The mystery fed speculations; rumors raged like an epidemic. Aristos actually had died, it was said, and Domitian did not want it known before he departed for the Dacian war, for fear the general mourning would be ill-omened and bring disaster on the departing army. Others claimed he’d run off with Junilla, and the happy pair were living contentedly on one of her estates in Gaul, enjoying a good laugh at all this fuss.
When but seven days remained, the name of Aristos appeared in red and black paint at the top of the notices. The city was pitched into a joyful delirium. The notice-writers that day were lavished with wine and gifts. Shopkeepers and artisans decked their stalls with roses as if a public holiday had been declared. To their delight Aristos was matched again with Hyperion the Capuan. Supporters of Hyperion began to trickle in from his native town; when they met devotees of Aristos in the streets, bricks were thrown. At night Aristos’ followers painted Aristos Rex over the outer walls of the basilicas that housed the law courts and even the temples, to the horror of the city officials responsible for these buildings’ preservation. Under cover of darkness they set up crudely sculpted likenesses of Aristos in the Old Forum and crowned them with laurel as if he were a victorious general—an act considered blasphemous by the tradition-bound members of the city’s priesthoods. The followers of Hyperion compounded the infamy by pelting the statues with pigs’ intestines. Swarms of shopkeepers, freedmen and idlers gathered about the Ludus Magnus, desperate for a glimpse of their king; the streets converging on the school were impassable, day and night. From the prostitutes in their stalls in the Circus to the advocates in the law courts, to noblemen scribbling poetry as they were carried in shaded litters, and even to the inhabitants of outlying towns, the people talked of nothing else.
Which was all precisely as Domitian wished it to be. He had purposefully ordered Aristos’ name left off till the last. For he was preparing to murder someone important, a man who would be much missed, and he needed a suitable distraction. Once this one man was quietly put out of the way, he was certain the plague of misfortunes that had lately dogged him would end.
In these times it seemed to Domitian all his acts turned on him savagely, like some snapping beast grasped by the tail. First there was that unfortunate matter of his niece, his brother Titus’ wanly beautiful daughter Julia. Bedding her might have been impious; however, he was hardly the first emperor to lie with his own niece. But Julia, had, perversely, gotten herself with child by him, leaving him no choice but to force an abortion on her so there would be no stain on the family name. And then the troublesome woman had died of it, showing the poorest possible sense of timing—for he had just revived the old, severe penalties for adultery, all in the interest of enhancing public morals. And as with his every small infraction, of course, the mob learned of it. Julia had made a mockery and a public show of him. And now whenever he gave an audience of state or addressed the Senate, he could feel the contemptuous laughter in the Senators’ silences and the murderous loathing of those who had loved Julia, who was all they’d had left of the even more beloved Titus.
And then there was that equally distressing matter of last year’s severe shortage of grain, caused by a poor harvest in Italia and abroad. He was convinced that any competent administrator would have thought it a sound plan to decree that only wheat, and not vines, be planted in all the lands of Italia. There was wine in abundance—what harm could such a sensible edict do? A part of him believed that had his father passed such a law, all would have gone well. The result was disastrous. The vine growers rioted, all across the land, and defaced his statues in the town squares by night. Some ignored the edict completely, insisting the soil was only fit to support grapes; others simply abandoned their farms. Derisive verses were composed about him and sung in the streets. One that particularly enraged him ended with the lines—“In war he takes useless land. In peace he makes good land useless.” How dared they ridicule his great victory on the eve of the games of celebration?
Through a logic all his own, he laid everything at the door of Licinius Gallus. He had long counted Gallus’ love of Titus fanatical. Did the man not have an ostentatious statue of Titus in the tablinium of his house, to which, spies reported, he daily made small offerings? Gallus’ quiet inoffensiveness was a cover for his true nature. It was Gallus, he was certain, who fanned the tales of his dalliance with Julia and composed the latest round of scurrilous verses. For a year Domitian waited for the right moment to cut this deadly canker out.
