“Ave, Martellus Imperator,” Drusus cried, his hoarse voice echoing, and the Praetorians chorused, “Ave, Martellus Imperator.”
“And the consuls also endorse me, Romans. Behold Comutus Tertullus, whose nobility and achievements are known to you all. Welcome, consul.”
The man stepping uncertainly into the spotlight was tall for a Roman, stooped and bald. His toga was dazzlingly white.
“I am the consul Comutus Tertullus,” he said, clearly expecting his voice to be amplified as it was. “Last night I was taken into custody by armed men, brought to Rome against my will, and shut up in a stinking cell in the palace.”
“Uh-oh,” said Maria.
“They told me the consul Plinius Caecilius supported this usurper, but in fact he has gone into hiding. Romans, I cannot speak for the Praetorians. But my fellow consul and I must under the law advise the senate on who should succeed to the imperium. I will not recommend — ”
Someone finally cut the sound system; Comutus hesitated for a moment, and then continued in a bellow that carried extremely well:
“I will not recommend that this foreigner be granted the imperium, even if the Praetorian Guard has been deceived by his tricks and illusions.”
He turned and stepped from the spotlight. Only the people in the lower seats had heard his last words clearly, but many began chanting: “Comutus, Comutus!” It changed to “Comutus, Plinius, Traianus!”
Pierce wasn’t watching the pulvinar, the cloaked men were nearing the wire, while Maria’s security people drifted down the steps. The Militants sitting inside the wire seemed oblivious of what was going on.
Martel was back in the light, hands raised while the uproar in the stands gradually died away. Comutus was being hustled through the emperor’s gate by four Crucifers.
“Romans!” Martel roared. “I half expected such a betrayal by a man who gave me his word. Those who grew rich and mighty under the evil Domitian are not happy; let them suffer, if the Roman people prosper. And you shall prosper. I hereby proclaim a donative to every household in this city of five hundred sestertii, to be paid within a month.”
Applause answered him, but it was far from unanimous. Pierce heard someone cry: “The empire is worth at least a thousand sestertii.” while others laughed.
Six cloaked men were just beyond the wire now; suddenly they charged it, the first three flinging themselves across it to make a bridge for their companions. Those men cast off their cloaks and drew swords, shrieking furiously as they charged the nearest Militant spectators.
Security men converged instantly, rifles and pistols out and firing. Pierce sensed something wrong: The cloaked men were almost thirty rows above the pulvinar, and surely they meant to attack Martel and not a random handful of his followers. He turned and looked elsewhere.
Everyone in the stands was watching as gunfire slaughtered the six men. Martel had turned and was squinting against the floodlights to see what was happening.
“Emperor, get out of the light!” Pierce bawled. Leaving Maria, he raced down a flight of steps. In the shadows outside Martel’s circle of light, various figures jostled: Praetorians, Comutus, Willard, and others. Pierce crashed through them and pulled Martel back.
The arrow came out of the darkness below the pulvinar, from the walkway inside the arena fence. It whispered only centimeters past Martel and Pierce and vanished again into darkness. A woman screamed in the stands, struck by the shaft intended for the emperor.
Three Crucifers leaped down into the walkway, just as Pierce had in the moments after Domitian’s death. Pierce heard the thump of a second bowshot, a gasp, and then the sounds of struggle.
“Got him!” someone shouted in English.
“Don’t kill him!” Willard yelled back. “Get him back to the palace! I’ll interrogate him myself. Anybody else down there?”
“No, Brother Willard.”
The whole Amphitheater was in confusion now. Martel’s people and hired claques were shouting his name, while others jeered or chanted Trajan’s name. Pierce saw fistfights breaking out in places.
“My lord,” Pierce said to Martel, “we must take you to safety. More killers may lurk here.”
In the dimness outside the spotlight, Martel’s beautiful face was unreadable.
“I thank you, Alaricus. The Lord was guiding your footsteps tonight.” Then, in English: “Willard, end this farce. I’m going back to the palace to find out who that assassin was working for.”
