At least the nausea eased itself slightly whenever he had to visit Faustus at the Palace; he felt, illogically, hidden, insulated among so many rooms and people, so much heaped-up beauty. That must be the real function of a Palace, for an Emperor.
In a large drawing room a trio of musicians were playing with dutiful jauntiness while Faustus listened dully, propped on a day-bed before the high windows. A sea-battle played out in fresco across the walls, its violence – which was ferocious – disguised and smoothed by the beauty of the painting. A pale missile streaked towards a stricken ship, as lovely as a dolphin. At the other end of the room, Makaria was hissing an urgent, exhausted rant at Sulien. By now she could feel the last dregs of her patience burning away; she could barely fight off either her homesickness or the wish to be in Sina, as she should have been, for once near the heart of things.
‘Considering he’s suffered another stroke, I think he’s making good progress,’ Sulien told her.
‘But progress towards what?’ said Makaria. ‘What about his memory? It’s not right. If I remind him of something he says he knows it happened – maybe he’s telling the truth, I don’t know. But even if he does recognise the facts when he sees them, I don’t think he really remembers. He gets so angry with me. How much improvement can I expect?’
‘More than this,’ promised Sulien, wearily.
‘Then how soon?’
Doors burst open somewhere in the Palace, not far off, and a shout of surprise or protest was abruptly silenced. Feet, beating on stone, marching close.
Sulien and Makaria stood fixed, looking at each other, as though suddenly complicit in something. Makaria told him, ‘Wait,’ and ran towards the door.
Quiet, familiar antechambers opened before her, the nearest white, butter-yellow and silver, the next cool twilight blue, with a shy marble Diana rising above the mosaic floor. At first Makaria saw only Salvius, striding at the head of a small column of men across the further room, towards her. And then she saw that behind Salvius, hurrying awkwardly along as if it were hard to keep up, pale and fragile and sick-looking, but with a hard electric brightness in his face, was Drusus.
An attendant who’d already been making unheeded protests about the lawlessness of this march, dived loyally into Salvius’ path saying firmly, ‘Look sir, the Emperor’s ill, his doctor has instructed—’
Marching on, Salvius muttered grimly, ‘Has he?’ and one of his men, almost without breaking step, struck the attendant deliberately out of the way, knocking him hard into the wall.
Uncertain if she’d been seen, Makaria darted back into the drawing room, letting the door swing to. She looked at her father, who had heard the approaching noise and was trying to raise himself with instinctive alarm and indignation, and she realised that whatever was coming there was nothing she could do to protect either him or herself.
She gave Sulien a little shove towards the only other door and murmured quickly, ‘You’d better get out. Go on.’
Sulien hovered, and then did as she said. He slipped through into a cluttered study, red-walled and cramped, and there was no time even to close the door fully before Drusus and Salvius entered the room behind him. He heard Faustus stutter pitifully in bewilderment, and then shout, with sudden clear rage, ‘How dare you do this? So you are a traitor, then, to me and to Rome!’
Sulien was in a corner, just outside the blade of light from the door that filled most of the room, slicing the space into triangles of bright danger and shadow. Yes, there was another way out, and he tried to sidle carefully towards it, but reached it in the open, revealed to anyone who’d been looking. Now he glimpsed Salvius, and a moment later he recognised Drusus’ voice. Hoping the sound would be disguised under Faustus’ fury Sulien tried the handle – but the door had been locked hours before, so that the Emperor would not be disturbed.
[ XII ]
CONQUERED GROUND
‘You coward! Traitor!’ How he loathed being able to do nothing but accuse and bawl! The indignity of having no other weapons left! Faustus turned, dragging his useless body from side to side, a crippled worm or caterpillar. ‘Give me a – give—’ His voice stalled to an angry buzz. He wanted to demand a gun but could not bear the inevitable, definitive proof of his vanished authority: the Praetorians, plainly, were already answering to Salvius. All Faustus’ worst fears were taking life at the same instant; the steady corrosion of these last years finishing in this violent fracture, and after a hundred and sixty years, he was the one to fail, to see the dynasty break. He would be judged for letting it happen, when he was too unfairly weakened to prevent it. He could not even look at Drusus, who seemed, in any case, merely like a dark accessory or familiar lurking at Salvius’ side. Impotently he cried again at Salvius, ‘You will be sorry for it!’
