Anno Mortis

by Rebecca Levene

  But she couldn't stop herself from looking down. The floor of the pit was full of the dead. And escape lay twenty feet above her. She fumbled for another handhold, closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to see what waited for her below.

  Caligula held out his hand, drawing Publia's corpse to its feet. Its face smiled but the expression looked wrong, as if whatever lived inside it now didn't quite know how to move its features naturally. The Emperor didn't seem to care. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against the corpse's, ignoring the blood that smeared across his mouth and cheek.

  To one side, held fast between too beefy soldiers, Antoninus yelled a wordless, helpless protest.

  Petronius didn't think he'd have a better opportunity to escape. He toed his sandals off, leaving bare feet to pad soundlessly across the temple floor. Untended, most of the torches had burnt to cinders in their sconces, and he found himself walking through darkness. He curled his arms around himself, shivering, and quickened his pace. The great arched doors were ahead of him, within reach now. But they didn't represent any sort of sanctuary. He'd seen the beetles fly through them. Who knew what they'd woken outside?

  He was almost at the door when he heard Caligula's voice shouting something that was probably "Stop!"

  Petronius hunched his shoulders, pretending not to hear. Ten paces to the door, and now he could hear the beat of approaching footsteps running towards him. Two, maybe three people. There was a jingling too and the slap of leather against skin. Soldiers. A shiver of fear ran down his back, but he forced himself not to look. If he didn't look, he could pretend he hadn't heard. And now the door was only five paces away.

  He was almost through it when the soldiers caught him. They took his arms, holding them behind his back as if they expected resistance, but he didn't struggle. What would be the point?

  "Leaving us so soon?" one of the soldiers asked. It was the same man Petronius had seen earlier clinging to one of the cultists, sobbing.

  "When the party's over..." Petronius said, trying for insouciance. His voice only shook a little.

  There were more footsteps drawing near. The soldiers turned him round between them, an ungainly manoeuvre, and he saw that Caligula was approaching, Sopdet and the cultists trailing behind.

  Publia's body walked by his side. The thing that lived inside it already seemed to have better control. The stride was easy, only the arms a little too stiff at the body's sides. "Is this the one?" she asked Caligula. Her voice was mushy, as if her tongue kept getting in the way.

  "Indeed he is," Caligula told her and then, to his soldiers: "Bring him."

  The march through the streets of Rome back to the palace felt like a dream. It was past midnight now, and the streets were less busy. The crazy clatter of horses' hooves and wagon-wheels on flagstones had faded, leaving individual sounds easier to distinguish.

  At the far side of the square, a couple were arguing. Her voice was high pitched, teetering on the brink of a sob. His was deep and abrupt, curt words interposed here and there into her long diatribe. Petronius couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could imagine it. You're still seeing her when you promised me not to! That's a lie. You treat me like a vassal, like a slave! I love you. You never have.

  Nearer to them two traders were locked in their own argument, quieter but every bit as fierce. I wouldn't pay ten denarii for this crap. Five is the most I'll give. You're a thief and the son of thieves. Seven then, but my children will starve.

  This was Rome, a city Petronius had known his whole life, but it seemed like an alien place tonight. When he looked at the squabbling couple, the haggling merchants, he imagined them dead. He could see the bones beneath their skin. How long before they looked like Publia, walking along at Claudius's side with some other woman peering out from behind her eyes?

  Another ten minutes and they were passing the Senate House, white and austere. It stood empty now, and Petronius imagined it fallen, the tall columns cracked in two and the roof caved in, rain dripping through and plants growing out.

  The next street was lined with domi, the houses of the rich. The doors were bolted, slaves posted outside as guards. A flickering yellow candlelight shone from within and there was the sound of laughter and music. Petronius had spent many similar evenings and knew this one would stretch on for hours yet, the guests drinking and eating and later fucking - if a guest or a slave had caught their eye - and they had no idea, none at all, of the devastation that was to come.

