B007IIXYQY EBOK

by Gillespie, Donna

  She closed her eyes as she walked, trying not to think of bodies torn and bleeding strewn in the street.

  Still people stubbornly called her name, despite their terror at the sound of the slaughtering. Domitian committed an act of grave ill-omen, they muttered, in committing a savagery on a day of public celebration. He will bring down a curse on the city.

  Auriane looked into the thousands upon thousands of alien but friendly faces and all at once felt fear for Marcus Julianus. Why was he not here? Had Domitian learned his true sentiments, and murdered him as well? She was surprised at the stony chill this brought to her chest, the wild emptiness weighted with dull terror. This was more unpleasant than fear of death.

  What has become of me? Never have I loved like this. I did not truly know it was possible. It is terrifying, for I give up my last scrap of freedom, the mind’s freedom. This, too, is new country. Fria, preserve me, but first preserve him. And curses on the Fates for entangling me so.

  As the procession started forward once more, Domitian felt his pride had been savaged by dogs. Within, he was a mangled thing, a body without skin, to which the barest touch brought excruciating pain.

  I give the people a heartfelt gift, a gift of victory. And they fling it in my face. They show more affection for the enemy than for their conquering general.

  From this day, I will simply reward their good behavior and punish the bad, as a man does his pet hound. The rabble is my enemy, now and forever.

  Diocles momentarily lost sight of Marcus Julianus in the gloom. He stopped breathing and flattened himself against a damp stone wall. This section of the Old Palace made him uneasy. Unlit, low-ceilinged passages led nowhere, footsteps sounded where footsteps had no right to be, and every kitchen slave and chambermaid knew this hall was haunted by the ghost of that reptile-hearted mistress of Domitian’s father, the harridan Caenis, whose only redeeming virtue had been that she loathed Domitian and had been bold enough to do something about it. How his master could ever have conceived a passion for her was a greater mystery than Titus’ death, than the Sphinx’s smile.

  There it was again. A duet of sharp, determined steps, approaching rapidly. Diocles called out softly—“We are done!”

  Julianus appeared suddenly from a wall niche where he had been probing for the hidden entry to Caenis’ shut-up chambers. “It’s only the third watch and they are right on time,” he whispered. “They’ll turn before they get this far.” He added in gentle remonstration, “You should not have come.”

  “Somebody has to keep watch on you. I’m not certain you’re in your right mind.” Craving the comfort of light, Diocles scurried into a section of the hall illumined by a window with a balcony.

  “The door is not here,” Julianus whispered at last. “And we are short of time. By now, they’re slaughtering the bullocks. We’re going to have to break glass—but we prepared for that. Come.”

  Diocles came out to the balcony and found that Julianus had climbed into a cracked marble planter formed of satyrs’ heads and was standing in dry earth and long-dead hyacinths. He was inspecting a small glazed window. The glass was thick and clouded, far from the finest of the glazier’s art, but the chamber within was only a storage room.

  “You’re moonstruck if you go in that way.”

  “You always were a comfort at critical moments. Give me the fire poker.”

  Diocles reluctantly obeyed. Julianus waited for long moments, choosing a time when the noise of the crowd rose to a mountainous swell. Then he struck hard, shattering the glass in one blow.

  “I beg you one last time, reconsider!”

  “We’ve come this far. When will we have another chance like this one?” It would be a long time before the Palace would be so lightly guarded as today; nearly every man of the city who could legally carry a sword was pressed into the service of controlling the crowd during the procession.

  Julianus pulled himself through the window and into a storage room accessible only from the chambers that had been Caenis’ private library. He prayed silently the letters were here. Diocles gripped the sides of the window, meaning to follow him. Julianus wheeled about.

  “No. And I mean it. Stay out of sight. But first…the jewel casket.”

  Diocles handed up to Julianus a finely worked bronze case, complaining in his tremulous whine, “You could have given a banquet that would shame Lucullus with what you’re tossing away here. Did you have to fill this thing?”

  “Yes. It has to look right. If there’s no apparent reason for a thief to break in here, they’ll look for the real reason.”

