“And so she came running back to tell you what I was doing. She’s a better informer than Wuotan’s ravens!”
“Did you expect she wouldn’t?” Ranvig said. “She saw you coming out of an inn with that Roman, dressed up in an old gown like a village wife. Did she draw the wrong conclusion?”
There were bright spots of color in Fiorgyn’s face. “That is not something I will talk to you about, Ranvig.”
“What is wrong with you?” Ranvig said again.
“Loneliness,” Fiorgyn said between her teeth. “You had such great care that all the widows should marry again, Ranvig. But not me. Me you made into a shrine to Nyall Sigmundson.”
“You loved him!”
“It’s been eight years! I lost Nyall the day that leg was maimed. The man I got back after that battle was someone I didn’t even know!”
Ranvig sat down, his anger fading into puzzlement.
Fiorgyn stood against the arching rose branch painted on the wall, her back straight and her hand on the bracelet on the other arm. “It was between him and me. It changes nothing, not for either one of us. You have no right.”
“No right! You are a kinswoman to me. I have every right when you throw your honor into the mud with a Roman.”
Fiorgyn took two steps across the tile and hit him, hard. He grabbed her hand and flung it away from him. She stood, eyes blazing, and glared down at him. “And I suppose you have discussed my honor with Signy and Morgian and Barden!”
“No, I told Signy to hold her tongue,” Ranvig said. “I have no wish to make a scandal in the council.”
“Then hold your own tongue!” Fiorgyn snapped. “What has my precious honor bought me so far but eight years alone?”
“You could marry now,” Ranvig said. “Any man of the tribe that you wanted.” His oddly slanted face had lost its anger now, as hers had grown. “I do not understand.”
“It’s too late,” Fiorgyn said stiffly. “And I do not belong to you, Ranvig. If I want to trade my honor that you are so careful of, for a few weeks to be happy in, then that is my right!”
“It is not your right with a Roman,” Ranvig said.
“Do you think I will betray my people, Ranvig?” Fiorgyn’s expression was dangerous.
“No.”
“Then let me alone.”
“I only think that you are a fool and will be hurt.”
“That much is my right. Let me alone, Ranvig.”
* * *
The treaty council proceeded, an elaborate round of protocol and small concessions, while in the background of the forests of the Taunus, Marbod gathered in a war host. Couriers rode almost nonstop between General Velius Rufus in Moguntiacum and the emperor in Colonia with plans for a two-pronged push across the frontier. And Ranvig, baffled and in no good mood, held a secret meeting with Correus.
* * *
“Have you gone mad?” Correus unknowingly echoed the chieftain.
“I expect so.”
Correus contemplated his brother with horror. “Flavius, I don’t ordinarily interfere in your affairs, but this is insane. She won’t leave her tribe for you, and you couldn’t take her to Rome if she would.”
Flavius just smiled and shook his head and said, “Yes, I know.” He had been saying that ever since Correus had tracked him down in the emperor’s wing of the palace and dragged him back to his own apartments to be talked to in privacy.
“I couldn’t take a mistress back to Aemelia,” Flavius said. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
“You love Aemelia,” Correus said accusingly.
Flavius said, “Yes, I know.”
Ygerna sat in the next room and listened to the conversation go around in a circle again. She would not have been shocked if Flavius had taken a Roman mistress, or even a slave, the way his father had. But no good was going to come of this. She picked up Eilenn, who was poking her fingers into Ygerna’s paint pots on the dressing table, and combed her dark hair while she eavesdropped. Correus wouldn’t mind. But Correus wasn’t going to be able to talk his brother out of anything. Ygerna recognized that polite, stubborn tone. It was the same one Correus himself used when he had thought out all the objections to something and had made his mind up anyway.
“You’re worrying for nothing,” Flavius said. “Fiorgyn won’t leave her people.”
“Worrying for nothing! That worries me almost as much as if she would. Flavius, what happens when a war starts?”
“Then that will end it,” Flavius said. “We are not fools.”
“No?”
“Not in that respect.”
“You’re sticking your hand in the fire, Flavius. You’re going to get it burned.”
“Yes, I know.”
Correus made an exasperated noise and paced the room, while Flavius rested his elbows on his knees and put his chin in his hands. He didn’t blame Correus. Correus had always been the impractical one. It must be a shock to come suddenly upon that part of his nature in his brother. It had also shocked Flavius, but he felt as if he were sleepwalking, that all his well-controlled emotions and his neat compartments had stayed somewhere behind.
