Nero then sent a frantic message to the Senate, promising to win back their love by singing so beautifully for them that they would understand how exquisitely he suffered and forgive him.
When the report was brought to him that the Senate had declared him an Enemy of the People, Nero panicked, got a horse and fled the Palace, attended only by his eunuch-bride Sporus and a private secretary; disguised in rags, they took a pathless route to the villa of one of Nero’s wealthy freedmen, a man called Phaon who lived four miles from the city walls. Later the secretary reported that Nero wept along the way, repeatedly exclaiming, “How ugly and vulgar my life has become!” Nero arrived barefoot at his destination, his cloak studded with thorns. At dawn he was betrayed by a member of Phaon’s household, and when the Emperor heard the clatter of hooves in the carriageway, he knew it was a troop of cavalry sent by the Senate to carry out the grisly sentence.
Nero took a dagger in his hands, meaning to plunge it into his throat. But his courage broke; his terrified secretary was forced to seize the Emperor’s hand and guide the blade. The deed was done; Nero’s blood ran out.
A cavalry officer rushed in to find Nero dying. Nero’s final words, “What a great artist the world loses by my death,” were dutifully recorded by the secretary and passed on to the historians.
CHAPTER XII
MARCUS JULIANUS LAY STILL IN ABYSSAL darkness, awaiting the return of the soldiers, the binding of hands, the short journey to the arena, the dogs.
In a delirium of fear he saw Isodorus beckoning with a bloody hand. “How dare you expect more than this?” came the familiar caustic voice. “You completed the cycle of life: you tracked knowledge until you knew too much, you erupted with the truth, now you die for it. You did well! Come. I did not feel the tearing teeth.”
The torch borne by the slave who brought the gruel was his sun; when the slave left, day was gone. He tried to mark time but could not, and was surprised at how disconcerting this was; he felt cut from the moorings of earth, left to settle into subterranean night. He was a worm cursed with intelligence and memory, a shade in Tartarus craving rebirth, lusting to feel again the beat of blood in the body, of rain on the face. Often he dreamed of fire. The mind needs light, he realized, and works to create it where it is not.
When after numberless servings of gruel and muddy water still no executioner came, he began to suspect some imperial caprice had saved his life—or perhaps Nero himself had died.
But he was given no news of what passed above. Darkness and silence gradually began to tug at all he believed to be true, stripping away skin, leaving him a naked ghost in blackness, ready to believe even daily fear and desperate longing were but clothing that could be shed. Nothing of the world any longer made sense—the mask of courage all were expected to wear, the passion to be remembered, to appear dignified, to pass on a name. Once he dreamed he was Dionysus, leading bands of revelers away from the cities, turning kingdoms upside down, loosing slaves, turning water to wine. Seasons, years, centuries wheeled by—or it might have been a month—only his untrimmed growth of hair and beard kept him, if vaguely, to a true assessment of time. When he judged he must resemble a wild man of the forest, he guessed—Nine months. A year.
Once when he was taken to a drier cell and given rank mutton, lentils and vinegar water along with the gruel, he wondered if this might be some small indicator of vast political upheaval above—civil war, perhaps, with a powerful contender friendly to himself gaining gradual sway?
After a span of time like the black distance between stars, there came a day when he heard a voice softly calling his name, becoming stronger, then fainter, as whoever it was worked his way through the warren of earthen tunnels.
“He’s dead, I say, as I told you yesterday and the day before.” Now the voice was close; lantern light teased his sight, appearing faintly, flashing away.
“Here.” He could speak no louder than a dry whisper. “I am here.” Footsteps stopped near the iron-barred door; slowly it was pulled open, and the lantern was thrust into his face.
“It’s him, it’s truly him!”
“Ha, there’s gifts in this for all of us, and our lord will be grateful.”
Behind them came a voice of more authority, “Be thankful if you’re not flogged to the bone for losing him.”
