Battle readiness leapt into Domitian’s eyes. “Many things—or one thing?” He studied Julianus’ face as though it were a cryptogram. Julianus knew Domitian probed for his conclusions in the matter of the imperial ring that should not have fit. Domitian edged perilously close to uttering the words of that fatal question, the need to ask growing large and painful within him, but in the end he drew back, well aware that one question was all that stood between his friend and death. If Julianus openly accused him, Domitian would be compelled to charge him with treason.
“One thing did rear its head above others.”
“What one thing?”
Saturninus looked on with growing alarm.
“Long ago you made a promise to me that you would not persecute philosophers, historians, and men of letters.”
Julia’s eyes widened at this audacity. At the lower table Junilla’s gaze whipped about; she scented Julianus’ peril and watched him through slitted cat’s eyes that slowly resolved into a look of crude pleasure.
Domitian’s relief when he realized Julianus was not referring to his brother’s murder shifted to extravagant annoyance.
“You’ve a damnably acute memory, my friend. Sometimes one wishes it were possible to kill memories without killing the whole man.” Domitian’s smile was unpleasant. “And do you not know it’s terrible manners to remind a ruler of promises made long ago?”
“But you asked me to speak as a friend, not as a subject.”
“By Minerva, you know how to irritate a man,” Domitian said with easy tolerance, but as he spoke, he slashed at the mullet with his small, sharp dinner knife.
“This morning I received an order to cease publication of my father’s volumes on the tribes of Germania,” Julianus pressed on. “What could offend you in these books that treat only of the habits and beliefs of rude barbarians?”
This brought the whole table to tight silence. Julia’s great gray eyes had a look of tragic sadness, as if she watched her only ally committing suicide. Saturninus’ expression would have looked well on the chief mourner in a funeral procession.
“They are…imitative of my own style,” Domitian said a little stiffly, his look evasive, full of playful warning. Julianus ignored it.
“Come. Those books were begun when you were at your mother’s breast. Give me another reason.”
The stifling quiet encompassed several tables now. Emperor and guest of honor were actors on a stage in a tragic drama that was careening out of control.
“We are having a good time pressing the advantage of old friendship, are we not?” Domitian said softly. The flush on his cheeks began to spread. “Another reason. Well then. Those books portray my deified father Vespasian in a poor light, for they draw attention to the tribes of Germania…and the fact that he never properly put them down.”
“It is odd, then, that in all his years on the throne he never thought so.”
“I declare this conversation at an end.”
“You cannot mean that. This is the age of wisdom and light, not the age of Nero.”
The silence was like that which follows the crack of a whip. Saturninus put his head in his hands. Earlier he had prayed some of Julianus’ audacity had faded with age. It had not. But some part of him could not help but feel admiration tinged with amazement at Julianus’ readiness to gracefully pursue his ends so far into the mouth of the dragon.
In Domitian’s face was genuine hurt—but Julianus sensed something dark and primitive churning beneath the surface and knew for certain the day would come when he would no longer be able to reach Domitian by appeals to conscience.
“My father deserves to have his works known,” Julianus went on quietly. “It is as if you erased all trace of his life. You must allow me to continue producing his works.”
Julia was as still as a frightened sparrow.
“I say no.” Perspiration gleamed on Domitian’s forehead, though the dining hall was cool.
Julianus felt he had come to an impassable wall.
Then all at once he understood the ban. The solution to this puzzle was obvious—he did not know why he hadn’t guessed it at once. He paused, remaining silent long enough so that conversation would start again and they would not be overheard. “Well then, I will make you a compromise,” he said in a low voice. “I will cease publishing my father’s works—until after your victory over the Chattians.”
Something jumped in Domitian’s eyes. The campaign had not been announced. He disliked being so perfectly understood. His look became veiled, in an attempt to discourage this spy who penetrated to his innermost mind. Julianus had realized the ban made sense only if Domitian planned a campaign against the tribes of whom his father wrote, and the warlike Chattians were the most likely target. His father’s books would belittle Domitian’s grand war, for they told the inglorious truth—that the barbarians were poor in goods and arms, that one man in ten owned a sword, that they were not nearly as well organized as commonly believed, that they were hungry not for booty but for land, because their methods of farming exhausted the soil after ten years. That was what was incendiary in his father’s books.