Correus was right about the ending of it. He could never take Fiorgyn to Rome, or even with him when he moved on to the next posting, not even if her people lost the war and she had no tribe to hold her. His father, Appius, had done that, and Flavius didn’t think much of it, although for Appius it could at least be said that he was in love with neither wife nor mistress, nor were either in love with him, and so no wounded hearts had come of it. But Aemelia was different, and Appius’s behavior didn’t enter into it. Appius was the last generation, Fiorgyn was no slave girl to be contented with a second place, and Aemelia was no marriage of convenience.
There was everything in the world, he thought, against himself and Fiorgyn coming within a spear’s length of each other, and nothing in their favor. Nothing except the fact that they couldn’t stop it.
XII Cavalry Canter
Appius Julianus raised his black eyebrows interestedly as he broke the purple imperial seal and read the message inside the folded sheet of heavy papyrus. An army courier stood at attention before him, trying to look incurious. Appius Julianus had been a famous man in his day, and his military reputation was still unfaded. More important, he had just got a courier message with a “priority” on it, from the emperor himself.
This was an odd retreat to retire to, the courier thought, sneaking a look around the old general’s study. Plain buff walls, a black marble floor, and no furniture to speak of except the big, dark, polished desk and the shelves that covered most of the walls. The shelves were a bit more interesting. In between the scrolls and bound works were a collection of souvenirs, no doubt from the general’s campaigns: weapons mostly – an odd-looking little bow, a big spear with a collar of white feathers, and a bronze knife that looked evil somehow, although it was perfectly plain except for some markings down the blade.
The general took a thin wooden tablet from a compartment in the desk and scratched on the wax surface with a stylus. He closed the leaves and held a sealing stick over the flame of a dog-headed lamp that sat on the end of the desk. When it was softened he smeared the end across the folded leaves and stamped his ring into it.
A slave tapped cautiously on the door and poked his head around it. “My lord, the senator Aemelius is wishing to see you.”
“Very well, send him in.” Appius handed his tablet to the courier. “I am the emperor’s servant, as always,” he said, but the interested expression was still on his face as the courier saluted and left. So the emperor had a need for horses… enough of a need to send for them personally, instead of waiting for the army to acquire them and ship them on. The rumors of a new campaign in Germany didn’t lie, it appeared.
There was the soft scuff of sandals outside the door, and it opened again. “Ah, come in, my friend.”
Aemelius’s round blue eyes flicked nervously about the room, and his plump face was troubled. He pull
ed up the one visitor’s chair, which sat beside Appius’s desk, and hunched himself into it.
“My dear friend, you are distressed.” Appius gave him a quick, questioning look and called back the slave who had escorted him. “Bring us some wine and something to eat, and then see that we’re not interrupted.”
“It’s good of you to see me,” Aemelius said with a heavy sigh.
“Roma Dea, man, you’re a neighbor and my son’s father-in-law. What’s happened?”
“I’m being robbed!” Aemelius said with a flash of anger. “Robbed by a thieving snake who’s a disgrace to his family name! Marius Vettius has taken me to court.”
“Vettius?” Appius looked concerned. Law-court thievery was all too prevalent and difficult to stop if the judge was corrupt. “How did he get his hooks in you?”
Aemelius’s dejected mood returned. “It was after the fire.” The great fire of the first year of Titus’s reign had consumed the Augustan Library, Pompey’s Theater, and the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, as well as a large portion of the City’s housing. Rebuilding was still continuing in the wake of the destruction. “I agreed to invest in new housing – some land that was going cheap.”
“With Vettius? I’d sooner put my money into ice in Egypt.”
Aemelius nodded gloomily, and the slave came back with the wine, a pitcher of water to mix it with, a silver tray full of figs, and a light bread with nuts in it, the master’s usual noon meal. He had a folding table under one arm. Appius motioned to him to set it up and leave.
“Of course that’s hindsight,” Appius said. “One always has a clearer view after one has made the mistake. What happened?”
“Well, the investment appeared to be going well,” Aemelius said, “although now I don’t think I’ll see the money back; he’ll find some way to bury it in the accounts. But anything I do make isn’t due me for four months yet under the agreement, and Vettius has got hold of a note I took out elsewhere that falls due this month, and he’s demanding payment on it. And the damned thing is forged, and I can’t prove it!” Aemelius’s hands shook as Appius handed him a wine cup. He took a swallow and seemed to be trying to get them under control. When the cup was half-empty, he set it down carefully and began to explain.
