Rome Burning

by Sophia McDougall

  Someone called out, in Latin – but the soldiers all were silent. Liuyin hoisted her up onto the road again. A battered grey car swung round, in front of the fire and smoke, someone got out. For the moment Lal felt a composed, lucid interest in how the delirium was progressing, what it might come up with next. She wouldn’t claim it was all an hallucination – something must be happening, but surely it wasn’t this. The light was beautiful even as it hurt her: pure, like still water held in a bright globe of glass. Within it the fire looked cool, fine, and far off, threads of saffron in water, and the young man’s reddish hair glowed carnelian, wine-like. The blue of his eyes seemed scarcely natural, emitting their own light like gas flames. Lal was amazed at how far behind he seemed to have left the day-to-day unsettled pastiness she remembered. The light in the air or in her mind compelled radiance from his fierce, soft-featured face and he seemed almost not human enough to be ugly.

  He said to Liuyin, ‘There – you’ve done more than you thought you could, haven’t you? Come on. I need you to drive now.’

  Then Lal was lying half in his lap, in the back of the rubbish-strewn car, and he was murmuring to her, with a kind of soft urgent authority, ‘We’ve got you now. I’ll get you out of here – you’ll be safe.’

  His arms were bare, which was not right – he would always have them covered. One supported her head, the other rested protectively over her, so that his wrist hung just inches from her blurred eyes, the skin stamped with the round scar of the cross.

  ‘You’re not here, Dama,’ she said, reasonably.

  Dama-in-the-vision smiled at her fondly, regretfully. ‘That’s right, love. I’m not.’

  *

  Liuyin drove too fast, still trembling with the physical shock of the explosions and of what had happened to those men, at the sense of accelerating through a strange space alongside the tracks of his normal life. He knew at some future time he would not be able to believe what he had done and seen; for now it did not matter. Sometimes he struggled a little against the overwhelming imperative to do what the stranger wanted, but only in a helpless, fumbling way that felt as meaningless as the kickings of a hanged man – a rather ignoble failure to recognise inevitability. For now, of course everything was real, of course he was doing this. There was a kind of exhilaration in it, because it was right. And after all, he wasn’t quite unprepared, was he? Hadn’t he always wished to be part of some kind of story, some kind of drama, for something to happen? And now here he was.

  It was only the stranger’s silence that was unnerving him now. Liuyin kept glancing at him, expecting some kind of instruction, but none came. The young man seemed wholly preoccupied with Lal – he was carefully bathing her face with water from a plastic bottle, deftly enough despite his damaged hands. The water would certainly be warm by now, but his look of sad, zealous tenderness was so strong that for a strange moment Liuyin caught himself wondering if he was somehow part of Lal’s family.

  ‘What happens now?’ Liuyin blurted at last, in Sinoan. He wasn’t sure quite how much of the language the other man understood, evidently some. He’d switched into it unexpectedly once or twice, just for a few words, usually at times when Liuyin’s resolve was fading.

  ‘I can’t take her with me,’ Dama said quietly. He was speaking Latin, but Liuyin didn’t struggle to understand: the longer they were together, the more everything Dama said seemed to carry a firm, lucid weight that went beyond the simple fact that his voice was very clear. ‘I don’t exactly go by public transport. She’s too ill.’

  Of course, Dama couldn’t have anticipated Lal’s illness. Liuyin found it hard to remember that. Dama had found him after a few days’ searching and questioning around the Black Clothes Lane area, and he’d got the story of Lal’s call for help out of him within minutes. He’d made Liuyin feel briefly worthless for what his response had been, then just as swiftly fired him up into this state of baffled daring. They’d reached Jingshan just after the Romans did, and they’d been following the car ever since. If they didn’t find Lal that way, at least they’d know the men hadn’t found her either. But from the moment of his first appearance – cornering Liuyin as he returned home from a painting lesson – Dama had given the impression that he was simply trying to carry out, as quickly as possible, something that was already certain.

  But Liuyin was frightened for Lal now. ‘Could she die?’