“Yes, Dear Michael.” Willard growled into his ring-mike; a few seconds later, three skyrockets soared into the darkness and exploded in bursts of yellow and white. While the spectators stared upward, Martel strode quickly to the emperor’s gate with Pierce at his heels. Crucifers fell in around them; Maria joined them at the gate.
“Dear Michael, the Lord is still looking after us,” she said as they clattered through the echoing tunnel.
“I want to know who that assassin is,” Martel snapped. “All our security arrangements, and someone with a bow and arrow gets into range without anyone even noticing. And the whole event ruined.”
Pierce could smell Martel’s rage and saw Maria’s shoulders slump. She would be in disgrace; he would have to exploit that somehow.
And why didn’t you let the guy take Martel out? That would be Wigner’s instant question. He knew his answer: For the same reason that I didn’t kill Martel myself. It would be meaningless unless the Agency was ready to take over. And whatever else the assassin might be, he sure wasn’t Agency. The distraction had been a clever and gallant improvisation by someone with no previous experience with barbed wire; an Agency attempt on Martel would not have been made with a bow and arrow. This was strictly a local effort, and if it had succeeded, it would only have thrown the Militants into temporary turmoil before launching a still worse terror than before.
Skyrockets flared and boomed overhead, outlining the Colossus as Martel and his retinue walked quickly back up the hill to the palace. Martel said nothing more; Willard and Maria kept up a steady exchange with their people in the Amphitheater, where half the spectators were watching the fireworks and the other half were chanting for Trajan.
“Get our people outa there,” Willard was barking. “As fast as possible, everybody outa there and back into the palace or the Praetorian camp. I don’t want anybody hurt, you understand?” Then, to himself, he muttered, “Lord preserve us, what a mess.”
Once Martel and the Elders were safe inside the palace, the others went back into the streets to oversee the retreat of the Militants and Praetorians. Pierce stayed close to Maria, who kept her security people in a protective ring around the Militants as they headed for the exits and streamed out into the plaza. The fireworks were soon over, and some of the spectators began to riot in the darkened stands.
Maria and Pierce found themselves face-to-face with Drusus in the plaza.
“General, have your men clear the Amphitheater,” Maria ordered.
“It’ll mean bloodshed, my lady.”
“I hope so. These animals need to learn who their master is.”
She was shuddering with rage and shame, but turned to Pierce with his Mallory in her hand.
“Here. You deserve it more than I.”
“My lady, you are too harsh on yourself. We must rejoice that the emperor was spared.”
“Spared to bring blessings to these brutes.” She gestured angrily toward the Amphitheater looming above them, where the Praetorians were already at work under rekindled spotlights. “They don’t deserve salvation; better to toss them into the carnarium.”
The crowds remaining in the stands were now fleeing the swords and spears of the Praetorians, hurrying down the vomitoria toward the palace. Few stayed around; they vanished into the darkness, some chanting for Martellus and others for Trajan. At last Maria ordered her people back to the palace. Drusus returned to report the Amphitheater cleared, twenty-three spectators killed, and two Praetorians slightly injured. She thanked him and led Pierce away.
It was part of the palace Pierce had not yet seen, and its magnificence, enhanced by candles and lamplight, made him pause at the entry. The room was vast and high, its fifteen-meter ceiling inlaid with gold and silver geometric patterns and its walls rich with frescos. Gilded statues of the gods, each over ten meters high, stood in gigantic niches along the walls; busts in marble and silver flanked the pillars that upheld the ceiling. The polished marble of the floor gleamed like the surface of a reflecting pool; the windows were screened by finely embroidered curtains.
At the far end, a raised platform of gold-inlaid marble supported a throne; Martel sat there, resting his chin on his fist, while the Elders stood flanking him. Maria and Pierce paused before the platform and looked up.
“Sister Maria.” Martel’s voice was flat, expressionless. “You were responsible for security, and I want to thank you for your actions tonight.”
“Oh, Dear Michael, don’t thank me! We nearly lost you!”