“Tell me the informant’s name.”
“There was no informant, my lord.”
“All right then, my too-clever magician,” Domitian said, looking elaborately bored. “I cannot battle you anymore.” Domitian’s smile was cold, disturbing. “I relent. It shall be as you say.”
Julianus felt a twist of sickness. Not only had Domitian not relented; Julianus now believed him incapable of it.
Domitian returned to the fish as if the conversation had not occurred. The boy Carinus darted forward to refill his master’s wine cup. Carinus’ tunic slipped, and Marcus Julianus noticed raised welts from a leather strap on the exposed upper part of the boy’s back. They looked painful, fresh. There came quick memories of Endymion, the stench of urine, Grannus’ grin, the reek of pain and death. Underneath this world of gentle pleasures, Marcus Julianus reflected, is a substratum of continuous suffering a free man never knows. Why are the voices of the Stoics not heard? They speak loudly enough but society has stopped its ears. Slavery is no more a natural estate than death by an assassin’s knife is a natural death.
Domitian caught Carinus’ arm and whispered rapid instructions. Julianus was alert to some obscure danger.
“You know, our poor Junilla over there,” Domitian went on in a wine-pickled drawl, returning malevolent attention to Julianus, “loves me beyond reason. But she’ll settle for you. As a matter of fact, she asks ceaselessly for me to order you to remarry her. Perhaps that would be the one thing that would make her content.”
“Are you threatening me with that spitting cobra as a ruler or as a friend?”
Julia put a hand to her mouth to stop herself from laughing aloud.
“You do enjoy thrusting a stick at a caged tiger,” Domitian said easily. “Now, silence! My troupe of Egyptian dancers are ready.”
A soft gong brought the hall’s attention to a marble stage in back of the imperial table. There came a flurry of flutes, then drums that played with an odd stumbling beat. Attendants dressed as Anubis, the Egyptian jackal-god, drew onto the stage a great pyramid of wood painted to look like stone; it was as high as a house’s second story. All at once the four sides fell away and a hundred dancers spilled out, to the delighted cries of the guests. They took up torches and commenced what Domitian, leaning close, informed Julianus was called the serpent dance. The dancers, bronze-skinned maidens with spectral eyes outlined with glistening black paint, were clad in nothing but feathered headdresses and snakeskin girdles; their gilded nipples glittered in the torchlight. They wended their way between the tables, whirling, vaulting, scarcely seeming to touch the marble floor, while the flutes screamed, the drums thundered.
Carinus reappeared, his errand complete, and handed the Emperor a rolled document. Over the noise, Domitian half shouted to Julianus, “I am drafting edicts reestablishing the proper handling of freedmen and slaves and w
ould like you to read a rough writing of my thoughts on the matter.”
Why now?—Julianus thought as he took the document and began reading. Domitian indicated one of the dancers. “That one there, see her?…the one that wriggles like an eel in oil? I mean to take her tonight. And watch, my pettish Carinus will pout for a month.”
Carinus will rejoice, Julianus thought as he swiftly read. Most of what was written there was predictable; it represented a return to the older order, reestablishing the duties freedmen owed their patrons, denying them certain government posts, although he noted an irony or two: Included were harsh penalties for the importation of eunuchs, while Domitian himself kept a half dozen. When Julianus had nearly finished and was wondering what Domitian’s purpose was, he saw it: Under a subheading directed at preventing “the leading of slaves into rebellion” was a prohibition against slaves attending philosophic lectures without the knowledge of their masters.
A good half of those coming to his school were slaves. Their right to be there was never questioned—whether they stole off or came with the household knowing, he never cared or asked. They were the heart of the school. Admitting them was his symbolic gift to Endymion, the wretched boy who wanted to be human, and all those others who were his heirs.
