Nicholas shook his head, wondering if that were true. These weren't bandits. "Perhaps," he said. "How long will it take to get everyone out of the tunnel? Who has the robes?"
"About two hours to get everyone out," Sextus said, rubbing his nose. "Each man is carrying his kit and clothing on his back. We started as soon as Frontius' runner came back."
"Not great, but it'll have to do. Send two men back down the narrow passage. Make sure our tracks in that hidden road are wiped out and any litter picked up. Then start knocking down this tunnel, try and fill it in behind us."
Sextus stared at the centurion for a moment. Nicholas could see the man's thoughts-the narrow passage and the hidden road were their only way out if the enemy found the springhouse entrance to the tunnel. The engineer didn't want to be trapped in the stifling dark with no way back. For his part, Nicholas didn't either, but it seemed more likely that pursuit would come from inside the city.
"Do it," Nicholas growled and the centurion nodded sharply before turning to his men. The northerner went to the side of the cistern where Dwyrin was laid on a cloak. The boy looked bad, his face sheened with sweat. He looked pale and empty, like a vessel that had been poured out on the ground.
"Hey, lad." Nicholas knelt by the boy's side and put the back of his blistered and swollen hand against Dwyrin's forehead. "How do you feel?"
Dwyrin didn't speak, but the anguish in his eyes said the Hibernian knew the enemy had played him for a fool.
"Rest now, we'll be moving soon." Nicholas turned the corner of the cloak over Dwyrin's chest, then sat down, his back against the wall. Dwyrin closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. Nicholas was determined to be the last out of the cistern. It would be a long wait, here in the close darkness, watching as his men dropped, one by one, down into the tunnel. The pain in his hand was almost blinding, but he pushed it away. There just wasn't time for that now.
– |Odenathus rode through the gates in a weary daze. The huge statues paid him no heed, for he was part of a flood of Sahaba trooping up the long ramp. Men and women of the city were mixed in amongst the soldiers, all a pressing, noisy mass spilling out of the gateway into the gardens surrounding the towering shape of the Temple of Jupiter. Every inch of the Palmyrene's body cried out in agony, for he had sustained his illusions and phantasms for nearly two hours before he felt the bright ravening flame of Dwyrin go out like a snuffed candle. It had been enough. Much of the city was still burning, lighting the night sky and throwing a reddish light down from the clouds. The white pillars of the temple seemed stained with blood.
The Palmyrene let his horse find a patch of grass and stop. Then he crawled down out of the saddle and fell asleep on the ground. The horse, which was accounted wise among its kind, moved to stand over the exhausted sorcerer and continued to graze with its rubbery lips on the leaves of the tree. These humans were quite foolish, needing a calm head to watch out for them.
– |Not far away, within the towering halls of the temple, a lone man crossed a broad floor of hexagonal marble tiles. His lean face, long ago burned dark by the desert, was filled with fear and wonder in equal parts. His dark robes, made from the finest cloth, were tattered and worn, scarred by war and long travel. His boots, which had been worth two mares to acquire from a Persian merchant, made a soft sound on the tiles. Uri Ben-Sarid, the chief of his people, came to the sanctuary of the temple and looked upon the seated figure of Jupiter Maximus, god of the Romans. The marble sculpture was twenty feet high and painted in the likeness of a brawny man with riotous dark hair. A fierce look of disgust passed over Uri's face, but then he put such things aside.
"Cursed shall be the idolators," he whispered to himself. In this thing, he and Mohammed understood each other perfectly. The Ben-Sarid did not believe, in his heart, that his old friend heard the voice of the nameless god speaking from the clear air. There could be no prophets in this debased and corrupt time. But he did know Mohammed was a wise man, a cunning leader and a man filled with hate for Rome. Even as the Ben-Sarid hated. Slowly, his eyes intent on the floor, he circled the statue. Behind the platform, screened by the bulk of the figure, there was an opening and a stairway that descended below the floor of the temple.