  Julianus stepped into the musty gloom. The rooms had been sealed for a decade. A dust cloud arose about him like funereal incense, and he felt closely Caenis’ melancholy presence. He thought briefly of their long-ago embraces. He was eighteen, she, thirty-five. Youthful rebellion was not the motive, as everyone had claimed. It was her uncanny ability to survive that fascinated him. She rose from slavery to become what was, in fact, Vespasian’s unofficial minister of finance. She had a prodigious memory, a wit faster than a viper’s strike, and no patience with pretension. It was the last that caused her to fall out so badly with Domitian. He felt vividly for a moment Caenis’ wintry presence, the ragged scars on her back from the lash, borne with a strange pride, the bitter caresses of those cool, strong fingers, that lean body that seemed to emit just enough heat to stay alive. How was it that Auriane, dearer than life itself, whose existence had been even more brutal, seemed beside Caenis like a day in full summer when forest and field are flushed with life?

  Julianus let the jewel case drop; its bright contents flew in all directions. Yes. It appeared the thief was frightened off in the act. It was natural enough to expect someone would try to break in on such a day. He prayed Domitian would not question too closely his last-hour message of regret that he was unable to attend the official sacrifice because Arria was suddenly dangerously ill. She was, but only with her regular and predictable attacks of asthma.

  He turned round to Diocles, who still stood in the window. “Go!” he said fervently as a worried father to a favorite son. Were they caught, Diocles, as a slave, could by law be tortured to give evidence against his master. “I would never forgive myself if you were found in here.”

  Diocles braced himself, ready to sputter a new stream of protests. But at that moment Julianus caught sight of a movement in the garden below—the blood red of a woman’s stola flashing beneath the myrtle trees.

  “Nemesis!” He reached out quickly, caught Diocles’ arm and pulled him inside.

  Julianus then went to the wall with its hundreds of niches. Here Caenis kept her private records. She was in the habit of collecting information about men she thought might be dangerous to Vespasian, but the most intriguing documents she kept, Julianus knew, could have been dangerous to herself. He quickly probed the panels of the wall, looking for a hidden door. After a quarter-hour he found a panel that gave way. Slowly, he pushed it in.

  “Now the lamp,” he whispered to Diocles. His steward produced a sulfur match, ignited a bronze hand lamp and passed it to Julianus.

  And Julianus saw before him, on the floor of a small chamber, a red-and-black-painted Egyptian chest that he guessed was a thousand years old, robbed from some tomb at the time of the conquests of Pompey the Great—Caenis had a passion for things Egyptian. He opened it slowly, reverently, half fearful it might crumble to dust.

  Inside were dozens of papyrus rolls tied with linen. Blood beat in his temples. Patiently he pulled out a single letter and unrolled it, willing his hands to remain steady.

  Diocles discerned only the fine, sensitive outline of his profile illumined by the lamp as Julianus’ attention was riveted by what he read.

  “Are those the ones?” Diocles asked.

  “Silence a moment,” Julianus whispered tensely, tossing one down and taking up another. “Yes! Here is an account of the time Domitian tried to poison Titus with aconite in spiced wine. Even better, here is o
ne of Titus’ replies in his own hand. Anyone with a knowledge of handwriting could authenticate it. And…this one tells the tale of the time he tried to arrange a hunting accident. And here—Minerva be praised—an acknowledging reply in Vespasian’s hand. It is incredible. They knew, yet they let him live and carefully covered everything over to preserve the dynasty. Titus’ dying words, ‘I made but one grave mistake in my life,’ must have referred to his allowing Domitian to live.”

  Julianus looked up, gloom and regret glinting in his eyes. “Poor Caenis. No love she ever felt was as sincere and complete as the hatred she felt for Domitian. Perhaps now she will lie content.”

  “And finally, Domitian succeeded,” Diocles said, his voice hushed. “I wonder how.”

  “Look at this one.” Julianus read silently for so long that Diocles became impatient and snatched the letter from him.

  “What are you doing? You’ve no sight for reading.”

  “Read it aloud then. Penelope could not wait for you!”