The light seared his eyes. Three prison slaves laboriously lifted him to his feet. Behind them was Marcellus, a Centurion of the Guard who was known to him; from the shocked pity in the young Guard’s face Julianus read his own condition.
“Marcus Arrius Julianus, hail,” Marcellus greeted him, youthful enthusiasm barely contained behind a brisk, disciplined demeanor. “I am here to tell you—you were falsely imprisoned by Nero. The property confiscated from your family will be returned to you, and you are hereby restored to your former rank—”
“Slowly!” he whispered. “How long have I—”
“Eighteen months.” Marcellus leaned closer. “It’s not the same world up there, I warn you. We’ve had a shameful war from which we’ll never recover. The Temple of Jupiter was razed. There is lamentation all over the world—”
“Civil war.”
“Yes, and with it, horrors beyond any the world has seen. The legions soaked the ground with the blood of brothers. You spoke true prophecy at your trial. The northern savages did take swift advantage. They swept down and turned Gaul into a slaughterhouse. The Empire was nearly lost.”
A crude litter of the sort they used for carrying out corpses was brought up for him. He waved it off; he would attempt to walk. He began moving forward with struggling steps, leaning heavily on one of the prison slaves, sorely conscious of his filthiness and the fleas.
“What became of Nero?”
“Long dead,” came the sturdy voice in the dark behind him. “In one year we suffered through three emperors—two were justly murdered, and one committed suicide. None were of a nature to let a man of your…notorious outspokenness go free.”
“What of my family—my aunt and her children. Have you news of them?”
“They all fare well, and your wife—” Marcellus broke off suddenly, covering embarrassment by fidgeting with the lock on the door leading into the prison’s main chamber; then he finished lamely—“she is also well.”
“But I was condemned. Why do I still live?”
“The tale goes, two times Nero ordered a stay, then once more ordered your death. We know soldiers were dispatched to your house to look for those formulae for quelling night-terrors. Most likely it was that bit of clever nonsense that saved you.”
Julianus stepped first into the chamber; the draft of air that touched him, though fetid, was a welcome breath of life. He turned round and seized Marcellus by the shoulders.
“But then, who rules?”
“Our lord Vespasian,” Marcellus replied with a pride that indicated to Julianus this outcome was universally loved, “aided by his sons, Titus and Domitian.”
Domitian. So, old friend, you got your wish.
It is an awesome thing to learn that one with whom you sported, dined and often fought has been elevated among the gods.
Why do I hear it with dread, like the first drop on the ship’s bow that heralds the cataclysmic storm at sea?
But it is not as if Nero were to be resurrected. I am not fair to him; he has showed me only kindness. I worry without need. And his father will have long life—and then there is Titus, his gentle-tempered elder brother, with first claim to the throne. Domitian still may never rule.
Domitian’s greeting when they reunited was long and warm, but Julianus saw that his young friend had taken quite a few steps already up the path to Olympus. They met in the physicians’ rooms of the old Augustan Palace—Domitian had insisted Julianus be taken here to be attended by the imperial physicians while he recovered. Domitian came garbed in a purple-bordered toga more suited for greeting a foreign ambassador than an old friend, drenched in Oriental perfumes that would have cost him his yearly all
owance as a student. There was a shuttered look about his eyes, a studied gravity to his movements. Close at his side were white-liveried servants bearing tablets and writing implements, in case the young prince was seized with some resonant thought for the ages that he wished to commit to writing.
Julianus inquired almost at once, “How did Nero punish Veiento?”
“Exile.”
“Nemesis! He’ll find his way back. Like any viper he’ll sleep out the cold—but the earth will warm for him one day, I know it.”
“Don’t fret over it, he’ll expire of boredom first. That pesthole on the Black Sea they packed him off to hasn’t a book or a theater or a beautifully bred boy within a thousand miles. Unfortunately you can count on the fact that he won’t freeze to death—the wretched village exports hides—it’s their only industry.” Domitian added with obvious relish, “You know, Veiento never stopped calling down a death curse on your name as his wagons rolled out of the city. You’ve a dangerous enemy there. Enjoy it, old friend! You cannot be a great man without great enemies!”