  ‘No,’ said Dama instantly, with simple, flat conviction. His better, almost-normal left hand was under Lal’s head, and he would not move it; taking infinite pains not to disturb her, he managed with the three functioning fingers of his right to extract a little box from his pocket, remove the lid, and swallow down a couple of pills with a swig of the water. Liuyin had only seen him do this once before, far less openly. It seemed that either he preferred not to be seen taking them, or that he resisted resorting to them as long as he could, or both. He sighed with the anticipation of relief, and murmured, ‘I know where I’d want her to be. I know who’d get her there.’ He closed his eyes, as if this, unlike anything else in the journey, meant doing something he found hard to face. ‘Una will do it. Novius would, too.’ His mouth curled grudgingly at the second name. ‘But even without him … Una …’

  ‘You want to go to Bianjing?’

  ‘Near enough,’ said Dama.

  *

  There was no way back, and suddenly no way forward, as if he’d been moving up a flight of stairs that had fallen away both ahead of him and behind, leaving him stranded in empty space, an unstable column under Drusus’ feet, an awful drop below.

  Could he get out? His slaves had already packed his belongings, he had been all but ready to leave. He knew Lal was found. It was less to work with than he would have liked, but it was something, and he had been waiting only for word that the soldiers had transported her as far as Jondum for departure into the Empire. But since yesterday, after that news of success, there had been nothing, no response to his messages, silence that seemed in retrospect like a warning. The palace in the square, walled city felt like a glass box within a glass box.

  But why should he have to run? He had as much authority as Marcus. No one could simply ignore that, could they? Perhaps they might divide the Empire into east and west between them, temporarily at least; such a split had been contemplated once or twice in the past. It would be enough for now; if he had that, and time, he could claim the whole in the end, he knew it.

  But the guards who were stationed outside his quarters were marching away. Drusus, who had moved restlessly outside again, watched blankly for a second as they filed through the darkening gardens, before commanding them furiously to stop. But they did not, even when he roared it out again and added every threat he could think of. Only when he modified the order to a demand for an explanation, did one of them tell him, ‘Caesar’s ordered us to assemble outside the barracks, Your Highness.’

  ‘He doesn’t have any mandate for this,’ shouted Drusus, wanting to keep this hot, bracing anger flowing within him as long as possible. ‘We are to share power, that is the Emperor’s decision. Equally. Read the message for yourself if you don’t believe me!’

  But really they did not believe him, and no evidence he could provide would make them. Marcus was here. If they knew nothing else, they knew that was Drusus’ failure. Marcus had the ring, and the soldiers were frightened of him. The absurdity of it struck Drusus as never before. Marcus was only one person, Drusus was only one person. The soldiers had nothing to fear from either of them beyond what they could be persuaded to do to each other. If they could only have trusted each other to see through the trick, they need not answer to anyone! Why didn’t they realise that?

  He had not been left totally alone, there were three men who hadn’t moved. But he did not imagine it was out of defiant loyalty – they had been told to stay. Marcus had left them there, either to watch him, or as an insult to him.

  Drusus slammed back inside the pavilion. But it was too late, the sustaining warmth o
f anger was leaving him, and he stood there, out of breath and shivering. How flimsy and unprotected it felt in these Sinoan rooms, only floodlit glass and painted wood, the panels fretted full of weak points and holes, between his skin and the world. How did any Sinoan prince ever sleep in peace?

  He turned to a slave, and said almost in a whisper, ‘Lock the door.’

  *

  Una resisted running until the last few seconds. She kept herself almost ceremoniously in check, as the Nionian guards led them unnecessarily across the Sinoan courtyards and gardens, as if too abrupt a transition into freedom might damage them. Varius walked slowly, not speaking, face tilted up slightly towards the sky. They had known for two raw hours that Marcus was in the city, that they would be allowed to go. Now it had happened, after all their manoeuvring within captivity, it was hard to believe that it could be so simple, that accompanied or not, they could just walk back to where they had been and it would really be over, Marcus would really be there. Una stifled the presentiment that this was not only a dazed reaction to change, that it was true. It was not so simple. In some way he would not ever be there.

