by Kyle Onstott
Still Gordius hesitated. He was not proud of what he had done and yet he had done it for Antoninus and perhaps even more for Hierocles. He had fallen upon the unarmed Dionexus and Lyxon with his sword. Yes, he assured Zoticus, he had killed them quickly and mercifully but he could not forget the look in Dionexus’s eyes that accused him with the very look of Hierocles. Gordius purposely did not mar the face of Dionexus but only that of Lyxon now mutilated beyond all possible identification. Yes, Gordius had hated to do it but he had a promise to carry out and the life of a slave and the life of a sailor from Miletus weighed very little in the scale against his promise to Caesar Augustus.
He abandoned the bleeding bodies on the floor and ran down the deserted corridor to a door that opened on the back. Outside he saw a maniple of Praetorians in undress uniform, sweeping a corner of the parade ground. Gordius called them over to him and, in his old uniform as Praefect, they ran to obey him.
“You there, help me, quick! I must take the big chest out and Caesar has already arrived. I don’t want him to see a latrine chest being carried away as his procession rounds the corner. So back and get it for me and bring it to the south gate and help me load it into my cart.” He distributed a handful of coins among the men. They dropped their brooms, ran to get the chest and by the time Gordius had his cart at the door they were ready to load it on. Then he had driven away over the Roman road, the heavy chest bumping on the bottom of the cart.
He would have dug the grave then and buried the chest with all that was left of the two Caesars but he feared that his slaves would see him and suspect he was burying treasure and later after he had left, they would disinter the chest and reveal its true contents. So he had had it carried into the farmhouse and locked it in the inner room beside the palace bed with its silken sheets and mattress of rose leaves.
It was then that he had thought of Zoticus. Surely the true whereabouts of the Antonine’s corpse should be known by more than a former slave chariot driver. Yes, Zoticus! Zoticus had been beloved by Antoninus. It was fitting that there should be two mourners at Caesar’s burial—Zoticus for the Antonine, and Gordius for Hierocles. If the gods were with him, he could reach Zoticus before he was arrested, as arrested he surely would be.
Zoticus and Gordius quickened their horses as they saw the moonlight reflected on the armor of a maniple of guards coming down the road towards them. It was too late now to take shelter in the trees. To do so would evoke suspicion. Gordius whispered to Zoticus.
“We’ll brazen it out. Let me handle this and you agree with whatever I say.”
As the soldiers approached, the centurion recognized the uniform of Praefect which Gordius wore. Fortunately he did not recognize Gordius himself. The soldiers drew up their horses, blocking the road so Gordius and Zoticus could not pass, but the centurion saluted and Gordius returned the salute, hailing them.
“Where to, fellows?” Gordius was jovial. “It’s a nice night to be riding but you seem a little far from Rome for Praetorians.”
“We go to arrest Aurelius Zoticus at a villa near the fifteenth milestone.”
“Zoticus, Zoticus?” Gordius tipped his helmet back and scratched his head. “The name’s familiar. Where have I heard it before.”
“Stallion and stud to the monster—he who was Caesar.”
Gordius nodded his head. “Ah yes, now I remember. ’Twas common gossip that the bastard was hung like a stallion too. But Caesar’s got another one now, one Hierocles who used to drive for the Greens.”
“No more. We rid Rome of him today along with Caesar. Oh, the mob had a rare time with them today. They dragged the bitch’s body through the streets of Rome along with that of his husband. And the things they did with those lifeless corpses! Ay, the most comical things you’ve ever seen. They laid them out in the Forum in all the positions they used in their depraved practices. Then when the mob tired of that they cut off Caesar’s head and paraded it on a spear before they threw the bodies into the Tiber.”
“Good,” Gordius agreed. “And who is Caesar now?”
“Ay, we’ve got a real emperor now. He’s a fine upstanding young fellow, this Alexander. The Antonine’s gone and every one of his hangers-on too, all the Palace Guards and the filthy priests. Now we’re on our way to get Zoticus.”
“Ave Alexander!” Gordius’s shout left no doubt as to its sincerity. “And now, fellows, make way for me. This is Prince Shaipur, special envoy to Rome from the Indus. If he can’t see one Caesar he can well see another.”
