by Ben Pastor
"I don't want to brag, but she actually wooed me."
"Successfully?"
"So so." Regret, or melancholy at least, already carved a piece out of Aelius's morning. Anubina's name was buried so deeply in him, he would not pronounce it for the world. "Whom are you keeping?"
"How impertinent, from a man who turned gray at twenty-five." Helena made faces as she put on her makeup. "When I become a Christian, I will pray for you and your sins."
"Well, Helena, if that day comes, the underworld as we know it will cease to exist: Tantalus will be able to reach his meal, and Sysiphus's rock will tumble under his push."
"I wouldn't be so sure, if I were you."
"Yes, of course. If the dead can be resurrected by a charlatan, anything can happen." Aelius was laughing, which was the sole reason why Helena did not grow cross.
When she stepped into the light from the window, her eyes, circled in sooty black, shone like silver. "You just thank your fortune that you're a good-looking fellow, Aelius Spartianus."
"Yes, and I respect the privacy of ladies."
At all entrances of the arena, temporary altars had been set up to ensure that all in attendance would toss grains of incense coming in. The measure effectively kept out Christians and most Jews, but not secular Jews like ben Matthias, whom Aelius glimpsed in the crowd. The old freedom fighter carelessly dug in his nose before catching some incense with the same fingers and sprinkling it on the fire.
"It's the usual thing, when they decide to put up one of these shows in haste," Duco grumbled, pulling the fur cap down to his frostbitten ears. "There isn't a lion to be had in all Mediolanum, and those they sent for at Ticinum, they wouldn't give us. Lions don't do well in this kind of weather anyway, not to speak of tigers. You watch, Aelius, it'll be one of those lame shows that drag on forever, until soldiers are ordered to hurry things up. Saphrac has been told to send a handful of his bowmen. Well, no, they do have some animals. Three bears were brought from Germany by the army last fall, but one of them took ill and died. So they're down to two bears and thirteen Christians."
"Twelve, you mean."
"No, I mean thirteen. There are thirteen spelled out in the program. Look."
"I thought there were twelve arrested for Minucius Marcellus's murder. Who's number thirteen?"
Duco said he didn't know, and neither did he notice his colleagues' agitation. When they reached their seats, Aelius stood up again nearly at once, saying, "I'll be back in a moment." While he battled the flow of people to the closest exit, he saw Helena and Decimus step together into the next sector, acting the old lovers.
The guard Aelius asked said he didn't know, either, but his noncommissioned officer might have names and identities of the condemned. It was not so. "I don't keep a list here, Commander," the noncom explained. "I can tell you there's seven men and six women altogether. One was added at the last minute."
"Who is it? Man or woman?"
The noncom raised his eyebrows. "Do you have a preference?"
Not as long as it isnt Casta. "I am a precise man," Aelius insisted, "with an erroneous program in hand. It piques me that programs are changed without the public's knowledge."
"It's a man, a Greek. Implicated in an assault against an official. Anything else, sir? You do know there's only two bears instead of three."
Notes by Aelius Spartianus: Ordinarily I have no difficulty watching executions. The instructive relevance of public punishment does not escape me, he-cause even those who attend for the worst reason (watching human suffering) understand the message that breaking the law results in swift and dour redress. In my philosophy, pain is inevitable and not to be fled. It is the sight of intemperance in the face of death that disturbs me, as a soldier and as a man.
The unfortunate Greek butcher, whom I regret not having warned to flee after his idiot shop boy did what he did, struggled horribly but at least was killed first. To my judgment, the spectacle of women bound hands and feet, trying to crawl away from wild animals, was especially unpleasant, and a punishment I deem unworthy of our legal system. I was told they were the wives of the Christians arrested in the wake of Marcellus's death. Charged with no direct crime, they chose to follow their men into prison and into the arena, no doubt deluded by the babble their priests write about the glory of martyrdom, and how their god hands out crowns of roses, and beasts recoil before the holy.