  “It appears to be a scheme to…to forge a physician’s order. Caenis writes Domitian planned to wait until Titus was stricken with a common illness, a cold, a light fever…. Then he meant to order a treatment for him in use in those times among fashionable physicians…. The patient is packed in a chest of snow. There are no replies to this one. It is dated just before she died herself.” Marcus Julianus felt a cold grip of certainty close round him.

  “Diocles, I would swear it before all the gods, that is how he managed it. Remember the quantities of water found outside Titus’ sickroom after midnight…as if someone had taken a bath in there and the tub overturned? I would wager my life it was melted snow.”

  “He murdered him with snow…?”

  “The clever monster. Now I must find a way to arrange a private reading for certain influential members of the Guard…without being betrayed myself. I’ll have to feel my way in the dark. One wrong man, and those of us already in on this are dead men. It will take time…too much time. Curses on Nemesis.”

  “Too much time for what?” Diocles sneezed loudly in the dust.

  “To rescue a certain woman from her fate.”

  “That barbarian woman? Of what importance is she next to this? And you need time, anyway, to find a suitable successor.”

  “She is nobler than all of them, from magistrates to the mob. All my life I’ve watched tyrants destroy what is great and good. This time it shall not happen.”

  Diocles shook his head sadly. “You mean that. There’s no madness in your family that I know of—I cannot guess where this comes from. This is not a Clodia or a Berenice or Helen of Troy we are speaking of. This is a female animal.”

  CHAPTER XXXV

  AURIANE WAS TAKEN TO THE LUDUS Magnus, or Great School, largest of the city’s four government-maintained institutions for the training of gladiators. All the demons of Lower Earth, she swore, could not have schemed a sadder, more unholy place than this. This enclosed world was a mocking imitation of their whole society, dreamed by some madman.

  None who dwelled within the multistoried hall of bleak gray stone were free, Auriane observed, even those who claimed they were. Rather, all were stacked in importance like neatly piled logs, with the many below bearing the weight of the few above. At the bottom were fresh captives like herself—a huddled collection of frightened chattel abducted from many nations, bewildered to find crude weapons thrust into their hands. By day, they lived between the whip and the brand. At night, they were thrown moldy mush she swore pigs would not touch and herded into windowless cells in a warren of passages that lay in eternal, moonless gloom, where the cries from nightmares were predictable and constant as the lowing of cattle at home. This quarter of the school was known as the Third Hall.

  The next layer of men was made up of those who had survived the Third Hall and managed to murder one of their fellows to appease Nemesis and Mars at one of these people’s frequent, noisy festivals. These men were, as nearly as she could determine, a sort of slave-mercenary or criminal-turned-warrior. Though subject to savage discipline and kept closely confined, they were given careful care, much as useful draft animals are. The school’s physicians examined them frequently; they were fed only foods their doctors prescribed, given daily massage and regular visits from prostitutes—for the act of love was said to cure the melancholia rampant in this place. These were housed in a quarter of cells known as the Second Hall.

  Set above them were the slave-warriors who had murdered their way to fame. These had fiercely loyal followers, as though they were celebrated chieftains. They needed no prostitutes because free women came to them willingly and in baffling numbers. Noblemen gathered to watch when they sparred in the school’s great practice ring; the people of the city brought them gifts and scrawled their names over the walls. They were free to visit taverns and move about the city, yet to her amazement they always returned to this ghastly place as if it were a proper dwelling and not one of the tributary caverns of Hel. These were the men of the First Hall.

  And over all these grades reigned a king, successor to a long line of temporary kings—the august and terrifying Aristos. From the talk about the school she learned he had risen to this height with remarkable speed. In his first bout he had slain the most formidable heavy-armored fighter in the city, Craxus of the rival Claudian School. Within six months there were none left alive to seriously challenge him. She heard him spoken of as though he were a minor deity; crude busts of him were sold in the markets. Among his devotees was Domitian himself, who curiously counted Aristos’ victories as his own, as though they shared one soul. She had learned to despise Aristos without ever seeing him; he was a pettish, pampered prince. If the men of the lower grades made too great a din at their meals and annoyed him, guards came to silence them. Once when a cook put fish sauce on Aristos’ favorite pike—all were expected to know he liked it bare of seasonings—the man was flogged nearly to death, then sold away. If Aristos disliked the weather on the day of the games, he refused to fight. When he stalked the passages of the school preceded by his troupe of ruffians, novices scattered from his path. For he took great pleasure in seizing a novice and handing him over to his brutes, who would toss their victim high in the air on a cloak stretched between four men, catching him most of the time.