  She saw him, magnified and dark in his purple robe. She did run then, leaving the group of guards behind. They collided, clutched. She’d never wanted to see him so badly and yet not wanted to look him in the face. He lifted her a little off the ground, the pressure of his arms painful around her waist and against her ribs. Neither of them was smiling. But they held on, Una’s eyes shut, her teeth clenched, blocking out everything. He had come back, that was all. She didn’t want to know anything he was thinking.

  ‘It’s good to see you safe,’ commented Varius, meaning it, but rather coldly. He would have preferred to have walked for an hour, out in the city, as far from the palace as he could get, before seeing Marcus. When Marcus, one hand still gripping Una’s shoulder, took a step towards him he stiffened, just a little. And then he was startled by the expression of nearly desperate appeal he saw flash across Marcus’ face and settle into grim, accepting sadness almost before Varius could recognise it.

  Marcus said to both of them, ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done here. It was heroic. I won’t let anyone go on thinking of you as traitors.’

  A soldier approached them, cautiously across the courtyard. He looked somehow drained, pale, his salute to Marcus stiff with an odd blend of relief and dread. ‘Caesar. A few of the men aren’t in a good way. One’s unconscious. A couple of his ribs are broken, I think he may have a punctured lung. I’m uncertain if you wanted …’ He hesitated, and revised the question. ‘Permission to administer medical assistance, Caesar?’

  Marcus looked irritable and disdainful. ‘Fine. If necessary,’ he said, gesturing the man away.

  Una tensed, incredulously. ‘What is this?’ she asked, in a low voice.

  Marcus’ eyes turned blank as pebbles, a faint, defiant smile lurked unhappily at his mouth. ‘I’ve had the soldiers flogged for what happened here. Not only them, of course.’

  He’d chosen the Alanian coast as a place of exile for the Roxelanian magistrate. And he’d had him beaten too, kicked and punched along the street and through the forum of his city, thrown into the van which drove him away.

  He felt an impatience that approached disgust at the shock on both their faces. Did it really need to be talked over? They did not speak. Una stared at him in unrecognising confusion, lips parted with some kind of hurt concern for him which he didn’t want to see. Varius’ subtle, withdrawing frown came closer to a look of disappointment. It was hard to tolerate.

  Finally Varius asked quietly, ‘How did you choose the ones to be punished?’

  ‘I picked the ones whose faces I could remember,’ Marcus said roughly. ‘That centurion who led them should have been first. No one knows where he is. Lucky for him.’

  ‘Did you want this done before you saw us?’ Varius enquired more forcefully, and looked away when Marcus didn’t answer.

  Una muttered, ‘But it was Drusus. And your uncle. And Salvius. They were far more guilty.’

  ‘What, do you think I can snap my fingers and make the world a different place?’ demanded Marcus, a harsh, resentful break in his voice. ‘I could have had them killed. I should have done. I don’t respect myself for sparing them. It won’t happen again. Are you going to defend them because they were acting on orders? Well, next time they get orders like that I want them too afraid to carry them out. This is how things work.’ He swung round and strode away. Una went after him. Varius did not.

  They didn’t return to the pavilion in which they’d stayed before. ‘Drusus is there,’ said Marcus, shortly. ‘I’d rather keep him there than move him. He’s not getting out.’

  So these rooms were unfamiliar. Una was literally treading carefully around Marcus, placing her feet delicately as if afraid of frightening him. Marcus told her, ‘I have to meet with Junosena – thank her. And then Tadahito. Try and solve all of this.’

  Una nodded, silently. She padded warily about the room. She felt suddenly tired by the fact that even if she was out of the Nionian-controlled rooms, she was still in the palace, still in Sina. She didn’t want to think of it as a longing to be in the Roman Empire.

  ‘I don’t know what happened to all our stuff,’ she remarked. ‘My clothes.’