He knew at once the hand of Junilla was in this. Without her advice, Domitian never would have known this prohibition was such an effective way to strike at him.
Domitian watched him, something eager, predatory, in the look.
“My brother Titus was a softhearted fool and did not attend to many things,” Domitian said by way of explanation. “So we see everywhere slaves raised above their station, upstart freedmen in Palace posts that should go to the equestrian nobility, immorality tolerated in the highest places, even among the sacred Vestals. I mean to change this and reinstitute the rule of law. And those who serve me must set an example.”
Julianus put the document down and said quietly, “I wish to resign from the position on your Council.”
Because of the noise of the music, only Domitian heard. He was pulled up short; the muscles of his face drew taut. This had gone awry. Domitian expected him merely to take this as a severe warning against impertinence.
“You’re passionate about strange things, my man,” Domitian said, carefully composing himself. “You cannot resign. Your position, like mine, is for life. Did I not tell you? Wise men have certain duties, a certain…obligation to the state. Our fates are interlocked, my friend.”
“You crushed the life out of my school.”
“Order and justice rectified your school.”
“Know then I have resigned in heart. You do not have me willingly—you have me enslaved.”
Domitian was transfixed by Julianus’ look. The moment was acutely unsettling—he saw in the clarity of Julianus’ eyes a vision of himself as some demonic boy, looking ludicrous and lost in ill-fitting men’s attire, smashing what did not bend to his will. He shook the vision off.
“I didn’t realize I had a choice,” Domitian said with an easy smile. “Enslaved suits me as well, if it muzzles that mouth.”
Julianus realized, amazed, Domitian was trying to charm. The successful exercising of authority always seemed to reanimate Domitian’s desire to cajole approval from him.
“Did I tell you I sent scribes to the Library at Alexandria to recopy the books our state libraries lost in the great fire?” Domitian asked.
“Twice.”
“And that from this day forward all professional informers will be severely punished?”
Julianus was eloquently silent. Domitian remembered then he had just raised Veiento, the most ruthless of informers, to the Imperial Council. “Oh, him. He is the exception. Veiento performed some sensitive services for me at the time of my accession and I needed to repay him. And he’s a very able man.”
Julianus briefly met the gaze of Saturninus and knew they had the same thought: What services? Arranging the murders of Titus’ physicians to ensure their silence, for one?
“My lord, would you indulge me in something?”
“Stop the ‘my lord.’ Anything my First Advisor might ask. Speak.”
“I would like to accompany you on your campaign against the Chattians.”
His purpose was the preservation of his friends—Julianus feared that if he remained in Rome, Domitian’s morbid imagination would lead him to believe that he, along with Saturninus and others of the more independent members of the Senate, were hatching plots against the throne.
“A fine idea,” Domitian responded affably. “Though I did want you here to watch over my ministers and accountants—they’ll start selling offices and extorting money from petitioners soon as my back is turned—but I’ll find another watch-hound. I’ll be holding assizes as we travel, I’ll need you for that, and you do have a broad knowledge of the ways of these savages. You’ll break the boredom. War can get dull—all that waiting to draw the enemy out. I hope to have them exterminated in six months, but unforeseen delays dog every campaign.”
A sense of doom accumulated in the room like the noxious vapor of rot. The word exterminated struck Julianus with a peculiar horror. As did the lash marks on Carinus’ back, the sinister mystery of Titus’ death, Domitian’s petty act of revenge against his school, and the knowledge that Veiento, the master of judicial murder, was part of the Emperor’s inner circle. He feared Saturninus was correct: He had entered a contest that could not be won, and it was too late to withdraw. But he vigorously drove these thoughts back, not yet ready to believe there was nothing he could do to relieve the madness of times to come.
GERMANIA
CHAPTER XVIII
THE NEWS OF TITUS’ DEATH WAS sent by bonfire signal to the Roman legionary fortresses on the Rhine. The imperial post followed later with a fuller report of Domitian’s accession; the suspicion of murder came with the news like an ineradicable scent. For the most part the soldiers of the Rhine fortresses from Argentoratum to Vetera grudgingly accepted Domitian, but at Mogontiacum the men of the First and Fourteenth Legions broke into open revolt and refused to hail him Emperor.
