in vigiles’ custody must now be over. Already Egnatius would be in the Campus Martius, no longer lording it nastily, but behaving as a busy transport manager should at a double triumph: filling in for his dead predecessor, frantically sending men in all directions, gesticulating to the grooms in charge of horses and oxen, checking his stable lists, running around like a half-swatted fly, all in pursuit of his reward bonus.
As their fire crackled up, I greeted the caretaker and his mother’s lover, now acting like old friends. Boys will always bond over a bonfire. They were in fact around the same age, well into their forties if not older, but they made a drippy pair. They were supposed to be cleaning the hut, but both had flagons.
“Your mother should have supervised you, Callipus.”
“She’s gone for extra equipment at the kitchen supplier.”
“Not tonight, surely? Will she find one open?”
“She’s his regular. We call him another of her boyfriends. She has a ‘special arrangement.’” I thought Callipus was joking, though perhaps not.
They wanted to stand staring at the flames, but I had no time to waste. I quickly warned Gemellus about Nestor looking for him. “You know why, Gemellus!” I made it clear that I knew, too, though I was not suggesting any action against him. Even I was surprised by that.
For a moment more, I found myself musing: “This was a case about brothers. Now here we are on the very hill where Romulus cheated on Remus. Twins must have been different then. Now it’s lovey-dovey loyalty to your siblings. You and Lemni and Naevia—Gabinus and bloody Nestor.”
“Rome is a city of brothers,” Gemellus joined in. “Don’t you have one?”
I thought of my brother, smiling. “Yes, though mine is only twelve and quite a character.”
“But he looks after you? Wouldn’t he kill your husband for you, if he knew the brute deserved it?” Spoken low, while he stared fixedly into the fire, this was Gemellus making his confession.
It would never apply. My husband was decent; Postumus took against many people for his own weird reasons, though not Tiberius Manlius. However, my brother did once stand up to someone I knew whom he disliked. It turned out the man was pathologically evil, a serial liar, a threat to me, deadly to others. Looking back, yes, it gave me a warm feeling that my brother had taken him on and spoken out for me.
Murder was different. I would never want that. Forget the sanctity of life: murder brings too many consequences. If I left Gemellus with his secret now, his sister would have somebody to support her. But he and Naevia would never really escape what he had done. The sombre knowledge would eat them up. They were trapped. And he would have to carry what his deed with Gabinus had done to Lemni.
His fate was very nearly snatched from me. We heard a furious cry. Roaring for vengeance, Nestor burst out of the darkness.
He ran at us, with his sword out. He was careering full tilt. Only because the fire blazed up suddenly between them did Gemellus dodge what was coming. Callipus dragged him sideways, as Nestor made maniacal feints. The guard was bigger, angrier, well used to fighting.
The three men pranced, feet apart, like exotic dancers. Callipus had pulled out a burning stave from the fire. He waved it but was not a natural brand-wielder. Nestor dashed it to the ground with a swipe of his gladius. His quarries were tipsy. As Callipus got in the way of Gemellus, Nestor capitalised on their stumbles. He was homing in on Gemellus, but his move was stopped by a newcomer: distrusting men to tackle home-hygiene properly, Callipina appeared, bearing a brand-new broom for them.
“Now I shall kill you, Gemellus!” shouted Nestor, clearly about to do it.
Wrong words, Praetorian. Never utter threats like that before a Roman mother, a Roman widow with her lover.
“You had better not try it!” Callipina did not falter. The fastidious housewife knew her tools. She gripped the besom by its long stiff bristles, using two hands. Holding the broomstick straight out in front of her, she galloped at him. She struck Nestor full on. It was a direct hit in the midriff, with her weight behind the sturdy rod. The rest of us gasped for him. Even the soft sponge that passed for Nestor’s brain registered horrific pain.
LXI
He was bleeding. Not much. Not enough, maybe.
The pole must have gone into him. With better luck h
is wide belt would have deflected it, but military equipment was for fending off barbarians. It had never been designed against a raging mother with a broom.
While Nestor bent double, I grabbed Callipus. He still clung to his flagon, but I knocked it aside. In an urgent undertone I ordered, “Take Gemellus into the hut and hide him.” He looked dumb. “Move, Callipus! That’s what your precious hut is for. Here is a hunted fugitive—get him in. Shove him under your bed, bolt the door—save him!”