  ‘Yes, what is that dress? It’s not yours, is it?’

  ‘One of the Princess’s waiting women’s.’ They looked at each other and mutually shut out the subject of Noriko, there was even a kind of camaraderie in that simultaneous refusal to think about it.

  ‘Your things won’t have gone far. They’ll be brought over.’

  Dragging off the outer robe, he pulled something out of his pocket and gripped it – a small roll of blue cloth. Una recognised it with a confused stir of feeling: a plain woollen hat, folded into a soft tube.

  She’d handed it to him in a graveyard the day after they’d met, terse and unsmiling, just to render him less of a risk, cover up what he was. Still, it was the first thing she’d ever given to him.

  Marcus glanced at her quickly, with a shrug and a tight, uneven smile, ‘Thought of it yesterday when I was at home, so …’

  But he still looked angrily desolate. Again it flashed over Una what he had done, and that it had not satisfied him, the violence had still not gone out of him. She wished she could say some sweet, fond, mindlessly supportive thing. She could imagine a different kind of lover for a man in power – a blindly gentle woman that in real life she’d have found unbearable, a human cornucopia of inexhaustible tenderness, someone with no capacity to judge, no concerns except soothing him. She thought it would be much simpler to be like that. Instead she had gone cold, stiff, stern. As she could not speak she willed herself to go and hold him again. She stroked his hair, lightly and tentatively, and though she’d meant to comfort him the smooth familiar warmth of it comforted her. But he must have detected something forced about her touch, for he drew back and said impatiently, ‘Do I need to tell you? Do you know everything already?’

  ‘No,’ she muttered.

  ‘Well,’ he sounded perversely exasperated. ‘Why not?’

  She prevaricated. ‘There’s too much, all at once, you’re too … worked up.’ It was half true. She wouldn’t tell him that she was afraid to see what he might be thinking, or remembering, or planning to do. ‘I don’t want to spy on you.’

  ‘You’ve got to know,’ he said brusquely, and began telling her about the time stranded in Sarmatia with the magistrate, the choice he’d made, the meeting with Sulien in the Palace. He finished flatly, ‘I don’t think he’ll want to see me again.’

  ‘He will,’ said Una. And knowing her brother, she genuinely thought this was true, yet reservations that did not belong to this question wormed into her voice and she could not make herself sound wholly convinced.

  Bleakly, Marcus shook his head. ‘I said yes to him dying slowly, I don’t blame him.’

  ‘Yes, rather than give Drusus the chance to do that t
o whoever he wants and start a war – rather than see slavery go on for ever. I would have done the same thing.’

  He paused and looked at her. ‘You would, wouldn’t you?’ he said, with a kind of wonder in his voice. ‘And leaving you and Varius here, would you have done that?’

  She hesitated, considering it. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But not this.’ His voice grew harder. ‘Not punishing the soldiers.’

  Una said more strictly than she meant to, ‘No.’

  Marcus almost shouted at her, ‘So what would you have done, then?’

  Una mumbled, flinching, ‘I don’t know,’ so that Marcus turned away from her with a scathing sound, and then she retorted with answering anger, ‘Yes I do, I would have warned them. I’d have told them any orders that didn’t come from me weren’t valid, so they shouldn’t think that was any kind of defence. I’d have made them realise I could do what you did, and then I’d have made them amazed that I hadn’t. I’d have made them grateful to me.’

  Marcus made the scoffing noise again, although with diminished force. ‘And you think they’d respect that?’

  Una said stubbornly, ‘Yes.’ Marcus sighed and sat down on a couch, depleted and slack. She looked down at him and whispered, ‘You were there? You … watched it happen?’

  ‘Of course I did. I had to be sure they knew why it was happening.’ He closed his eyes and said, sounding more like himself, ‘Anyway, it would have been cowardly not to be there.’

  They fell quiet for a while, as at some kind of truce. He didn’t want to fight with her. He didn’t believe her reassurances about Sulien, and he was still wretched and resentful at the memory of the look on Varius’ face.