"Oh, my good and gracious Lord…" Uri felt faint, seeing that it was possible to descend below the elevated platform. It might, he thought in rising panic, be possible to step below and stand… stand upon the rock of the hill itself. There might be a stone, in the darkness below, a stone that had once crowned this low mountain. A slab of pitted gray basalt where…
"No." Uri backed away, frightened by his impious thoughts. He bit his thumb, trying to keep from crying out. Despite all that he had learned at his father's knee, he felt compelled to walk down into the darkness. His people, at last, had returned to the holy place, to the temple of their fathers, and he could not descend, he was not allowed to look upon the most sacred place of all the tribes.
He was not a Kahane; he was not of the sacred line. The priesthood had been slaughtered long ago, the survivors scattered to the four corners of the earth, if any had lived through Ben-Yair's apocalypse. His blood was weak, diluted, perhaps even contaminated by the blood of lesser peoples. This, his heart's desire, the prize the lives and blood of the Ben-Sarid had paid for on the walls of the city, was beyond his reach.
Uri leaned against the flank of the Roman statue, cold stone burning against his arm. His other hand covered his face, trying to stifle the desire tormenting him. Tears seeped between his fingers and fell, one by one, sparkling to the marble floor.
Outside, the Sahaba reveled in their victory, raising their swords and spears to the burning red sky, raising thunderous cheer after thunderous cheer. Jalal strode among them, a giant among men, his face split by a tremendous grin. Mohammed would be pleased!
Allau Akbar! Allau Akbar!
Shuddering at the noise, Uri turned away from the stairway. He had to find the Arab general and make sure that no one went down those steps. No one.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Palatine Hill, Roma Mater
The Emperor sat in the rooftop garden amid a drift of white parchments covering a camp table fitted with golden legs. Two well-muscled Africans stood nearby, ready to adjust the canopy of white Indian cotton protecting Galen from the midday sun. The palace staff ignored the long years Galen Atreus had spent in the field with his Legions, exposed to the rough elements.
Gregorius Auricus entered the garden, toga snow white and thinning ivory hair oiled back. In place of his usual jeweled rings was a single golden band on his left hand. Likewise his tunic, though of exceptionally fine linen, was plain and unadorned. Gaius Julius followed the senator at a respectful distance, weighed down by a thick sheaf of parchments. The plans and schedules for the games grew heavier by the day. Like his patron, Gaius Julius was dressed very simply, though he had taken care not to rival the quality of his benefactor's garb. Instead, he had selected a cut of cloth which said middle-rank bureaucrat to the discerning eye.
Of course, with the monies he was accumulating, he could afford much better. Impatience in such matters was his enemy, he reminded himself, particularly today. It was much wiser to hide himself in anonymity. So, with his eyes downcast, he entered the garden of the Lord and God of the Empire as the very picture of humility.
"Gregorius! Welcome, old friend. Sit, sit." The Emperor sounded cheerful.
Galen took the older man's hand and led him to one of the swan-back chairs beside the camp table. Gregorius met him in kind, embracing the younger man.
Gaius could hear the warmth in the Emperor's voice as pleasantries were exchanged. He could see the elderly senator was equally pleased.
"Galen," Gregorius said. "Have you met my secretary? This is Gaius Julius, of notable name, and with a great and welcome passion for hard work." Gaius smiled at his patron's kind words and bowed to the Emperor.
"I have not had the pleasure," the Emperor said, seating himself. He nodded to Gaius, dark eyes exa
mining him carefully. Gaius felt a chill, seeing Maxian's likeness refined in his elder brother and feeling the strength of his intellect and personality. "You are well recommended to us, Gaius, and not for your name. I have had reports of you, from the military commanders in Campania."
The Emperor paused and Gaius leaned forward slightly, a concerned look on his face. "Nothing untoward has happened?" he said, expressing businesslike concern. "The bridge at Beneventum hasn't collapsed again?"
"No." The Emperor laughed. "I understand it was a bit of trouble to rebuild. No, all I have heard of you is good. We are grateful for your assistance in this troubled time."
Gaius nodded in acceptance of the praise, forcing himself to blush slightly. He had found, to his amusement, that such things had to be considered in this new… body. "It is my duty, Lord and God."