On the eve of the day Aristos’ name appeared, a disturbing bit of news spread beneath the general rejoicing. Gallus was dead. His passing was felt directly by many, for he had hundreds under his patronage, and many more still were distressed by the death of a man who, along with Marcus Julianus and a very few others, exercised a softening influence on Domitian. All that was known was that Gallus mysteriously fell dead in the fish market while carrying an enormous mullet he had selected himself for a dinner with close friends. He had had no illness—he was in the best of health—and his chief cook, who was with him, reported that nothing occurred to arouse suspicions of foul play. But Domitian’s strategy worked well; the worrisome questions raised by Gallus’ death were swept away in the raging torrent of emotion roused by Aristos.
“The blind fools,” Julianus said that night to Diocles. “Those that pause to give it any thought at all are saying Domitian could not have murdered him except through magic spells. These are truly dangerous times. His cleverness is starting to equal his malice.”
Julianus did not have to wait long before his suspicions were confirmed. That very night a mud-encrusted peddler of love philters appeared at his door; the man had the haunted look of one who hourly expects arrest, torture and death. He promised Julianus an interesting tale in exchange for safe conduct out of the city. When Julianus agreed to this, guessing what it was all about, the man said he had killed Gallus himself. He had managed it by stealing up close to Gallus under cover of the crowd and pricking him with a needle smeared with aconite, a quick-acting poison. When the peddler named the man who had paid him, Julianus recognized him as an agent of Veiento’s. The order, beyond all doubt, had been given by Domitian. Julianus was suddenly certain that at least one of the first three Senators on the list of men to die, Serenus, had met his end in the same way. For Serenus, too, had fallen dead in a crowd, though all at the time had counted it a heart seizure.
But for this wretch in fear of his life I never would have learned it. And the beast would have gone on boasting he never took a man’s life without a trial. For certain, others will die the same way. This must be exposed, and at once.
After he safely removed from Rome the man who had confessed to him, Julianus arranged a meeting with Domitia Longina through a coded message put into a book of odes she requested of him. What he planned could be carried out more efficiently with her help.
The next day was the last of fourteen days of racing in the Circus Maximus. Both Julianus and the Empress selected the few dozen servants they trusted above all others and distributed them evenly among the ocean of people who thronged into the Circus that day. Just before the tenth and most important race, they began quietly disseminating the tale of the needle murders. Within moments no one could have said for certain where it originated. Because of the temper of the people and the growing undercurrent of hatred of Domitian, Julianus was certain this rumor would be believed. The tale spread like fire in a sun-parched field.
And soon the entire throng rose up in a rage, many climbing on their seats, shouting at the imperial box—“Bring to us the murderer of Gallus!” Domitian felt he had been set in the path of a hundred elephants, all bellowing as they readied themselves to trample their victim. The crowd knew better than to cry out directly for the blood of Domitian—they possessed a collective wisdom born of several generations of living in the shadow of capricious tyrants. They instead called down curses on Veiento, some demanding his exile, others his execution. Though the crowd offered Domitian
a way to salvage a portion of his dignity, still the message was too strong for him to bear. He sat rigid in fury, horrified that somehow, they knew. How in the name of Nemesis had it gotten out? How dare this filthy rabble accuse him, or anyone appointed by him?
Domitian attempted to silence them by herald. But the imperial heralds could not make themselves heard. It was only when he ordered out a cohort of the Praetorian Guard that the throng lapsed into sullen silence.
Then Domitian delivered his punishment. He canceled the bout between Aristos and Hyperion.
The city became a simmering cauldron. Another Nero rules over us, the people muttered openly. Many were fearful of entering the streets, expecting at any moment to feel the prick of a needle. The cancellation of the bout only served to further convince the people the tale was true.
Aristos was enraged; he sulked and refused to eat. For the first time he felt less like an Oriental potentate and more like a piece on the gameboard of another.
The notices put up that day were pelted with the contents of chamber-pots. A few who were less caught up in the savage feelings saw an odd addition before the filth rendered them unreadable. The name Aurinia had been added. And her opponent was not a fellow woman-captive of her tribe, as would be expected, or a dwarf—another of Domitian’s favorite pairings—but Perseus, a skilled volunteer fighter who had appeared once and won easily. What sort of silliness was this?
