by Bilinmeyen
Beyond the Rostra, a hubbub of voices drones on. People were thronging before the Rostra, staring at Drusus, whose arms were crossed, his wounds pale and raw and face wax colored. There would be mostly noble born families in front, equestrians, and those who did not merit a place near Augustus that day. Senators, merchants, soldiers, dignitaries all waited. They all would walk past Drusus, placing flowers on the ground. Like it had been in Augusta Tauronium, there was an oddly joyous feeling to the whole affair, people speaking animatedly, colors everywhere. Statues were wreathed in gay clothing, and people drank wine, laughed, and gossiped.
It was a state funeral, funera dictiva, and heralds were soon yelling: “The famous Nero Claudius Drusus, citizen, deceased!” Reed players played cheerful music, and women screamed their grief. Adalwulf nodded at the ones who tried to get behind the Rostra, and whom the praetorians were pushing back. “Professional grievers. Preficae. Mad as Hel’s hounds.”
“I’ve seen them before,” I grimaced. “Don’t understand them.”
“Keep your eyes open. Julia is there,” he said with a warning.
“Where?” I muttered, looking away from Augustus and Livia, but there were many tall men in togas blocking my view.
“Wait, it begins,” Sextus said.
People were turning to look up at Via Sacra.
A procession approached from the south along the road. Lictors, carrying the broken fasces, marched there, and with them came a long string of death masks.
“I’ve seen those in houses before. Why—”
“The ancestors take part in the processions,” Adalwulf said. “The Claudii have a long line of dead who will take part.”
“Ghosts,” Wandal whispered.
“Clay masks,” Adalwulf growled. “Stay in your pants, boy.”
Mimi, clowns, rushed around the procession, joking with onlookers. The procession came forward slowly. They made their way past the ancient buildings to us, where, below the Rostra, the clay faces were staring at the young hero, welcoming him to Hades.
There was a nervous movement in the mass of nobles around us, and I saw Tiberius speaking softly to many older men, who nodded and moved to the side.
Augustus and Livia whispered with Tiberius and mounted the steps up the Rostra. “Move closer,” Adalwulf grunted. “We only guard the high family. Let the rest of the ass kissers guard themselves. Up. Just not to the top of the Rostra. That is for them alone.”
We shuffled forward after the family and the nobles disappeared. Sextus and Wandal were near me. Tiberius’s eyes swept past us, and I saw Antonia walking up nearby, having greeted a wide, dark haired man in a toga, who was glowering up at Augustus. The man reached out for Antonia, who stopped, clearly annoyed.
Sextus nodded at him and whispered, “Iullus, half-brother of Antonia. Son of Marc Antony, who was the great foe of Augustus. He is a grim, sullen one.”
“Will you ever speak with me, sister?” the man asked Antonia.
Antonia took a deep breath. “I shall invite you to my house, one day, and then we shall make our peace. I am not ready today. Tell your son greetings.” She turned away, and left Iullus hovering.
“He and Drusus were friends,” Sextus said. “Antonia didn’t approve, for some reason.”
Augustus, his eyes missing nothing, kept staring at each detail as he walked up, as if trying to remember everything. Livia pushed him on, and nodded at Adalwulf, then at me.
“Where are the children?” I wondered.
Adalwulf tilted his head. To the side, some trusted slaves were standing with some boys and there were Germani Guards there aw well. They wore fine tunics, and slaves held shades above them. There were two boys who stood in front of all. “Gaius and Lucius,” Sextus whispered. “The ones to inherit Rome.”
One was tall and sad, dark of hair. The other one looked timid, the younger one I took to be Lucius. He had brown curly hair and nervous eyes. Julia’s children. And there was no sign of the last one, Postumus. Sextus shook his head. “The rest stayed in Palatine. Antonia’s as well. Drusus, son of Tiberius, is sick. Those two have to be seen. They will watch as Tiberius and Augustus speak, and learn.”
Livia and Augustus reached the top, and Tiberius stepped after them, hesitating. Antonia pushed him on. Livia’s eyes met mine, and then looked over to a woman who was arrogantly pushing up to the platform.