With the official report of Domitian’s ascension to the throne came orders from each of the Legates of the northern fortresses to provide a hundred victims for the Colosseum, to do battle during the month of games planned in honor of Domitian’s accession. Lucius Antonius, successor to Marcus Arrius Julianus the Elder as Military Governor at Mogontiacum, delayed this transfer of prisoners as long as he dared because he feared the Chattian savages would make a rescue attempt—for the better part of the captives he presently held were Chattian, and among them was Theudobald, the brother of Baldemar.
The Governor sat on his tribunal in the Principia, the fortress’ headquarters, before the stone screen that protected the sacred standards of the two legions quartered here. He heard a report from his First Centurion, Rufinus, a steady, methodical man who, with his woeful brown eyes, beginnings of jowls, and simple loyalty, put Antonius in mind of a melancholy hound. Rufinus was uncomfortable before his Legate; he preferred the company of his own rough-hewn, farm-bred soldiers.
“There is no change in the men’s mood in the last hour, my lord,” Rufinus was saying. “We can only hope they’ll accept the inevitable when they see the statues are in place.”
Their voices resonated in the vault of stone. Gray light filtered weakly from clerestory windows. From the parade ground came intermittent shouts as the mutinous soldiers milled restlessly, crying out for Domitian’s punishment.
“They are still not in place?”
“There was some trouble getting the heads to fit.” Work crews, protected by the two centuries that remained loyal, had attempted to erect three statues of Domitian—one in the native settlement, one within the camp, and another at the first milestone on the road leading south from the fortress.
“Damn them to Hades!” Lucius Antonius was surprised at his impassioned response. It is this country, he thought. It provokes outbreaks of
unbridled superstition in even the most rational of men.
He found himself wondering fleetingly if the Chattians had put some curse on his camp. The soldiers quartered at Novaesium had taken the oath at once—if not joyfully, at least without incident. “These superstitious children will interpret this to mean the state is headless. And the increase in pay? Did you announce it?”
Rufinus nodded curtly. “They were in too fine and mettlesome a mood. ‘We will not be bought by a murderer’ was the reply.”
“I could enrich the donative from my own purse,” Antonius said meditatively. “No. I’ll not toss a bribe to a gang of mutinous wretches. Nemesis take them. Those prisoners go out tonight, whether the men come to reason or not.” Were the transfer delayed longer, given the hazards of the two-month journey to Rome, the captives might not arrive until after Domitian’s celebratory games.
“I’ll see to it. I know we took every precaution, but I cannot rid myself of the feeling that the battle-hag’s caught our scent again.”
“This time, I think not. Only Bassus, you and I know tonight’s the night. Anyhow the ganna has not been heard from since the raid on Mogon. My guess is she’s living well on the wine and loot.” Antonius leaned forward with a frown of distaste. “Rufinus, what is that about your neck?”
Rufinus tucked the silver talisman into his tunic, angry with himself for forgetting and leaving it visible. On it was depicted an upraised hand beneath a horned moon. All his men would be wearing them tonight as a charm against the witchery of that she-creature prowling the forests called Aurinia, who incited her followers to mad feats of valor.
“You set a poor example, my man,” the Governor said irritably. “You told me once you believe in only what you touch, hear and see. She’s just a woman, Rufinus. She eats, she sleeps, she bleeds, and if she misbehaves tonight, she dies. She’s turned you into a superstitious scullery maid.”
Rufinus flushed. “By your leave, my men expect me to wear this,” he said with forced evenness. “And come, you must admit she’s had more than human luck. We think we have her trapped, and a storm comes up, or the ballista specialists go berserk and start firing on our own men, or she just escapes from a place from which there is no escape. Is it prudent to have the men frightened out of their wits before the night has even begun? Why not employ every advantage?”
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