“It’s for him, not for us,” one baker muttered to another as they returned home at dawn from a night’s work. “And this is what he thinks of us. Aristos is replaced by a herd of unknowns and women. Nero was a disgrace and a mother-killer but he never insulted the people this way. How can a reasonable man place a bet on such a pairing?”
“Cario saw her at practice and said she was startlingly good.”
“Cario would believe donkey droppings were the tears of Venus when he’s drunk, which I’m sure he was. Did anyone see that practice besides a collection of besotted wastrels spending their lives shaming their fathers’ names? We’re mocked, I tell you.”
CHAPTER XLV
SUNIA, I KNOW YOU WILL NOT forgive me this. But the Fates leave me no other course. I cannot sit by and let Hel claim you. And I can’t bear any longer the sight of your terror and grief. Do not despise me. I am giving you life.
It was the second hour of morning; but five days remained until the days of the Games of Ceres. Acco had not yet arrived in the yard. The novices stared dully or talked of small matters, their minds imprisoned in this narrow moment, daring no thoughts of future or past. The more hopeful practiced in pairs, as Auriane did now with Sunia. As Auriane moved at easy pace through the elementary parries and cuts, her eyes blurred and she blinked to clear them. Her throat ached from choking off a cry of anguish. To steady herself, she thought of the new moon she had seen last night, so serene and self-contained as it shed its heatless light, flowing into all creatures, animating them with the mind of Fria. The time of the new moon was most favorable to risky plans.
Slowly she maneuvered Sunia around, stealing an occasional glance at two guards who looked on with glassy stares. Gradually she positioned herself so their view of her was blocked by Sunia’s rangy body.
Now. It is time. This thing rests in the gods’ hands.
Auriane vaulted at Sunia. With all her strength, she brought down her leather-sheathed short sword on Sunia’s unprotected right ankle. As it struck, Auriane shut her eyes and felt a white-hot eruption of pain though her own body. She was certain she heard the sound of snapping bone, horribly magnified. She saw her own spear tearing into Baldemar’s chest, the shock of surprise in her father’s face. Who is prepared for such agony, even when it is their will?
Sunia! How could I do it? I am horrible. Hertha, I hear your icy cackle echoing down the years.
Sunia was slammed into stillness. Her eyes were sky-blank, as though her soul had shot out of her body. She convulsed violently once, then collapsed onto her side, clutching at her leg as if to tear it off. Then she regarded Auriane, her eyes swollen with pain and incredulity. It was the look of a trusting child whose mild mother suddenly turns savage and hurls it to the ground.
The guards awakened with a jump and regarded the pair with sharp annoyance. Sunia’s words came in ragged gasps, as if hands constricted her throat. “Auriane, why—”
The guards approached at a brisk walk. Auriane dropped down beside Sunia and seized her shoulders. “Sunia, I beg you—be silent.”
“Have you gone mad,” Sunia managed between labored breaths, clawing at the sand. “Now they will kill me.”
“Sunia, listen to me. They cannot use you now. That is why I did it. I could not tell you ahead of time or you would have worried over it. Sunia, they’ll hear us, do not give it away.”
“Get off from me!”
“Sunia! I beg you to understand!”
“I curse you. I will never understand.” Roughly Sunia threw Auriane’s hand from her shoulder.
Then the guards were upon them both.
One kicked Auriane. The other wrenched Sunia to her feet; she shrieked as she was forced to put weight on her ankle.
“You rude louts. Do not do that,” Auriane cried out in her own tongue as she scrambled to her feet and seized the guard who held Sunia. But the second guard threw a trident-fighter’s net over her and she fell in a heap to the sand, thrashing like a netted hare. As this guard prepared to beat her senseless with an iron rod, the one who held Sunia shouted, “Stop. Mind what you’re about. That’s the valuable one.”
“So it is,” Auriane’s would-be tormentor muttered, reluctantly backing away from her, “but that one there,” he said, nodding at Sunia, “—dogmeat. Look at that leg.”