Later in the meeting Domitian announced with a conspiratorial smile, “I spoke for you for a Treasury post.”
“I am inexpressibly grateful, but I do not want it. I’ve my father’s works on the northern tribes to complete, and I mean to found an academy of philosophy and natural sciences, one open to all classes.”
“If the gods meant for the humble laboring classes to be scholars, they would have given them healthy purses instead of strapping bodies. So, you’re snubbing us! I tell you, old friend, I’m not pleased with this willful, unmanageable side of you.” He dropped his voice. “Come now. My father needs you. You know this will be seen as a withdrawal of support from my family’s cause—”
“Utter nonsense. My alliances are better known about the city than the latest tales about Junilla.”
“A telling point, but, curses on you, I made certain you got back all you lost in the war—you’re a bit of an ingrate, don’t you think?” Domitian smiled pleasantly, but there was iron beneath.
“My apologies but my answer must be no—that is, if I have a right to say no.”
“Well, that hurt. Your victory then—for now. By the way”—he watched Julianus’ face with great attention—“those poisoned darts you aimed at Nero at your trial made you quite the hero among the Guard.”
Julianus was swiftly alerted to danger. There was awe in Domitian’s statement, but also a strong undercurrent of complaint.
“That was certainly not my purpose,” he said carefully, knowing as he spoke that this made no difference to Domitian. Purpose or no, he had been given something the young prince wanted for himself. That small distance between them was measurably widened; he knew for certain now it would never be closed.
The vilest part of his return to his former life was the task of reclaiming his house from Junilla.
By common report Junilla had enjoyed herself during the war. She sold off the house’s furnishings piece by piece to pay for nightly banquets that ended at dawn, counting the night a failure if her guests returned home in their own clothes. Fashionable young men fought for invitations to these frolics; it was said they were fed, oiled and massaged by young slaves naked but for satyr-masks, and that neither girl nor boy nor beast on the premises was safe from debauchery. Her fountains ran red with wine while the streets of the city ran with blood. Gossip reported she purchased a troupe of male Egyptian dancers solely to sate her appetites, and that she accompanied the city prostitutes when they were admitted to the gladiatorial schools, painting her face so she would not be recognized, for she had developed a passion for heavy-armed Samnite swordfighters.
The banquets ceased abruptly when she learned that Marcus Arrius Julianus was alive.
He found her in the warm room of the great-house’s baths, stretched out drowsily in the steam as she submitted to the ministrations of her aged Greek masseuse. She was naked but for an emerald necklace. The costly bauble was the gift of an octogenarian Senator who had tried strenuously to marry her, worn to remind Julianus that she was desired by powerful men. She focused on him through hazed slits, as though unwilling to expend the effort required to fully open her eyes. But he was not fooled; he sensed her bracing to fight.
“Junilla! I trust you fare well.” He kept a formal distance between them; to come closer, he knew, would be to put power into her hands, and he did not want to feel again that ambivalent desire muddied with futile pity. She smiled languidly, feeling secure in her place. A year of maturing had only heightened the startling perfection of that face.
She said silkily, “Ah, you are still beautiful, my husband, though too thin. Come close”—she gestured delicately—“I don’t have lice.”
He stayed where he was. She shrugged as if it were no matter, then eased her eyes shut as if even using her sight cost her too much effort. “I trust you’ve not listened to the ugly stories spread about by those who are jealous of me. You know, I scarcely slept while you were imprisoned—”
“Yes, so I have heard,” he said quietly. “Save those loving words for more credulous ears.” Even though her whole nature caused him to shudder, that opulently cushioned body was undermining him—she was all animal’s underbelly, tender and exposed, begging protection, that soft, rosy flesh glistening from sweat and steam. He had to sharply remind himself it was illusion—let any who try and protect her beware.
He tossed her the silken tunica that lay folded next to her.