  Alongside these slave-warriors the Ludus Magnus housed a second group, the men who maintained it; these too were stacked in importance. At the bottom were the wretches who cleaned the gladiators’ damp cells, carried out the slops, hauled water, and during the games turned the bloody sand between bouts. Equally without honor were the physicians’ masseurs and the swarms of kitchen slaves. Faring better but still not free were the school’s skilled armorers, morticians, tailors and leatherworkers. Then there were the physicians, haughty and independent, and the secretaries and accountants, cloaked in the mysteries of writing. Finally there were the trainers of the three Halls, who were as fiercely competitive as the gladiators themselves. All these cowered before a second king, the Prefect of the school, a man called Torquatus. She glimpsed Torquatus once as he was borne by in a sumptuous litter; within the shadowed interior she saw a malevolent Cupid’s mouth eased into a contented smile, the soft swell of an extra chin, and restless, rapacious wolf’s eyes.

  Finally there was the school’s regiment of guards, who fiercely protected one another and formed a clan of their own. And all this strange madness existed, as far as she could tell, for the sole purpose of instructing prisoners of war—sane men in their own countries, men with no quarrel with each other—in the art of killing one another with skill and grace. For this was what the Roman people enjoyed, she realized to her astonishment, more than their horse races or theaters, more than the practice of their religion or going to war. Here was firm evidence a whole people could go mad.

  Auriane stood in a sandy practice yard with two hundred fellow captives arranged in ragged ranks and files. The yard’s dun-colored walls were higher than the tallest pine; they pressed s
o close her arms felt bound to her sides. Clouds moved briskly, impatiently across the small patch of sky, taunting her with their freedom. Her masters were stingy with the sky—she found herself turning her face to it often, hungry for the sun.

  Before them swaggered Corax, an undertrainer of the Third Hall, a short, thick, muscular man whose oily movements reminded her of a rat swimming in a river. He seemed to be caught up in a shouting match with himself; his bullying barks ricocheted off stone. Corax shaved not only the hair of his face—a curious Roman habit to which she slowly was becoming accustomed—but the hair of his head as well, a practice she eventually learned was meant to combat lice. With his too-smooth skin, his frequent flushes that turned his nose scarlet, his fat, balled fists and pink, puckered lips, he put her in mind of an outsized babe on the rampage.

  “You are filth and dung,” he cried out. “Today you’re worth more as meat for the beasts than you’re worth alive. Will you be worth more tomorrow? Some will, most won’t. Give thanks to your barbarous gods that in this city we’ve a taste for fine swordplay or of what use would your wretched hides be?”

  Auriane found herself assessing his soul more closely than she listened to the meaning of his words. We are indeed filth and dung to him, she determined. But he says it a bit too dispassionately; it means nothing to him, nor does any appetite of his, nor does any other human creature claim much of his attention. This man lusts for one thing: to move up to the next higher post.

  Sunia stood at Auriane’s right, frowning as she struggled to follow Corax’s tenement-bred Latin. Auriane did not know if Sunia and the five other women in this yard were meant to be condemned to the arena from the first, or if the Emperor decided this in the wake of her own condemnation. She did know the women’s presence was grumbled about among the undertrainers, as if their Emperor had brought shame down upon the school. All together, sixty of her tribespeople had followed her here, Coniaric and Thorgild among them. There were as well two distant kinsmen of Witgern’s, a son of old Amgath of Baldemar’s retinue, and a dozen or more warriors who had survived the final assault of Five Wells. The rest of the Chattian captives, she surmised, had been sent off to rival schools.