Only then did he remember his daughter, standing there exposed, a target, and felt terror bite.
‘Forgive him, Uncle,’ said Drusus tremulously, stepping forward like a dancer on cue. ‘He’s done this for Rome. Not for himself or me.’
Makaria’s instinct would have been to rage and bluster like her father until, she thought, with a cold throb of realisation that this was really happening, she was dragged away or shot alongside him. Instead she was trying carefully to position herself between Faustus and the open door to the little room into which she’d sent Sulien. She had seen the boy’s shadow in the thin gap between door and frame; she knew he was trapped there, watching, and after what Salvius’ men had done to the servant outside the room, it was chiefly the sense that Sulien needed her protection that kept her quiet. She had seen, as Faustus, blind with rage and despair could not, the small, wounded flicker of guilt that stirred Salvius’ face at the word ‘traitor’. And she saw how Drusus laid a reassuring hand on his ally’s arm as he passed, as if to remind him that it wasn’t true. With earnest grace, Drusus lowered himself to kneel at Faustus’ feet.
‘We’re not the ones who want to take your power from you. I want to give it back.’
‘You murdering little viper, don’t speak to me,’ snarled Faustus.
With another strange shock, Makaria saw that the flinch that crossed Drusus’ face at this was an intensified, less subtle imitation of Salvius’ look of pain at being called a traitor. The same muscles contracted in an almost identical way Drusus must have registered and stored the useful expression as unconsciously and immediately as a camera.
‘You must listen to him,’ said Salvius, stiffly.
Faustus felt too flimsy, too small for his indignation at this; he couldn’t find a retort to contain it. He stammered, ‘He – he …’ Charges bubbled up to his lips and choked themselves: his poor brother Leo, the betrayal with Tulliola, and yet he could not see these things clearly; everything turned dim and fantastic as he tried to fix on it. He could hardly tell how he knew it all. It was Marcus and Makaria who’d told him, wasn’t it? A frantic, poisonous embarrassment smothered him, as if he’d recounted events from a dream thinking they were real.
‘I have not come here to commit a crime against Rome,’ Salvius said curtly, looking, despite himself, dour and threatening as he said it. ‘I would never do that; it’s what I am here to prevent. For some time I’ve feared the danger to the Empire was growing daily, and I’m sure of it now. I – I am not a traitor.’
Faustus gave an inarticulate snarl of anger and scorn.
‘Please, Uncle,’ urged Drusus. ‘I only want you to hear what I’ve got to say and give me a little time to prove it. I promise, I would have waited to answer in court like anyone else if I thought there was any chance of the truth coming out. But it would not, and it would have been too late. There’s still just time.’
Faustus lifted his better arm and clubbed Drusus clumsily across the face. Drusus gasped a little with distress and shock, and Salvius took an instinctive step forward, as if ready to defend him, towering over Faustus. For despite what he had said, it was hard for Salvius to feel any loyalty to the Emperor. He was so angry with him now, th
e anger sharpening his awareness of Faustus’ physical feebleness. Forcing his own sense of duty to Rome to include this man seemed almost a betrayal of the obvious fact that he himself was, in a simply animal sense, stronger.
‘Please,’ repeated Drusus softly, looking up into his uncle’s face.
‘My brother …’ Faustus got out. ‘All those things. All you.’
Drusus looked angry. ‘No. No. How can they say these things to you when they admit there’s no evidence?’ he said bitterly, ‘what is it all? Some vision or dream! Gabinius and Tulliola were picking us off like girls pulling petals off daisies. I don’t know why anyone should think it would have benefited me. I would have been next, probably. How do we know what Gabinius was planning? I don’t believe he was just worried about some scheme of Leo’s that would never have happened anyway. He wanted to buy and kill his way onto your throne, Uncle. That’s what I believe. And I was in his way too.’