"I understand," Galen said, leaning back in his chair. While they had been talking, the maids had quietly delivered wine, fresh fruit, steaming fresh bread and sliced meats glazed with honey to the table. Galen ignored the repast, turning his attention to Gregorius, who was smiling contentedly, his hands on his stomach. "Old friend, you've been badgering me for months, so I think I know why you're here."
Gregorius nodded, a half-smile on his face. "Is this a good time to discuss it? I have heard there is trouble in the East."
"There is trouble everywhere," Galen said in a peevish tone. "The matter of Egypt is only the most pressing. My whole business is finding trouble and putting it out. It is not a good time, but various and diverse persons have informed me that I must do something." The Emperor and the senator laughed at a secret, shared jest. Gaius did not see what it was, but kept his face bland and interested. He did not laugh with them.
"She is bored, then?" Gregorius' voice had a gentle needling quality.
"She is," the Emperor dryly answered. "And I know that I have been remiss in my sacred duty. Each day, you know, the Pontifex Maximus and the priests of the temples are in here, moaning and crying about the insult to the gods and the plague of ghosts in the countryside."
The Emperor suddenly turned to Gaius. "Did you see any ghosts, any manes, any lamiae when you were touring the road works in the south? Any foul, undead creatures?"
"No, Emperor," Gaius said with a straight face. "I did not. But I know that every citizen in the whole of Campania is beside himself with fear of them."
The Emperor made a harrumph sound and put his chin in his hand. Gaius fought hard to keep from laughing aloud. The money he had spent encouraging the temple priests had been an excellent investment. Without his prodding, the priests would have continued to loll about in their town houses and temples, idle and unthinking of their duty.
"There shall be games," the Emperor muttered, smoothing back lank, dark hair.
"Did you say something?" Gregorius, still possessed of a smug humor, leaned closer to the Emperor, his eyebrows raised.
"I did," Galen allowed, glaring at his old friend. "Do you want me to shout it from the rooftops?"
"The people," Gregorius said quietly, "would rejoice to hear it."
Galen sighed, accepting the rebuke, then sat up straight. He shuffled some of the papers around on the table and finally drew out one, a creamy-white sheet of parchment, carefully scribed in dark ink. Gaius Julius guessed, from the depth of the color, that it was the fruit of the Sabean octopus. One of the guilds maintained special farms in the shallows near Misenum to raise and harvest the gelatinous creatures. The Emperor, looking relieved, handed the paper to Gregorius, who settled back into his chair to read.
While he did so, Gaius found himself subjected to the Emperor's scrutiny.
"You have a familiar face," Galen said after a moment. "Yours is a cadet branch of the ancient Julians?"
"Yes," Gaius said, trying not to fidget. He made his hands lie still, gripping the leather carrycase. "Not the… famous line, of course."
"It would be difficult," Galen said, watching him closely, "for they are all long dead. Still, you have done well since coming to the city. I applaud you-too few men these days have your energy or stamina."
Gaius raised an eyebrow and inclined his head again. "Fulsome praise from you, Lord and God. You are well known for your long hours and dedication to the state."
"Perhaps," Galen said, smiling a little. He indicated the paper. "I wager if Gregorius accepts the duty represented by that paper, he will task you with its contents."
"I will," the senator said, looking up, the white storm cloud of his brows drawn down over keen eyes. He handed the paper to Gaius, who took it gratefully. This Emperor was too perceptive-the old Roman had not missed the comment about stamina. He would have to be more circumspect with his working hours in the future!
"I accept your trust, Lord and God. I vow we will not dishonor or embarrass you in its execution. Gaius is a hardworking man and honest, a boon to Rome. Between us, we should be able to provide what the Senate, the people, the gods and the Emperor desire."
"If," Galen laughed, "you can satisfy all those powers, then you will be gods yourselves!"