She was small and thin, with round hips and slender shoulders.
Adalwulf whispered. “See, that is Julia.”
The woman walked up the stairs with determined, confident steps, and pushed past Antonia, who was lounging near the top. She turned to look around after she reached the top. Her face was haughty, her skin smooth, thin. She was beautiful, but guarded, and she avoided standing near Tiberius. It was clear as a turd on the road. Antonia noticed Julia’s avoidance of Tiberius, and began to chat with Tiberius to divert any embarrassment.
Julia stood out in other ways than her haughtiness.
I noticed it.
Augustus noticed it, giving her an evil look.
The crowds probably noticed it.
Her bright red palla and stola were made of some fine glimmering material, and the tunica flashing under was sky blue. Unlike Livia and Antonia’s, her hair was well styled into curls and twirls, cascading around her face. And she wore gold. There was so much gold around her wrists and neck she glimmered with it. Where others mourned as Romans of old, she stood out like a candle in darkness.
Her eyes rested on Augustus, her father, who turned away, clearly unhappy with her.
There stood the woman who was so unhappy with Tiberius, so greedy for her father’s powers, she had conspired to kill all who would threaten her golden future. The woman who had promised power to someone, and that someone had sent Maroboodus north, and now planned to kill all those whom she feared, or hated. Mother, Grandfather, and many of my friends were dead, because of her. Gods, I was curious about her. And equally, I wanted to see her drown. I wanted to rush up there, and prod her down from the Rostra with my spear.
Did Augustus know about my father and her? Livia did. Tiberius did.
But, did anyone know of the third son, Postumus? Did anyone guess he was not Agrippa’s, but that of a barbarian mercenary she had loved?
Probably not.
That could destroy her. It could sink her so deep, she would never climb up from that pit, and her sons would fall with her as well. How could Augustus tell if they were legitimate? I smiled, as the evil thought slithered in my mind. In fact, would it not be just? Had not Maroboodus come home, and thought I was illegitimate? I could thrust his son to the same pit, along with Julia.
But, I could prove none of it. I could only plant a seed of distrust in Augusts. Would that lift the children of Antonia over Julia?
As if she had heard my thoughts, Julia turned to me.
She had looked beautiful, with the cold, cool look on her face. When she looked at a man, something stirred in one’s heart. Her eyes were wide open, intelligent, and curious, and for some reason, sad. Despite the haughty bearing, there was emotion behind the orbs. The eyes were moist, and for a moment, I thought she might be sad for Drusus, but then I thought she was sad at life in general. At thirty, she was not a young woman, not by far, but her face was smooth, fair, her figure, what could be seen under the palla and stola, slender with generous curves. She stared down at me from the Rostra, and I had to hold myself erect, and avoid bowing my head at her. She smiled at my scrutiny, and had seemingly decided I was a mortal gawking at a goddess.
I steeled my heart to her as we looked at each other. I had to, because the treacherous thing had been invaded with wonder and doubt, and some admiration.
Focus. Her and Maroboodus. Together. Dreaming, loving, and scheming. How well she had done. Drusus was dead, and the brazen hussy was wearing her best finery, while others walked in clothes smudged in ashes. The wailing women moaned near the sea of death masks, as if to curse her, but she took no note.
&nb
sp; Who were her allies? What was the game? Just to be a mother of Princeps?
That would do it.
And would she send her third son, Postumus, to Maroboodus as thanks? Did she trust Father enough? Love him enough?
She looked away, still smiling softly, and I relaxed myself, and noted I had not breathed.
“Snap out of it,” Adalwulf said, and I noticed the nobles were seated on stools in the Rostra. Augustus was walking forth.
People, staring at the dead one, went gradually silent. We moved up, our spears high in the air, shields bright. We didn’t step on top, but looked over the vast sea of faces. The moaning women all looked down as Augustus approached the edge of the Rostra. The peddlers, equestrians, senators, slaves, and simple laborers shuffled to see better. Augustus stopped at the edge of the Rostra, standing a bit to his side, like Bero had, holding his toga regally over his left arm. He raised his right one, and thus he stood, for the longest of times, until silence reigned. Some babies cried somewhere, and wind rustled the olive tree branches. A hawk shrieked high in the bright air, and Augustus spoke.