  As they walked on, the cultists began to slip away, one by one. The first glanced behind him, expecting Caligula to order him back, but the order didn't come. The Emperor had eyes for no one but his resurrected sister. A flood of them left after that, scurrying away to their holes, like rats. Only Sopdet remained, smiling that tranquil, unreadable smile, as if she was enjoying some private joke.

  The soldiers had dropped Petronius's arms long ago. But when he too tried to slip away they grabbed him, and the taller sour-faced man tutted.

  And there, finally, was the palace. The building had stood since Augustus's time, renovated and enlarged by Tiberius, gilded by Caligula. Statues of each Emperor lined the path that led to it. The sculptor hadn't flattered. The Emperors were clearly people. There was Julius's furrowed brow and thin lips, and Augustus's weak chin. And there was Tiberius, as frightening in marble as he'd been in the flesh. His eyes were round white nothings, but Petronius thought he could see the rage in them. He wondered what the old Caesar would have thought of what his nephew had done. Would he have understood? Maybe he would. Maybe they all would. There was something wonderful, Petronius imagined, in knowing that you were the last Emperor of Rome. That yours was the last golden age.

  The palace was a domus writ large. In place of one atrium there were a score, filled with bright-flowering plants from every corner of the Empire. Petronius almost smiled as they passed the lararium, where the household gods lived. Caligula had ordered his own image set up there, above all the others. His empty eyes seemed to follow Petronius as they moved on.

  The Praetorian Guard had started to melt away, too, taking their usual places around the palace. Or maybe sneaking home to their wives and children. Perhaps warning them what would come, when the beetles found the graves that lined every road outside Rome. When the dead came back for the living.

  Finally, they reached the great triclinium, where Caligula's infamous banquets were held. Now only Sopdet, the Emperor and his sister, and Petronius's two guards remained. And the slaves lining the walls, waiting on the Emperor's pleasure. It shamed Petronius how nearly invisible to him they'd become. But Boda had taught him to see that they were people too. He was trying very hard not to think about what was happening to her, wherever she was.

  The Emperor looked at Petronius, as the soldiers forced him to his knees. Caligula's hand was twined with Publia's. Drusilla's now, Petronius supposed. Publia's face had worn an expression that hovered between haughty and ingratiating, ready to switch at a moment's notice depending on the company. Drusilla was entirely different. There was a self-indulgence about her mouth that a woman in Publia's position couldn't have afforded. Publia's plump lips pouted a shape they'd never made before.

  "So he was the one who brought you there, brother," she said.

  Caligula nodded. "But not to bring you back. He wanted to stop the ceremony. Isn't that right?"

  Petronius thought about lying. The Emperor was crazy, he might believe him if he claimed that this had been his plan all along. "That's right, Caesar," he said. "I didn't want this to happen."

  "You see!" Caligula said.

  But Drusilla was still studying Petronius. She ran her fingertip up the bridge of his nose and then along the curve of his cheek beneath his eye. He forced himself not to flinch away from the ice-cold touch.

  "He isn't frightened," Drusilla said.

  Caligula's mouth drooped. "Isn't he? That's disappointing."

  "It makes him more of a threat, Caesar," Sopdet said.

  P
etronius laughed, he couldn't help himself. The only things he'd ever threatened were his family's good name and his female acquaintances' virtue.

  Caligula scowled at the priestess. It occurred to Petronius that the Egyptian didn't know him terribly well, although she'd managed to manipulate him earlier. She didn't understand his perversity, how little he liked being told what to do.

  "The boy's intentions were good," Caligula told her. "He had the interests of Rome and his Emperor at heart. Didn't you?"

  "Yes, Caesar," he said. "Only that."

  "We should let him live," Drusilla said. She moved her hand to cup Petronius's chin, turning his face up to her. "He's a handsome thing. I could enjoy him."

  An expression of mingled shock and pain crossed Caligula's face.

  Drusilla laughed, and released Petronius to embrace her brother. She rubbed her face against his, like a cat begging for food. There was no real warmth in it, only self-interest, but Caligula's expression softened.

  "How about it?" he asked Petronius. "Do you deserve to live?"