Gaius Julius put the paper back on the table. He allowed himself a tiny smile. As he had hoped, the Emperor had bestowed a great honor on his old, dear family friend. Traditionally, the Emperor kept the right to produce games and plays of all kinds to himself. This had been an Imperial prerogative since the time of that whelp Octavian Augustus. However, that boy had also occasionally allowed his favorites, particularly the noble General Agrippa, to stage munera and venationes in the Emperor's name. Galen, no mean student of history himself, had borrowed some of Octavian's words for his own proclamation. Gaius Julius read it over again, frowning inside. Why can't anyone write plainly? This reads like one of that fop Cicero's tracts!
The "elegant" Latin the Emperor favored recalled the opprobrium heaped on Gaius' own literary efforts by his political adversaries. Cicero had been an enemy for a long time. The old Roman looked up, his face filled with what he hoped was dedicated concern and responsibility. He could not afford to scowl! "Lord and God, has a date been set for the first of the games?"
Galen shook his head, saying, "No. I entrust this matter to your hands, Gregorious. The Treasury has set aside considerable funds to pay for the games, but I will not force a day and a time upon you. It is up to you to set the day. But even I feel the discontent in the city-so let it be soon! I will not trouble you with directives about what kind of shows or events or celebrations, but remind you of the great sacred games that the Divine Augustus endowed upon the city, after his victory at Actium. We honor the helpless dead of our sister cities, much as he honored the people for supporting him in the civil wars."
Gregorius nodded in agreement and Gaius Julius mentally discarded at least a quarter of his planning-all thrown aside for that damned brat Octavian's memory! Still, the idea had merit. Gaius had been envisioning something along the lines of the millennial games Emperor Phillip Arabicus had staged almost four hundred years before. The Divine Augustus' games, however, had been much simpler, more refined. If anything, they would be easier to emulate than Phillip's grandiose phantasmagoria.
"Of course," Gregorius answered, while Gaius was fuming, "we have made some few plans and preparations already-they can be easily adjusted to provide what you desire. Would you like to review the high points? Gaius has them here."
Galen laughed, a sharp bark of sound, and raised his hands in surrender. "Am I little more than a puppet? Is my every move watched? That case, I presume, has these small, even insignificant plans and schedules of yours? It seems weighty… I can guess the name of the spy. She is impatient!"
The Emperor shook his head no at Gaius when the old Roman moved to open the case.
"I know you're not wizards-so my desire to emulate the Divine Augustus will send your efforts awry. Take a few days to consider, to plan and to revise. Then come and see me again and show me what you'll present in my name. Go ahead, put those papers away!"
Galen turned to Gregorius and took th
e senator's wrinkled old hands in his own. "Old friend, you have always stood by me, offering unstinting aid and counsel. You are a true Roman, a pillar of the state. We have had some disputes, but I pray that they are in the past. A great test is upon the Empire. We will all have to strive, together, to mend the ills that afflict the state. Tell me, is there any enmity between us? Any hurt unrevealed? Is this task I set you too much?"
Gregorius shook his head, then raised one veined hand to his face, covering his eyes. "Lord and God, I am an old man and I have always striven to do right by the Senate and the people of Rome. But my days grow short. I can feel the weakness of my limbs and heart. It is enough, for me, to give what aid I can to the family, to the man, who has rescued our people from disaster."
Galen blushed, looking down. "Then things are well between us?"
"Yes," Gregorius said, and it seemed to Gaius the senator looked upon the past, unaware of the two men and the sunlit garden. The old man seemed very frail. "Perhaps this will be my last task before the Boatman comes for me."
"Do not say that!" Gaius Julius was half out of his chair before he could stop himself. Both he and the Emperor sat back down, sharing a sideways glance. They had echoed each other's words.
"Your heart is still young," Galen said, standing up and beckoning for his servants. "Come, this is enough for the day. I know that you walked from your house, as a patrician should, but I will send you back in a closed litter. You're noble enough to bear that burden too, I think."
Gregorius laughed and accepted Gaius' arm as they walked back into the palace. Galen accompanied them to the great serpentine stairwell at the heart of Tiberius' villa, where they were met by a phalanx of guardsmen, link boys, litter bearers and two bull-throated men who would clear a passage for them through the crowded streets of the city.
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