The guard was still distracted. Callipina had not finished. Nestor clutched his midriff with one hand, while trying to fend her off with his free arm. Doggedly, she kept thwacking him.
Straightening up, he caught the end of the broomstick, refusing to let go. Striving for possession at besom’s length, they circled slowly.
It would not last. Callipina would be badly hurt. I had to help.
A monumental trophy stood nearby. I fell on it, trying to drag out weaponry. No use. The ancient swords and spears were welded together by rust and time. I could not free anything. Exasperated, I flung myself at the weather-worn construction, using one shoulder. The tall collection of captured armour wobbled drunkenly, then the entire thing fell over with a deafening crash. I tugged at a shield; it was too heavy for me. I managed to haul out a helmet. I hurled that at Nestor’s head. It made contact. He yelled. With a supreme effort, I wrenched out a long spear from the trophy tangle.
The guard lost his hold on the broom. Callipina fell over, still clutching her treasure. She landed on her back, thrashing her feet, like a downed beetle.
“Try somebody your own size!” I challenged Nestor. He was half as high again as me, and muscular with it. No one was doing arithmetic. I laughed mockingly. That generally works.
He had lost his sword when the widow first poked him. He bent, with a pained grunt, and tore the broom from Callipina. “Run!” I said to her, then saw the widow roll over on the ground, crawling off into the darkness as fast as she could, fleeing from him, like a demented land crab.
I spoke quietly as I taunted him. I needed to draw him away from where Gemellus was now hiding. “Nestor, the game is over. Forget Gemellus. If you really want justice, why kill him? You inflicted more anguish, greater punishment, by what you did to his brother. Gemellus has to live with the endless thought that Lemni, who was innocent, died because of him.”
Still holding his stomach, the protesting guard groaned. I could see him starting to turn his anger on me instead.
“Call yourself a guard? No wonder you were grounded when the decent ones went off to the frontier. You are useless—I hear even your mates at Nino’s have decided that!” I jabbed towards him with my spear, though I started inching backwards. I needed to leave the area with the caretaker’s hut. More pressingly, I had to put myself well beyond Nestor’s grasp. “Everyone knows what a fool you are. I worked out who killed your brother ages before you did.”
He swung with the broom.
“Ridiculous!” I scoffed, even though it was the only thing available. The injustice would enrage him more. “It’s over,” I told him. “I shall report that you murdered Lemni.”
“Prove it!”
“Nice cloak!” I retorted. He was wearing a brown garment. A large brooch pinned it at the neck: round, large central garnet, smaller cabochons around it, slightly uneven in their spacing. “That brooch used to be on your green one, so what’s it doing here? Eyelets up the front, Nestor, but why no lacing? Oh, look! One of your ties has gone missing!” I saw horror as he worked out what I was saying. “That’s right, man. I have it. Plus another witness who saw you in that cloak. You are finished. At the very least you will lose your job, cashiered without a pension. For you, life in the Praetorian Guard is over. All gone. All lost. Complete disgrace.”
Finally he came at me. I smashed my spear down on the broom handle. The broom only broke but the spear shattered. As the hundreds-of-years’-old war trophy disintegrated into rust, I scrambled further out of reach. “Give up! You won’t catch me, Praetorian!”
I turned and ran.
He could not help himself. Like a dog seeing a rabbit race away, Nestor came pounding after me.
I had really done it now. I had been in some stupid situations, but this beat everything: high on the Capitol, symbol of Rome’s indestructability, all on my own, being chased by a maddened Praetorian guard who had no option but to kill me.
LXII
Once he committed to chasing me, I knew he would not stop. Having accepted the challenge, he had to catch up and deal with me.
I had no plan. Always have a plan. I had had no time to formulate anything so fancy. My sole aim now was not dying.
It was dark. I can run, but I ran carefully. I could not risk a fall. Sprawling helpless on the ground was asking for the worst.
If there were people up here, I never saw them. There must have been. Lovers, temple thieves, altar-boys who had forgotten to go home, soldiers sleeping here ahead of tomorrow. I would welcome even a seedy priest or his sleazy, spotty acolytes. I thought I heard a male voice shouting, over by the Porta Pandana; it sounded urgent but was too far away and could be no one who might help me.