  Sopdet glared and Drusilla smiled, cruelly amused. Would he talk his way out of this, or fail and die? It was clear she'd be entertained either way.

  "No one deserves to live," Petronius said. "Life is a gift - from our gods and from our Emperor."

  Caligula laughed delightedly. "A poet in the making! Indeed, life is a gift, and one I intend to grant you. After all, if it weren't for you, Drusilla wouldn't be here - even if it wasn't quite what you intended."

  Drusilla jumped up and down like an excited child, clapping her hands in glee. Only Sopdet glowered her displeasure, but she had the sense to keep it to herself.

  "Caesar, your generosity undoes me," Petronius said. He didn't have to fake the tears in his eyes. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. "And now I beg leave to return to my family."

  "Return?" Caligula said. "Don't be absurd - the day's just beginning." He snapped his fingers, bringing a slave scurrying to his side. "Send an invitation to all the top families in Rome. Tell them refusal is not an option. We're celebrating the return of my beloved sister, and there will be more food, more drink and more copulation than this palace has ever seen."

  He turned back to Petronius, drawing him to his feet and slinging an arm around his shoulders. "And you," he said, "shall be the guest of honour. What fun we're going to have!"

  The dead remained in the pit when Boda and Vali finally struggled out of it. They were too weak or stupid to scale the walls, but it didn't matter. The catacombs were full of corpses. In every nook they passed a body was uncurling, strips of rotting flesh falling as bones jerked into new life.

  Boda drew her sword and swung wildly. She soon discovered that a blow to the arm or leg wasn't enough. The severed limb dropped and the dead carried on. Only a blow to the head, smashing the skull, finished them off. Her arm ached with the effort of heaving it. Vali ran beside her, wielding his small belt knife, but it wasn't much use. The blade passed through putrid flesh and between bones and did no harm at all. And the dead loomed in front of them, at every turn in every tunnel, skulls swaying on their bony necks.

  They found the exit from the catacombs by sheer luck. The entrance loomed, a midnight blue within the black and then they were through and the dead were shambling after, too slow to catch them.

  When they'd left them out of sight behind, Boda and Vali finally stopped. He reached out to touch her arm and when she saw the red on his finger she realised she was bleeding. The pain immediately hit, as if it had been waiting for her to notice it.

  "It's nothing," she told him. "Just a scratch."

  His face was more sombre than she'd ever seen it. "We failed."

  "Yes. So what do we do?"

  "We failed," he repeated.

  Now she wanted to shake him. "We failed to stop the seed being planted. That doesn't mean we can't uproot the plant that grows."

  "You really think so?"

  "I have to. Or would you rather stand back and let this happen?"

  "It's Rome," he said, eyebrows dipping as he frowned. "Why should you care if it's destroyed?"

  "Is it just Rome?" she said. "Do you think it will end here?"

  He sighed. "No. The dead will spread like a plague over the whole world."

  "Then we have to stop them."

  He didn't argue, but he didn't look convinced either. She could see the doubt in his face more clearly now. The sun must be nearing the horizon. The light grew and their view widened from just a few paces in either direction to ten and then twenty, and then all the way to the walls of Rome on one side and the farmland ringing it on the other.

  "Odin protect us," Boda whispered.

  Ahead of them, the Appian Way was lined with graves. She hadn't seen them on her journey to the catacombs but they were obvious now, a line of white pillars marching into the distance. Beside each one, the earth was churning. Some corpses had already pulled themselves free. They were fresher than the bodies in the catacombs, more whole. In the dawning light they could see Boda and Vali too. Their heads swung, nostrils flaring as they sniffed the wind.

  To their left ran the Esquiline Way, lined with crosses. Some of those nailed to them were still living. During the long nights they'd been slumped and motionless, waiting for the end. Now they were twisting against the metal that held them, though it must have been agonising.