Dog meat? They lie. She’ll go to the kitchens. They did not see what I did—that’s all that matters.
The trainers’ assistants came then and dragged Sunia off. It seemed to Auriane that Baldemar and Sunia shared one pair of agonized, accusing eyes.
Erato shot to his feet when Auriane was brought into his chambers. He regarded her with fiercely furrowed brow, eyes glinting, powerful fists clenched at his sides.
“You are a rash and foolish woman. You deceived them. You did not deceive me.” He nodded curtly to the two guards who escorted her, ordering them to depart.
“I did not seek to,” she replied in a muted voice. She felt too sad and empty inside to answer with much spiritedness.
“You willfully destroyed her usefulness.”
“I willfully saved her life.”
“It is not yours to save.”
“It’s not yours to destroy.”
He pounded his fist on the wooden table; the bust of Domitian frog-jumped sideways and nearly crashed to the floor. “Save your meddling moral philosophy for peacock-fed noblemen with too much time on their hands. It’s got no meaning for those of us who work for what we get. I do not like it when someone forces my hand.”
Auriane said nothing, sensing any words she spoke would only fuel his wrath. Erato spun away from her, momentarily trapped in his rage, a bull that cannot make up its mind whether to gore its victim or merely terrify him by charging and missing narrowly.
“What you did was criminal—do you understand?” He tried to transfix her with a look like a javelin thrust, but to his exasperation she met it with that lofty, queenly look that meant she was at her most intransigent.
“Oh, this is useless!” he said at last. “I suppose you count it as loyalty. I am not an enemy of loyalty, only of disobedience. The thing is done. Which is precisely what you planned. But if ever you do this sort of thing again, you can be certain I’ll know it, and you can be sure I’ll see you punished. I want absolute silence about this—do you think you can obey me in that, at least?” His look was still fierce, but now she sensed reluctant warmth lurking beneath.
She nodded. Then she asked, feeling she edged out onto a precarious bridge, “And…what will you do with her?”
“You shattered the bone. S
he’ll have to be sent to the kitchens. Again, you won the throw.”
“I thank you for that.” She felt a heavy stone had been lifted from her chest.
“Do not thank me for what you forced me to do. And, of course, she’ll have to be moved from your barracks to the kitchen slaves’ cells. Now leave me.”
This she had not planned. She sensed this satisfied his need to punish and said nothing to contest it; it was better to wait. Life’s patterns shifted always. At least Sunia would live, though her company was lost.
Later that day as Auriane was being conducted to the west yard, she managed to break free of the guards as they took her past the physicians’ rooms, and she briefly saw Sunia.
Auriane was dismayed by the small start of fear she saw in Sunia’s eyes as the maimed woman recognized her. Then Sunia lapsed into pain-fogged indifference, not judging, but not forgiving either. Auriane’s shame became as livid, throbbing and swollen as Sunia’s leg.
She is no longer at my side. The animal part of Sunia will fear me always, like the horse that whitens its eyes at a cruel master’s approach. I drove her off in order to save her. My shame is a serpent with a hundred heads. Just when I begin to believe my fate is turning round forever, here comes this leering, mocking proof of the viper, and the poison in my blood.
Desperately she thought of Marcus Julianus as a last resource of love.
But what does he seek in me? He cannot love this darkness I hide. Certainly he has no use for the miserable, defeated crawling thing I am now. And how cruel of the gods to drain all my strength right before I will need it in almost superhuman measure.
That night she sat as usual before the arched brick opening of the kitchen’s main oven, preparing to perform the Ritual of Fire. The departing kitchen slaves had long since tired of casting curious glances at the solemn woman-novice, favored of Erato, who nightly fell into a trance before their central oven. On this night Auriane was full of a sense that somehow her life was at stake. Occasionally she coughed from the smoke—as a means of economizing, Erato had ordered the charcoal in all the ovens replaced with wood, and the thick, pungent smoke stung her eyes. Such meanness among the richest people on earth baffled her. The kitchen’s four hanging lamps had been snuffed; beyond the amiable red-orange glow of the dying fire, all lay in a nether darkness that teemed with the foreign spirits of this place.
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