The soldiers parted and Gordius and Zoticus rode through. When they could no longer hear the maniple’s hoofbeats, Gordius turned to Zoticus. “Wasn’t any too soon, was I?”
“You saved my life. My gratitude.”
It was fully night when they arrived at the little farmhouse, deserted now in the silvery moonlight. Gordius carefully reconnoitered. There was nobody around, not even the slaves who had evidently run off to Rome to join the Saturnalia in the city. They tethered their horses in a grove of trees, well hidden in the shadows and made their Way to the house on foot. Gordius opened the door slowly, half fearful that there might be soldiers within but the house was empty. There was no sound but the monotonous drip of the water clock. He led Zoticus into the bedroom and pointed to the dark outline of the chest on the floor.
“The Caesars.” He laid his hand on the chest. “The little Antonine! He robbed me of something I wanted very much and yet I loved him. Let Rome say of him what it will, he was good. He had his faults and we all know what he was but was it any worse that he preferred to bed himself with legionaries than with Suburra whores? And with him is the other Caesar, Hierocles the chariot driver! Yesterday they were all powerful. Today they rest in a chest of ashes. Come, Zoticus, between the two of us we can carry this.”
“He never made me Caesar.” Zoticus stared down at the dark shadow of the chest. “I wonder why.”
“Perhaps because you did not love him as much as Hierocles did.”
“I could only love him in my own fashion, Gordius.” He stooped to pick up one end of the chest and Gordius lifted the other. They stopped but once and that was at the barn for spades. From there they carried their burden down into the glade by the pool.
The moonlight, through tile pine branches, striated the ground with splashes of black and white and by its light they dug the hole wide and deep. When only their heads appeared above the ground. Gordius signaled to Zoticus to stop. He jumped up and reached down a hand for Zoticus. They edged the chest over the deep hole.
Zoticus studied the heavy dark wood of the cover. Slowly he sank to his knees beside the chest.
“Just one glance, Gordius. Just one! I loved Antoninus. I loved him because he was Caesar and because his love brought me money and power. His love lifted me from being a common legionary to the most powerful position in Rome but when he tired of me, he did not desert me. Grant me one last look, Gordius.”
Gordius bowed his head.
Zoticus lifted the cover and the moonlight illuminated the inside of the chest. Antoninus lay, his head pillowed on Hierocles’s arm. His cheek, in the narrow proximity of the chest, was against the cheek of Hierocles. The half smile was still on his face. He seemed content—content to lie through all the centuries in the close security of Hierocles’s arms.
Zoticus pulled a kerchief from his sleeve and brushed the ashes from Antoninus’s face. “He always hated anything dirty,” he said as he handed the kerchief to Gordius who performed the same service for Hierocles. Together they fitted the cover back. They lowered it into the ground and then there was only the sound of their spades and the clods of earth as they struck the wood. When the hole was filled, they strewed it with pine needles.
They made their way back to their horses.
“Ride south, Zoticus,” Gordius advised, “and I shall ride north. Get out of Italy as I shall and do not return. There still remains one thing for me to do to carry out the Antonine’s wishes and some day I shall return to do it, b
ut not now.”
They separated and rode in different directions. Of all the Antonine circle, only Gordius and Zoticus survived him.
Epilogue
The spring warmth of an Italian sun shone down on the little roadside tavern and the drifting pink petals of an almond tree showered the rough tiles of its roof. A young man entered the wide open door—a fellow such as would have caused Antoninus to look twice and his fingers to itch, for he was tall, handsome, and well formed. His arms were full of hyacinths, white, red and purple and he buried his face in them, half intoxicated by their smell. Another fellow followed him, this one as strikingly blond as the first was dark. They both had the polished skin of boys who spent much time in the baths. The blond boy fumbled in his pocket and produced a worn copper sestercius. He placed it on the counter.
“Two cups of wine,” he said, “and if the money’s not enough, water it well.”
The tavern keeper looked at the flowers and then at the boys’ faces.
“Whose garden you been robbing?”
“Nobody’s,” the dark boy spoke. “Drusus and I were swimming in the pool up by the abandoned farmhouse and we discovered that the whole glade is filled with these blossoms. They were never there before because we know the place well. We often come out from Rome to spend the day there. So, we picked them to carry back to our room in Rome.” He turned and smiled at his companion. “Drusus loves flowers.”
THE END