  On the crosses beside them, men and women who'd already surrendered to death opened their eyes. They struggled too, harder and more determinedly. From their blank faces, Boda guessed that they felt no pain. The heads of the nails in their wrists and feet were broad. They ripped flesh and chipped bone but then the corpses were free and they fell to the ground beneath them. Blood flowed but didn't spurt with no heart to pump it.

  The bodies lay crumpled as the living crucified around them screamed, and Boda hoped for a futile moment that they were too broken to move. Then bleeding hands pressed beneath the corpses to push them to their feet. A hundred heads swung towards Boda and Vali.

  And nearer still there was a heap of earth taller and broader than the Senate House itself. That was stirring too. Unlike the silent human corpses, whatever lay under here was growling and hissing and braying.

  Then the first animal emerged. It was a lion, killed in the Arena as everything in that charnel pit had been. A tiger followed and then a grey barrel of a monster with a single horn whose name Boda didn't know.

  In her short time as a gladiator, Boda had seen thousands of animals killed. They'd all been buried here, and now they were all rising. The lions snarled round mouthfuls of sharp white teeth while the grey creature put down its head to charge.

  Vali grabbed her arm, pulling her back, though nowhere was safe. The dead were everywhere. "Tell me, Boda," he said. "How can we stop this?"

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The guests started to arrive as the sun rose, bleary-eyed and desperately trying to seem happy. It was a lunatic time to hold a feast but their Emperor had never been known for his sanity. Petronius watched them bowing and laughing and pretending they were honoured to be there.

  Caligula looked happier than Petronius had ever seen him. While he talked to his guests his fingers were constantly brushing Drusilla - her arm, her waist, her face - as if he was afraid she'd disappear. The guests heard Caesar calling another woman by his dead sister's name and smiled politely, no doubt taking it for another manifestation of his madness.

  The Emperor insisted on seating Petronius at his right hand, with Drusilla on his left. From there he had a fine view down the table as it was heaped high with food. When he tasted it, Petronius discovered that the suckling pig centrepiece was actually cunningly disguised fish meat. And the enormous pie no one quite dared to cut into was said to contain live sparrows. The slaves in the kitchens had outdone themselves. Amazing how motivating abject terror could be.

  The Cult had been summoned to attend, too. Unlike the rest of the guests, none of them could meet Drusilla's eye. And they had
even less appetite than everyone else, desultorily picking at morsels of chicken disguised as lamb or wood pigeon stuffed with humming bird whenever Caligula looked their way.

  Sopdet was seated beside Drusilla. She didn't even pretend to eat, just watched the gathering with haughty eyes. Petronius smiled smugly when she looked at him. His continual existence was a pretty small victory in the scheme of things, but he was very pleased with it.

  Seneca had been seated beside Petronius. He turned and smiled at the old man. "Enjoying yourself?"

  Seneca returned a smile that looked more like a grimace. "Immensely."

  "Tell me," said Petronius, "because I've been wondering. Just what did you think would happen when the Cult got its way?"

  Seneca paused, a wizened chicken foot halfway to his mouth. He chewed it whole before answering. "You're too young to understand."

  "Funny, I don't feel as young as I was yesterday. And I want to know."

  "Very well then. I wanted exactly what's happened, a breaking down of the barriers between life and death."

  "But why?" Petronius leaned forward, genuinely interested. The other cultists seemed to have been in it for the prestige, the social lubrication. Many of them had seemed entirely ignorant of the actual purpose of the ceremonies. But Seneca - Seneca had known.

  The old man shook his head. "When I say you're too young, it's not an insult to your intelligence or understanding." Petronius raised a disbelieving eyebrow and Seneca almost smiled. "Don't misunderstand me, I think very little of your intelligence. But what I meant was that you can't have felt the approach of your own death, felt it colouring every moment of your life. And I doubt you've lost anyone who mattered to you, not yet."

  Petronius thought of his twin sisters, who'd died shortly after their birth. Or his elder brother killed in bread riots during the last emperor's reign. None of them had really meant anything to him. But he looked across at Caligula, gazing into his dead sister's eyes. "You're wrong, I do understand that. But death is long and life is short. Why not wait until you're reunited?"