“Not until God wants me; but we know He helps those who help themselves, doesn’t He?” Martel smiled faintly. “We’ve interrogated the assassin. You’ll be interested to know he’s a Jew. Says his grandfather and uncles died at Masada, and he was looking for revenge. Typical.”
“That explains why it was such a treacherous attack,” Maria said furiously. “Now 1 blame myself for not purging the Jews more completely.”
“Christ’s enemies are infinitely guileful and deceptive,” Martel said, shaking his head. “But we’ve been blessed with another lesson in preparedness.”
“Yes, Dear Michael.”
“The Elders and I have discussed this evening. We had hoped to swing the people over to us, and we’ve succeeded to some extent. That consul — there’s a pagan who’ll never know redemption. And the assassination attempt only made us look stupid.”
“But the show was magnificent!” Maria protested. “Even better than the one we gave Drusus. That’ll be what they remember.”
“Perhaps. But we put on the show for Drusus in the hills, not in the Colosseum. The Romans are accustomed to spectacles there. Sometimes they flood the arena and hold sea battles. Domitian had that enormous chandelier for night games. We underestimated our audience.”
He sat upright, folding his hands in his lap. “In any case we’re still in charge, but we need more popular support. I want every possible endo backing us. The Agency will be on our necks any day now.”
“I’ll do whatever I can, Dear Michael.”
“For the time being, Maria, you’ll stay in your quarters. It’s Alaricus I need.”
Pierce had been looking about the throne room, but he fixed his eyes on Martel when he heard his name. Martel switched to Latin.
“Alaricus, the Lord guided you again tonight.”
“Amen, my lord.”
“I would like to make you a Crucifer, but for that you would have to speak our language. Nevertheless, I give you all the privileges and rights of a Crucifer, including the right to bear a tormentum in my presence.”
“I am honored, my lord.” He took the Mallory back from Maria, who met his eyes with a curious expression: pride, affection, and resentment seemed to blend in it.
“The Lady Maria will remain in the palace to attend me for the next few days,” Martel went on. “In the meantime, I will have great need of your help.
“Alaricus, bring me the Christians, and bring me the consul Plinius.”
Nineteen
Again Pierce slept in Maria’s doorway, but not easily: She wept for almost an hour, quietly but audibly; then she prayed aloud for a time. Pierce’s head hurt. He took two Pentasyns, drowsed for a time, woke with his head hurting again, and finished the capsules off. Sometime during the day he would get some more; for now he needed sleep.
Early in the morning he woke, went to breakfast, and slipped out into the city. Here and there a few slaves were sweeping up the debris of the night: potsherds from shattered amphorae, broken bricks, discarded clubs. To Pierce it looked like the remains of a series of brawls rather than a full-scale riot, but it was bad enough. The Militants’ grip on Rome was weak; they would have to clamp down very hard, or let go altogether.
The insula of Verrus and Antonia was teeming with people by the time Pierce reached it. Pierce looked up and saw the schoolmaster’s little balcony; he crossed the street and leaned against a colonnade pillar A few children gaped at him, and other idlers kept their eyes on him as well. He ignored them.
After a few minutes he saw Antonia look down into the street. He looked at her with a faint smile, but did not wave or call out to her. She stepped back out of sight, and soon appeared on the sidewalk, gripping a faded blue wool shawl. Looking straight ahead, Antonia walked down the street; Pierce followed.
The next apartment block had a colonnade that sheltered a number of shops and sidewalk vendors. Verrus and six young pupils occupied a patch of sidewalk — a typical middle-class Roman classroom. Verrus looked up while the boys chanted lines from the Aeneid, and saw his wife. Then he looked over her shoulder and saw Pierce. Antonia turned abruptly and went back, brushing past Pierce with her eyes modestly downcast.
“Stop, stop!” Verrus commanded. “Cassius Minor, recite the lines for the others so they can hear it again. I’ll be right back.”
Pierce stopped by one of the colonnade pillars and looked out across the street. Verrus stood beside him.