One of the poor creatures succeeded in getting her wrists and ankles free — unless the executioners decided to tie her loosely to add to the viewers' thrill — and started running about, screaming like a madwoman. Not young, fear gave her unsuspected energy, as we read happens during fires and earthquakes. She tried uselessly to climb the wooden bulwark that separates the arena from the first row of seats. She hammered at the wood and begged those above to help, with the sole result that people tossed down apple cores and garbage and incited the bears to pursue her. One of the animals, goaded by a soldier, did before long trot in her direction. Dull as bears can be, it approached her swinging its head, then lost interest, because those still tied up had been mauled in great part and twisted on the ground, attracting it by the smell of blood. For some time this ugly ballet continued, made worse by the woman s ceaseless cries for help. When she was finally reached by the beast (I am ashamed to write this), her bowels were loosened in the extremity of her terror, and even from the relative distance of my seat was the fouling of her white clothes most visible.
At this, the crowd roared. Only some of the women, from the highest rows where they sat with the serfs and foreigners, at last began to protest. Nothing could be done to save the victim at this point Even so, it was a good while before she stopped howling and contorting in the bear's clutch. Her death made the beast completely disinterested: Even it had had enough! With a last sweep it pushed the limp corpse from itself and turned to those who still waited to be finished.
To my left, as I drew back in my seat, I noticed that Duco was looking down at his knees, red to the ears in excess of his natural color. Sweets and drinks were passed around to Aristophanes, Sido, and the Palace Guards in their box not far from us. Dec-imus's colleagues stuffed themselves, especially Domninus, who stretched his legs over the seats Decimus and Helena had left unoccupied at some point during the show.
Ben Matthias, who'd been sitting with the foreign merchants, in their presence indulged in ceremonious oriental greetings, touching his chest and lips. Outside the arena, in the dispersing crowd, he waited until his companions were out of sight and then winked at Aelius. "I am honored that you desire to ride back to town with this humble funerary art entrepreneur, exalted Commander. Pfui." He made the act of spitting. "This mealymouthed talk is terefah!'
"Unclean, that is? What we just saw goes beyond filth." Trusting his well-healed wrist, Aelius vaulted into the saddle. He had no desire to join Duco, headed somewhere for a drink, while a conversation with the Jew could come in handy.
"And gladiatorial games are all right, eh?"
"Gladiatorial games, I don't mind. It's a completely different thing, Baruch."
Ben Matthias rode a nervy mule. He said little while they filed past the double row of sepulchers flanking the road to Mediolanum. His careful eye evaluated sculpted lintels, carvings; twice he opened index and middle finger of both hands at a wide angle, joining them at the tips to form a frame, through which he could examine the monuments. "Passable decoration, shoddy inscriptions," was his comment.
"Good news for you, no?"
"I hope so." Changing his voice to imitate the pitch of a tour guide, the Jew pointed at the city gate they would reach soon. "The Porta Tici-nensis, also known as Palace Gate. Here you may admire the angle tower and westernmost entrance to Mediolanum's walls, where the racetrack forms an additional bulwark with its magnificent mass. Notice its farther end, where the starting-line towers reach the sky. Prepare for the avenues elegant with government buildings! At the other end, modest inns are crowded. Here the noise on racing days is deafe
ning with cheers and the clatter of chariots making the tight curve or running disastrously into one another. The inn called Faunus's Fortune, especially patronized by Jews with business in Mediolanum, was recently the scene of a treacherous attack—"
"Baruch, quit it. I need some information."
"Oh, very well." Ben Matthias wrapped a scarf around his neck. He gently smoothed the curly beard under his lower lip, dividing the strand down his chin. "I understand that you and Lady Helena got together last night, euphemistically speaking. Did you know that for a time she had a Jewish lover in Nicomedia, and liked him so well that she asked her next lover to undergo circumcision?"
Clearly there were Jews among the staff at Helena's temporary quarters, Aelius thought, a little amused by the disrespect. "I assure you I wasn't that boyfriend, Baruch," he replied in good part. "What else can you tell me?"