I ran at the Temple of Jupiter Best and Greatest. At dawn, all the temples would be thrown open, so the gods could join Domitian’s party. Maybe, since this was the prime temple in the world, some attendant would be on duty. With Nestor behind me, I hurtled up the mighty steps. Each cella was closed. Not a single god at home to visitors. Thank you, Jupiter, Juno and Minerva! Thanks a lot, Olympian Triad! No wonder people honour different gods on the Aventine. No wonder I pray to none at all.
A few lamps dimly lit the porticus, so the guard and I dodged around the huge columns playing hide and seek. Eighteen columns on the front, in three rows. Such fun, nipping in and out of them, wondering if my next turn would bring me face to face with a man intent on killing me. Further columns lined the temple sides, but I would not venture there in case he trapped me against an end wall.
I managed to evade him enough that I could skitter down the steps again. At ground level I set off, running faster, back towards the Arch of Scipio. Nestor worked out where I had gone. I could hear him much too close now, as I turned onto the Clivus Capitolinus.
Taking the curve on the top of the Saddle, it was time to thank Romulus bitterly. None of his groves remained in the Place of Refuge to conceal me. No asylum here for me! Never trust a shepherd …
Halfway down the long slope towards the Forum came the Tabularium. I knew it well. There is one door at the roadway end, which should be locked at night. I placed one hand on the boss. At my lightest touch, the heavy door swung silently so I could slip inside the building.
I was in the great corridor. Raised fifty yards above the Forum Romanum on its massive substructure, it runs the whole width of the Forum. By day, the huge vaulted corridor would be lit through small windows. Everyone has seen them from outside, where the three levels have those arches with columns in the architectural orders, which form a decorative treatment and provide scale.
Indoors at night there could be no natural light. Slaves had left occasional oil lamps. It is well known: some clerks never sleep. I knew that clerks who work in a building that commands a good view of a procession always turn up with a bag of provisions, plus family and neighbours, to take advantage of their special access. That was probably why the door had been left open. I was hoping to find occupants, but no luck.
I walked along. It was chilly. The Tabularium forms a structural link between the Capitol and the Arx. Alone in the dark, I could feel how these concrete arcades had been built snug against the cold Hill; I sensed the huge weight of the gallery above me on the second floor, plus a temple high above, which Domitian had remodelled. Linked underground to the Temple of Saturn where the Treasury banked the state’s reserves, this was where religious and civic buildings met. The lower storeys housed public records. The name says it: tablets. Military diplomas ended up here in hundreds of thousands. Room
after sealed room slumbered, while one frightened woman with no right to be there invaded their quiet.
I continued walking the long vaulted corridor. To my horror I heard footsteps back in the murk where I first entered. I was sure I knew that heavy-booted tread.
When I first set out on this chase, I hoped to go back to the Forum, hide myself among the crowds, be amid warmth, noise and safety. I had headed downwards. Now I was stuck going up again. The far end of the corridor has no exit. I had to climb to the next storey. It helped that I had been here before and was familiar with the layout. As I found the stairs then hastened up, I heard the relentless steps of my pursuer. I reached the next level where the vast hall is.
Arched windows gave access outside above the Forum. I stepped through one, but nobody below would see or hear me if I waved for help. I turned back.
Suddenly, a shock. My first human contact. A clerk blundered out of the darkness, terrifying both of us. I pointed behind me. “I am being pursued. Say I went down the Forum steps!”
“That way is closed!” I knew. A long flight of entrance steps used to give access from the Forum to these upper levels. It still exists but has been blocked up at the bottom since they built the squashed-in Temple of Vespasian and Titus.
“He won’t know. Say it, please.”
The clerk took the point. He would help me. While Nestor was discovering it was a dead end, I would gain time. I hurried away. There is an exit from the Tabularium, which was unlocked, and I took it, though this brought me where I had not wanted to be again: out on the Asylum, close to the Temple of Vejovis, now on the Arx.
I was starting to think I could never escape from this hill tonight. Tired out and frustrated, I began to lose hope.
LXIII
Out on the dark peak, a cool wind lifted my hair. I detected a faint change in the sky: the approach of greying daylight.
A Capitol Death Page 30