Sulien moved slightly inside the tiny room, shifting his weight to lean against the wall, closer to the crack of the door. At first he had been unable to see much more than Makaria’s back, but she’d just made a swinging motion of frustration and contempt, a thwarted stride, revealing Drusus, who seemed to be kneeling, and Salvius’ tense, upright back. The feeling that he was in serious personal danger had slightly diminished, even if the sense of unfolding disaster was stronger. Please, don’t listen, he wanted to beg Faustus. But if he did not listen, what would Salvius do? Surely he would not simply subside and let Drusus be taken back to prison. Was it better or worse, Sulien wondered, that Marcus and Una were so far away, unable to answer, but, surely, safe?
Drusus went on, ‘So Marcus saved my life in a way, by coming back when he did. And I’m grateful to him for that. But he was too young. It was too terrible for him. He couldn’t go through all that and not be … damaged. I know you believed it taught him a lot, all that time knowing his life was on the line, living with drifters and criminals, and I think it did. But they weren’t good lessons, Uncle. He should never have had to learn them. But they’re fixed in him now.’ All this time Drusus had been staring earnestly up into Faustus’ eyes. He looked down now, regretful and tentative. He continued slowly, ‘I think he learned not to tolerate anything or anyone he sees as a threat. To be pitiless, even, when he thinks it’s necessary.’
‘You liar,’ Makaria burst out, disgust overcoming fear. ‘You’re describing yourself and changing the names. You don’t even realise. Do you think you can make people forget what they know about you? Daddy—’
‘I’m not lying,’ said Drusus in a low voice. ‘I’m saying what happened to Marcus. You’ve seen it too, I know you have. He learned only to trust or listen to the people he relied on during that time. He might as well be deaf and blind to everyone else. But they’re dangerous, those people. They don’t answer to anyone except Marcus and they know how to handle him.’
Sulien felt his body stiffen. For the first time in months, he remembered overhearing another conversation between Faustus and Drusus, from behind another door. He remembered Drusus’ disbelief and fear at what Sulien had heard, at his power to wall him off from the Emperor.
He was aware that for a while Faustus had made no sound.
‘What are you talking about? Am I one of these sinister people?’ demanded Makaria. ‘I never thought you were stupid, Salvius. Do you really believe this?’
‘Yes, I believe it,’ said Salvius. ‘I believe what I’ve seen with my own eyes. He won’t brook disagreement from anyone. And this is where it ends.’ He gestured at Drusus. ‘False charges to clear aside inconvenient people!’
‘Oh, I’m sure Marcus believed they were true,’ said Drusus quietly. And to Makaria he explained gently, ‘Because your own intentions are good, you assume other people are the same. No, I would say it comes down to Varius and those two slaves. That girl. We all thought – didn’t we? – well, it’s an infatuation, he’s entitled to that, especially at his age. But it’s far more. And where does she come from? Who is she? You said she was a witch, Makaria – that was the word you used. And she was a slave – and a prostitute, probably. And that’s as much as we’ve ever known, nothing about where her sympathies lie. And Marcus is completely dependent on her. There’s nothing she could say he wouldn’t believe; no suggestion she could make he wouldn’t act on.’
In the little room, Sulien had pressed his fists and forehead hard against the panelling of the wall, as if the pressure could numb the flood of complex heat that crackled across his skin. It was not simply an honorific male desire to hit back – although he did, acutely, want to do that – it was intricate, personal, nauseating. That irrecoverable time that he and his sister had been separated in London, when the only thing that was certain was that he’d been no help to her. All his worst doubts about those years – normally so intermittent and manageable – smeared together bloodily with rage at what Drusus had nearly done to her, at the injuries he’d left on her, again with no hindrance from Sulien. Even his clenched teeth seemed to scorch in his mouth, and he felt almost convinced that Drusus was, impossibly, responsible for all of it, even for selling them when they were children.
It condensed, painfully, into shame at restraining himself from attacking Drusus now. He was quite unaware of the slight sound he’d made, gasping in his breath through his teeth and holding it. He didn’t even notice Salvius turn his head as he heard it.