“Nero Claudius Drusus, a famous citizen, deceased!” he spoke loudly, his voice reverberating with power. I had seen Drusus addressing the troops, the gathered Roman armies, and his style, clearly trained by some famous orator in Rome, was similar to that of Augustus. “Deceased, at the height of his glory. Deceased, by an accident, after the victorious war. Gods are cruel and greedy, to take him from us.”
I looked at Wandal and Tudrus in shock. They were covering up how he died? Tiberius would not be happy with that. I looked at him, and his stone-jaws didn’t twitch.
Augustus went on. “Here he lays, your brother, the man whom I raised as my own son. He was well-loved by his mother, by his brother, and family. By me. Yet,” Augustus said with voice so dripping with sorrow it made some ladies in the crowd cover their mouths with their hands, stricken by grief, “his death is mourned equally by you, his fellow citizens, the ones he worked so hard and long for. He was a servant to the state. He was a fine soldier; he was a fighter for the oppressed. He was a father.”
At that, there was a murmur of agreement and grievous crying in the crowd.
Augustus, his voice breaking, took a shuddering breath. “He loved you well, the Roman people, better than his own life. He truly did.”
And he had, I thought, because he tried to give Rome back to its people. If Augustus knew of his death, had anything to do with it, he was an excellent actor. Practice, I thought.
Augustus looked down and pointed a finger at Drusus. “Grieve him, my friends. Miss him and remember him, when you pass his statue in the Forum or some remote town. I shall miss our games, our evenings over dice, and our gentle banter, when duty was not so heavy. And you shall miss him, like none before him, for his sense of duty and peerless service.” Shouts of agreement echoed over the Forum, up the hill sides to Capitolium and Palatine. It took a long time, until the praetorians began to hit the ground with their spear shafts, and gradually, the crowd went quiet.
Augustus nodded, patiently. He spoke at length of the many achievements of Drusus, mainly in war, and it was somewhat odd the Germani he had conquered were there guarding them all. Finally, the old man ended the speech with a bow to Drusus. “We shall not forget.”
Silence reigned, as Augustus turned away to take his place on a seat, and Tiberius got up. He did so stiffly, his wide shoulders heaving under the toga as he stepped forward. His boots were brown, and I thought I saw one boot shake with emotion and fear as he fidgeted at the edge of the Rostra. He lifted his hands, and people were nodding, willing him to speak for his brother.
Adalwulf leaned over to me. “He spoke in his father’s funeral as well. Right here. He was but a boy.”
Tiberius took his time, his mouth moving. He was reciting his speech in his head. He was adding, probably taking away and changing things. He turned his head at neighing of horses, and chirping of the birds. A cloud was travelling the sky, and he stared at it. And then, I saw he was ready. His shoulders relaxed, and he waved his hand at the brother he had loved. “My brother,” Tiberius spoke, his chin up proudly, “was my best friend. Some might say my only friend. Like a brother, he was the one I competed, trained, and suffered with. Many know how it is with a brother, or a sister. And he comforted me in my trials, especially of late.”
Many did know love for one’s brother. They cheered his words, but I noticed many were whispering to each other and nodding their heads. It was not lost on Augustus, who was speaking with Livia, his face taut.
Suffered. Suffered with Augustus? And the trials of Tiberius? Julia? Augustus had pushed their father aside for his lust for Livia. He had married Livia while Drusus had been unborn inside Livia, and their father had been present in the marriage. They had been raised by Augustus, where sons should be raised with their fathers.
They had gained power, and were useful to the state, there was no denying that, but their childhood was not like that of most.
Suffered? Gods knew what they had gone through. Tiberius’s first wife might be in the crowd, and perhaps he had let her know he still loved her. I felt a pang of sorrow for Tiberius, and I was not alone in the crowd.