"About what, Helena, Mediolanum, or politics? Ah, the three of them. I should have known. It is a sad day when screwing a woman does not suffice to make her reveal her reasons for letting you do it. So, I assume you are not acting officially, but only out of your own curios-ity.
"Why?"
"It makes a difference to what I would or would not say."
"Without compensation, that is. Let's say I am acting purely out of curiosity. No orders from above or anywhere else."
They had come to the busy crossroads in front of the gate, an intersection so representative of its kind that it was commonly called just that, quadruvium. Those returning from the arena in wagons climbed down to seek the nearby smoky eateries and open-air sausage stands. Mangy dogs collected swift kicks in return for their begging; still they crouched expectantly in the fat odor of deep-fried pork rind that pooled above the area. Even fashionable litters, curtains drawn against the cold, the noise, and the smell, were stationed by fish-fry stand and wine shop.
Ben Matthias drew back his lips in disgust. Whatever criticism he was about to utter died on his mouth at the sight of his companion, busy buying fried pork in a cornet of greasy papyrus. He breathed out only after the historian began tossing it piecemeal from the saddle to the pack of stray dogs.
"I hope you won't touch me with your hands afterward, Commander."
Aelius glanced over. "I'm still waiting for information."
"Well, let's see. Rumor has it that Helena got it into her head that she will be passed over by no other woman, wife or daughter-in-law. She cannot do much now with Minervina because she just gave Con-stantine a son, but there's no telling how long the marriage will last. During her mineral springs tour—trust me, I have it from very reliable and very close sources—she tried to seduce every officer and politician she thinks might further Constantine's posturing. She even fucked Maximian's son in hopes he'll take second seat to her offspring."
With a kerchief from his saddlebag, Aelius wiped his hands thoroughly. Winding the reins around his left wrist, he turned the horse back toward the gate. "All this I could surmise on my own, Baruch. What else?"
"Well, they say that whoever killed the much-lamented Marcellus also tried to kill Caesar's envoy."
"Oh?"
"And that the weapons used in both cases were dipped in poison, so that—should the wounding fail—the toxin will work its way through the veins and cause the heart to rot." Ben Matthias took on a look of pious concern. "In your case, if the truncheon they used to knock you out was poisoned, you can expect death to come eventually—say, in a month or so."
"You're making this up."
"I swear I heard it said. Others say the fire waker wants you dead, so he can publicly resurrect you during the feast of Saturnalia, and convert the masses. That he shifts shapes like Proteus, can be in several places at the same time, and is in Mediolanum right now."
What nonsense, Aelius told himself. If the Jew was not lying on purpose, though, he might be reporting distorted rumors about holy people of the Christian sect passing through. It sickened him to think of Casta after what he'd seen in the arena. Was she really "gone gone gone," as her old nurse said, and safe? And the story of the slow-working poison! No. There could be no such thing . ..
"Enough, Baruch. I want you to check on somebody."
"It will cost you."
The incoming flow of people called for a presence of gendarmes and soldiers at the gate. Aelius nodded at the noncoms who saluted as he passed right through. When the Jew was held back and like everyone else had to identify himself, he did nothing to help him, smiling in his saddle. "While you prepare the bill," he told the Jew as they joined each other again, "keep in mind what / know: Although officially a 'funerary art specialist,' as you term yourself, you sign contracts and hold the strings of a dozen different activities. All of them licit, you publicly say, so you 'care not a whit if government agents come to snoop.' I doubt that you don't care. You keep abreast of what happens in the city so thoroughly that someone must whisper information to you several times a day. How's that for counter-information?"
"Average. Whom do you want me to check on?"
Aelius Spartianus to Thermuthis, greetings. I am in your debt for the good news you gave me about Anubinas physical health, and wish you the happiness of the holiday season. Know that even in faraway Mediolanum it is possible to meet officers who have fond memories of their stay in Antinoopolis, because of your hospitality. Indeed, a colleague named Lollus Antiates bids me to convey his warmest affection to you and to Demetra and Thenpakebkis (if I spell her name correctly).