“Arise and dress,” he said firmly. “There is no reason for this absurd marriage to continue for another day. We must divorce.”
Her eyes flashed open. “Surely you are too sophisticated to believe those lies.”
“I fear your weapons have fallen behind the times,” he said without rancor, realizing one benefit of his ordeal was that he had shed the last of a lingering concern that despite any amount of education, he would never be sophisticated enough for this world. “I do not know how much of the tales are true, and it is not at issue. My procurator has prepared the documents; you shall be richly provided for.”
Her look suddenly became soft, diffuse. She gave an elaborate cat-stretch that seemed to call every muscle of her body into play, then sat up with shifting, undulating movements as if she were underwater, making certain he had a chance to look long at her abundant breasts before she let the masseuse help her wriggle into a tunica. It hardly concealed her; a flush of pink was visible where the thin cloth was stretched across her breasts. Slowly she ran her tongue over her lower lip as if she licked honey from it, then pulled free one of her silver hairpins so that coiled locks of black hair sprang free and wriggled to her shoulders. She was a sleek and lovely Medusa.
“You cannot mean this,” she said, shaking her head with a teasing sulkiness that also mocked him. “Not now.”
“Now?”
Those eyes were two beautiful wounds. “I…I just got you back.”
“You mean, you just learned you have a husband who not only is alive but—great good fortune!—very much in favor with the Emperor’s son. You see me not at all. You see a poor investment that has turned round and become a good one. You see high office and honors and how the city will envy you. When I was not in favor, you tried to murder me—that is what your devotion is worth.”
She drew back a little, eyes delicately registering affront.
“So now you accuse me of attempted murder…. Perhaps you would like to accuse me before Domitian.”
“I do not care to see what you can manage to get Domitian to believe. I know the truth,” he countered sharply, then turned away, silent a moment before he went on in weary exasperation, “Junilla, I did not come here to judge you, that is for the gods. I want only to be quit of you and continue my life. That wedding was a mockery forced on us both—”
“Nero gave you to me. Nero gave me this house. It is mine and you shall not thieve it from me!”
“Madness! Junilla, there is no need to see this as a great blow to
your pride. This is not an act of war, and I do not despise you. I intend to provide you with a fine house of your own and all the servants you need. You shall want for nothing. And never mind that under the circumstances the law allows me to keep the whole of your dowry—I shall return to you the whole of it.”
“The truth is you think yourself too good for me, Endymion, you rat that wallowed in slime.” His generosity in the matter of the dowry was puzzling; not knowing what to make of it, she read it as weakness, and this redoubled her contempt for him. “You presume to put me aside? Go back to the festering sink you crawled out of. Go tread clothes in a vat of piss and drown in it!”
“I will listen to no more of this. You will be out in three days.” He swiftly turned about to go.
“You are in love with the Emperor’s concubine, Caenis—that hag that keeps the civil accounts and robs people. You’ve had her many times, don’t deny it. Put me aside, and you can be certain everyone at the Palace learns of it.”
“Threaten all you want if it pleases you. Diocles will oversee the organizing of your possessions.”
“Diocles is gone.”
“What?” he whispered, turning round and slowly coming back until he stood over her. “What are you saying?”
“Yes,” she whispered, a flare of triumph in her eye. “He was worth more than I got for him but—” She was stopped abruptly by the look in his face—she saw she was pouring pitch on a fire already hotly blazing. This was a part of his nature she had not seen—the avenging passion in those eyes was an elemental force not to be opposed. Swiftly she revised the opinion that his returning the whole of the dowry signified weakness. She had no notion what it signified, other than extreme eccentricity.
“Where is he? Tell me at once,” he said quietly.
In that voice she sensed power of unknown strength held in abeyance, and slowly she arose, edging away from him. A part of her rejoiced that she had hurt him, but she had erred in determining the dose—it had somehow reached dangerous levels. This man was incomprehensible to her. He behaved as though she had murdered his son.
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