“Ave, Verrus.”
“What do you want?”
“Only to know where Aquilius is. We were separated not long after we left you.”
“I have no idea. This is very disturbing news.”
“Indeed. I feel responsible for him. Verrus, if he comes to you again, tell him I’ve been looking for him. I’ll be back here in a day or two. He can leave a message with you?”
“Of course.”
“Then I will see you again, tomorrow or the next day.” Pierce handed him twenty denarii, nodded, and walked across the street.
The city was fully awake now, the shops crowded, the colonnades busy with people. Pierce made his way north to the Campus Martius, taking his time and eavesdropping where he could. Many people had been to the Amphitheater the night before and eagerly told others what had happened. Pierce watched one teenager scratching a graffito on a wall: a fair rendition of the Christ holo. The boy seemed to have been genuinely stirred by what he had seen, but his companions joked and laughed about it.
At the baths of Tertius, Pierce paid his two coppers and went inside. An attendant directed him to a tiny office off the exercise yard, where the balneator was working on his accounts.
“Have you spoken to your friends about the matter we discussed?” Pierce asked.
Tertius looked levelly at him. “I have. But it was before last night. After what happened in the Amphitheater, my friends may be frightened again.”
“My patron is more eager than ever to meet your friends. He offers them his full protection.”
“Come back here tonight, just before sundown,” Tertius murmured. “You can meet some of my friends. But you must come alone.”
“I understand. I cannot expect you to trust me if I do not trust you.”
The man smiled a little as he stood up, ending the interview.
“The issue is a difficult one, as we shall explain tonight.”
“Until then.”
*
Munching dried apples, Pierce walked back into the center of the city. The urban cohorts were conspicuous, as were the Praetorians who guarded the Forum, the Capitol, and other important buildings. Rome seemed busily tranquil, but Pierce sensed more trouble. A populace accustomed to spectacles had been surprised but far from staggered by Martel’s holos and fireworks. It had also been scandalized by his neglect of the g
ods and their proper rituals. Now the Romans were trying to decide what they thought: in conversations at neighborhood fountains, in arguments in the marketplace, in fistfights and stabbings in the popinae.
Pierce reached Juvenal’s apartment building late in the morning. He did not wait for the poet to look out the window and perhaps spot Pierce in the milling crowds below; instead he again climbed the urine-stinking stairs.
“A bottle of Chian wine, courtesy of a friend of mine.”
Juvenal’s face creased with a smile. “Splendid. Splendid. Shall we sample it?”
“Hide it, and save it for a special occasion. I hope you’re free for a quiet meal?”
“Indeed, if you’ll wait until I put on my toga. You are wearing yours, by the way, with more grace.”
“A good student tries not to shame his tutor.”
As Juvenal dressed they chatted about the show in the Amphitheater, which the poet had pointedly avoided, but about which he had heard a great deal.
“Most of the people in this neighborhood are angry about a rumor that Martellus plans to ban the gladiatorial shows. It’s all very well to look at the underworld, or giants hanging crucified in midair, but the ordinary people want to see a bit of action — some good fellows with sharp swords.”
Pierce nodded. “It holds the empire together. Like the chariot races.”
“Oh, well, some may like chariots. But you’re at the mercy of your horse, and the other fellows’ abilities. In the arena, you live or die by your own abilities.”
“As many do outside the arena.”
Juvenal smiled sourly. “Many, but not all. Come, let us be on our way.”
A few blocks away, on the Esquiline Hill, they entered a thermopolium — a large dining room filled with trestle tables where customers, all men, sat on benches to gulp down bowls of cooked cereal or stewed vegetables. A slave led Pierce and Juvenal through the room to an eastfacing colonnade above a small but elegant garden. Four tables, each with three couches, stood in the shelter of the colonnade; none were occupied.
“This place caters to rich and poor,” Juvenal said as he reclined on a wide leather-covered couch. Pierce joined him on the same couch: Custom demanded it, and it made conversation harder to overhear.
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