I looked at Adalwulf. He nodded and whispered, “That’s the word he chose with care. Suffered. It and that bit about his trials are his small rebellion towards his stepfather. He is not usually so bold. Today’s an exception.” Augustus looked carved from stone, as Livia was whispering to his ear. I also noticed many of the nobles around us speaking softly.
Tiberius went on. “We bled together, conquered like lions, and where he was the sword, I was the shield. Now, I must be both.”
Adalwulf sucked in his breath. “I wish he would not alienate himself from Augustus. The old man’s the shield and the sword of the land.”
Tiberius went on. “I found my brother in the wooden castra, broken. He bled and suffered on my arms. Like a true son of Rome, he did so bravely, wishing Rome his love. He was obsessed with our glory and future. He was obsessed with the best of Rome! And what is the best of Rome?”
“Shit,” Adalwulf muttered, white of face. “What’s come over him?”
Tiberius shouted. “This is the legacy my brother left me. To find out. I’ll reach for the stars, my friends, to fulfill the destiny he so loved. To help bring Rome the best it deserves.”
And at that, Livia twitched; Antonia as well, both with fear. Augustus frowned, and Julia shook her head weakly. She was displeased. Even her children, Gaius with his brooding eyes and Lucius with his innocent happy face, looked up at Tiberius, confused.
Tiberius breathed long and hard, and calmed himself. After a time, he went on, listing the merits of Drusus, his many achievements, and belittled his own. He finished it with a bow. “In his name, allocation of cash shall be made to every citizens of Rome. His legions receive double. May gods bless him in his afterlife, and keep him safe, until we meet again.”
Meet again. The words were ominous.
“Carry him away, brothers,” Tiberius said and turned away.
The carriers moved, the reed pipes began to play as Drusus was lifted. I turned to look at the nobles making their way around the Rostra. Adalwulf pulled at me. “For a moment, be a Guard. We walk after the family, and keep everyone far.”
So we waited until they came down. Tiberius looked odd. He was walking with a light step, but also had a haunted look on his face. Augustus walked next, his face down, deep in his thoughts. The women came last, with Julia first, her face without any visible emotion. We stepped to their sides, and some men walked before and after them. Adalwulf nodded, and we flowed with them, as they walked to take their place before the carriers, the lictors, and the masks. They walked off and took a way through the Forum, and we followed them on foot. The rest of the Guard rode off. The praetorians walked before and after Drusus, and the noble families followed last of all.
Adalwulf snorted at me. “I’m proud of you Hraban. You are
so involved with your duty, you forgot to look for your wife in the crowd.”
I cursed, and wanted to bang my head with the spear. “Was she there?”
“No,” he said with a smile. “You are safe. Now, let’s make sure none of them die in the hands of the scummy mobs.”
Tiberius. Antonia. Their children. I had to protect them.
I had seen Julia. And soon, I’d guard and expose her, if it was at all possible.
***
We were exhausted. We stood around the Mausoleum of Augustus, and waited. We had seen Rome, its vast streets, millions of details hammering at all our senses. Tudrus had slammed his shield in the face of a man who tried to pull at Antonia’s stola. I had slapped down another man, who tried to touch the body of Drusus. The turma plowed down anyone who got in the way, and the praetorians actually killed a man behind us. The crowds were loud, mad with grief and joy both, and many were drunk. We had seen the ancient Circus, stood on the mountain like monument’s sand, while Augustus stood in the middle of the spino, between two massive, fingerlike obelisks. He leaned on a wall before a contraption of a giant fish and eggs, and spoke once again of Drusus.
In the end, we had walked with the family to Campus Martius.
The evening was old already, and without any further ceremony, Drusus burned. People were looking on from afar, and the family stood in a circle, discussing softly. High noble families were close, and walking back and forth. Their guards, slaves, and servants rushed back and forth to provide them with everything they needed, and the mood was tired and serene. The circular mausoleum was plated with marble, there was an outlying wall with an iron gate, and delicate statues guarded it on top. Grass and trees grew over roof. The gates and the door stood open, with slaves looking down dutifully before it. There was a priest, though what his function was, I had no idea. He seemed to do nothing more but stand there.