Regarding Anubinas desire to have sons, it goes without saying that, had she not refused my offer of marriage, she would likely be with child now. I do not understand why she does not want to tie herself to me. You have known her longer than I, so I entreat you to explain her behavior to me. As for your difficulty in speaking directly of these matters to her, I believe none of it. You do not carry the name of the Nile's poisonous snake without a reason, Thermuthis. Your wiles are endless, and your diplomacy comparable to those. Speak well of me to Anubina, and particularly insist on the fact that her sons by me would be well provided for and handsome, too (if I may). Her life, as well as her daughter's, would be such as ladies lead. Thus I anxiously await further news. In the meantime, I renew my wishes of good health and fortune to you, send greetings to your brother Theo, and ask you that you address your next letters to the military mail exchange at Savaria, as it will ensure delivery wherever I may he.
Written in his rooms on the Vicus Veneris (so appropriate an address for a recipient such as yourself'), in Mediolanum, Italia Annonaria, on the festive first day of Saturnalia, the XVI day of January's Kalends, 17 December.
18 December, Monday
"I am not one to apologize." Decimus stood at the threshold of the annex when the slave doorman drew back, head low, to let Aelius see who came to visit after dark. "May I come in?"
Aelius dismissed the serf with a nod. "It's your house."
A sprinkling of snow dusted the cape Decimus had thrown on to step around the building. He said. "I thought you should know that His Tranquillity decided to accept your credentials. You have an audience with Aristophanes tomorrow at the third morning hour."
It was unexpected and overdue, but good news. Still, "Why was I not notified officially?" Aelius asked.
"You will be. I heard it this evening as I overtook Aristophanes in one of the hallways, talking to his secretary." Decimus removed his cape and shook it. Nothing but infinitesimal melting bits fell from it to the floor. He sounded less cocky than usual, or simply not in a bantering mood. "The chamberlain is considerably worried about the way he received you the first time." I see.
The annex opened directly on a small reception room, dimly lit. Wicker chairs around a low table and the family altar in a wall niche comprised the severe furnishings. Aelius invited his colleague to sit. Arms folded, he himself remained standing.
"How is the heating system working?" Decimus inquired.
"Fine."
They had not seen one another for three days, during
which the week of year-end celebrations in honor of Saturn and the harvest had begun, bringing cheer and partying, processions and masquerades. In truth, Aelius had avoided his colleague. Now his lack of encouragement, devoid of open hostility, left Decimus little choice. "I get exasperated at times. It's a trait in my character," he grumbled to justify the bitter mouthful that had to follow. "I should have shown respect for the pride you take in your accomplishments."
Aelius stood by his chair. "You don't have to patronize me."
The words were deserved. Decimus reacted to them as one acknowledging the critique, one step below accepting it. "I cannot drink to oblivion as I used to, that's all."
"Then you ought to be careful of the company you keep at drinking parties." It was not the tone Aelius had planned to use in case this conversation should take place. He had meant to ignore the incident and let time roll until the day the army units would depart from Medi-olanum; if not, to dismiss the matter as briefly as possible. However, he discovered an edge of anger under his own words, or vexed righteousness. "Whether or not this is an act you put on to test the loyalty of your colleagues, I don't care to be put to the test or be clumsily led onto political ground in hopes I'll stumble. I have been at court off and on since I was nineteen, Decimus: I know the etiquette and the gossip mill, how to respect the first and avoid the second. It may be only a character trait, but my loyalty is unquestioned. You won't catch me off guard."
Decimus had been listening with small, growing signs of impatience. His eyes slid around the twilight of the room, searching corners and objects he knew very well. "Everybody is caught off guard eventually."
"Not I."
"We both have stitched wounds on our heads to prove the opposite."
"Let us not compare the circumstances in which we received those wounds." Aelius came around the chair and sat in it. At the other side of the three-legged table, Decimus must have exhausted the amount of goodwill he had in store for others. Tapping the armrests, he seemed torn between the desire to leave and an inclination to continue the conversation from a different vantage point. In a provocative voice, turning landlord from guest, he said, "Futuisti puellam meam, as the poet put it."