‘You hate her,’ observed Makaria, not growling with fury this time but in a cold, scared, clinical voice, which by mere luck caused Salvius to think the short hiss he’d heard had come from her. ‘That’s very clear in everything you say. Naturally you hate her, given what she found out about you. Quite enough to murder her to keep her quiet.’
‘No,’ insisted Drusus. ‘No, of course not. Yes, I hate her, I admit that – there are limits to anyone’s stoicism! I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t hate her. You don’t understand why – you don’t know what happened! Please, just let me tell you.’ Drusus stopped, and Sulien saw him slowly get to his feet, exhaling, trying to calm himself. He said softly, as if with forced, hurt patience, so that Sulien had to strain to hear. ‘Makaria, I think I know why you believed this about me … so readily.’
‘Because it’s true,’ she said acidly.
‘No. I didn’t remember for a while. Only quite recently … I saw how it must have looked, on top of everything you were told. It was that conversation you and I had by the fountain. She’d followed me out of that meeting. She came into the aviary and spoke to me for a while – about Marcus, about how she hoped I wouldn’t cause any problems. She was trying to keep me under control, I think now. And when she left, I met you by the fountain and we talked about her. And I think you saw – I was startled by what you said. I suppose I behaved oddly. I wasn’t conscious of it at the time – I was only thinking about one thing. But I did, didn’t I? And then I left. I went looking for her.’
It was the last subject Makaria had expected him to broach – she had been ready to confront him with it. Her mouth opened slightly, but she didn’t answer.
Sulien, listening to the silence, turned away from the door, unable to stand it.
Drusus sighed again, letting his shoulders lower with a first, slow sense of release. He looked at Faustus who was hunched, silent, frowning, tired out already with trying to remember. Of course Drusus had known what he had to say; he had said it once already in prison, to Salvius. But then he’d still felt strained and desperate, lucky to succeed; the memory of the difficulty and anguish with which he’d constructed the narrative still too strong. He’d known there were so many things that must be woven in and accounted for: the locked room, the injuries on Una and on himself, the desperate claims he’d made as he was dragged away. Until now he had been unable to summon the real peace and stillness that came to him now, the luxury of feeling the effort slip away, along with any other version of the past.
No one in Rome, he hoped, knew about his recent visit to the Sibyl.
But the first occasion, four and a half years ago, when the promise had first been made – that had not been a secret, although only Tulliola had known what he’d been told. And before he spoke Drusus reached for the memory and this time felt comfort glow from it, and he told himself: I am going to be Emperor.
‘Probably you’ve forgotten that a few years ago I went to Delphi and consulted the Oracle,’ he began in a quiet, tense voice. ‘I didn’t take it seriously at the time and I’d almost forgotten it myself. But you reminded me, Makaria. You called the girl a witch and you mentioned the Sibyl. It came back to me.’
‘I know she tells the truth,’ said Makaria, slowly. ‘She was right about me. And about Tullia.’ She almost spat the word, laden with accusation, watching Drusus’ face. But she had not sounded so certain, or so hostile, until she reached the familiar ground of that name. Sulien had heard the hesitancy in her voice.
Drusus nodded tolerantly, undisturbed. The person Makaria had named was not Tulliola, she was some other woman who didn’t exist and needed no mourning. He said, ‘Yes, I know she was right. And that put her in a very strong position.’
‘You talk to me,’ demanded Faustus, suddenly, stirring fiercely. ‘You tell me about this, not my daughter.’
Drusus turned to him obediently, leaving Makaria looking on unhappily. ‘After that, Uncle, no one could ever make her account for anything she chose to say. As for what she claimed about Tullia and myself, I can only tell you that it’s not true. That I’d never betray you like that. And that the reason I went looking for Una that day was because I remembered what the Oracle told me. First she talked in riddles about a single coal falling out of a grate and burning down a house, that sort of thing – something small growing dangerous and nobody noticing. Then it became clearer; she was talking about a person. A witch, a girl like a Sibyl appearing in Rome. Someone who could uncover others’ secrets but keep her own. And no one would see at first how she was gathering power, how she was using it. And she would grow strong enough to wreck the whole Empire.’
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