It became clear to Appius that Marius Vettius had set out to trap his victim from the start. Some time ago Aemelius had taken out a small loan from a former, slave of his, now a freedman with a thriving interest in the wine trade, in order to make some improvements in the farming of his estate that would more than pay for themselves in a few years. As was often done, the freedman sold the note to raise cash for a venture of his own, and the purchaser had apparently sold it yet again, this time to Vettius, who now produced a note for twenty times the value of the original. The forgery was expert, and the only witnesses whom Aemelius could produce to testify in his behalf were the first purchaser and his own freedman. The purchaser proved to be Vettius’s man and was lying. And under Roman law the testimony of a freedman in favor of his former owner was unacceptable on the grounds of probable prejudice. It was Aemelius’s word against Vettius’s, and Vettius had a forged signature to back him up.
“All my cash went into the building scheme,” Aemelius said miserably. “It wouldn’t have been enough to pay off the amount he’s claiming, but it would have helped. If he gets a judgment against me, they’ll sell everything I own.”
And for far less than it was worth, Appius thought. If Vettius got the court on his side, some man of his would buy the land up and leave Aemelius with nothing. And then let him try to get his money back out of the building scheme. He never would.
“Well, we mustn’t let it come to that,” Appius said, endeavoring to sound encouraging. “I’ll do everything I can, starting with talking to the courts to try to get your freedman’s testimony admitted. And maybe Flavius can persuade the emperor to take a hand. Titus wouldn’t have tolerated this for a minute.”
“Aemelia has already written to Flavius to tell him what is happening,” Aemelius said. “She and my wife are taking this hard. But I’m afraid… Vettius seems to be a pet of the emperor’s, and it was no secret that Flavius was after Vettius’s blood before Titus died. Vettius would be glad to ruin me to settle that score. I’m afraid I don’t have much faith in Domitian’s putting a stop to it.”
“We aren’t lost yet,” Appius said. “I still know a few men with a reasonable amount of influence, and a lot more who would call it a civic benefit to get Vettius convicted of fraud. Try to keep your wife from fretting, and I’ll start working on it.”
“I… I wouldn’t want to involve you too deeply,” Aemelius said hesitantly. “Vettius isn’t a safe enemy to have.”
Appius raised his eyebrows at that. “There’s no such thing as a safe enemy. But this is my business, too. He’ll set his sights on my land next if it’s Flavius he’s trying to get to. In any case, I wouldn’t think much of myself if I sat back and watched him rob you. Go home and rest, and I’ll send a slave in a day or two to tell you if I’ve made any progress.”
Aemelius put his wine cup down and straightened his toga restlessly. His plump hands made little jabs at the folds. Appius came around from behind the desk and called for a slave to escort him. There would be one in the colonnade outside, making sure that no one disturbed them. “No interruptions” was an order that Appius’s staff had learned to take literally.
When Aemelius had gone off down the corridor, the bounce and self-importance that generally imbued his bearing gone from his walk, Appius went back to his desk. He wondered if it were possible simply to have Vettius killed, and decided against it. More than likely, Aemelius would catch the blame. He took another tablet out of the desk and picked up the stylus again. It was nearly evening when he called in his slave.
“I want you to go to all the men on this list and tell them that I request the favor of an interview with them. I will come to them at their convenience. Except for Lucius Paulinus. He’s my son-in-law, he can damned well come here. And send Forst to me as soon as you can find him.”
If Domitian wanted horses in a hurry, he could have them. The local purchase officer for the cavalry wasn’t going to like having horses sold out from under his nose, but he wasn’t an emperor. This was a good time to keep Domitian happy.
* * *
In the City, the innumerable officials who made up the government of Rome appeared to feel the same way. It was a summer of games and festivals piled endlessly one upon the other, and there was talk of increasing the grain dole. The emperor Domitian wished the people of Rome to know that their welfare was ever closest to his heart… So said the aedile who opened the games. Of all the things an emperor feared most, a City mob was high on the list, and Domitian’s unpopularity was growing alarmingly.
The day that Forst went into Rome to pick up some breeding stock, Arab mares that had come by ship, there was a wild animal show in the Circus Maximus – not a mere slaughter, but a performing act with ponies that danced on their hind legs, leopards that carried saddles, and other exotic attractions. He installed Emer and a burly slave to guard her in good seats in the public section, and went off to the docks to inspect his horses.
They were unnerved from the voyage, their little ears swiveling in all directions at the confusion of the dockside. One of them snorted in surprise as a crane swung a crate over her head. She reared and came down on Forst’s foot.
“Here, get off!” He leaned into her shoulder with his own, and she danced skittishly away from him. It wouldn’t be much use to put them through their paces now. The horse dealer he had contracted with for them could always be found later if he had lied, Forst decided. He had brought two stablemen with him, enough to handle six mares, so he sent them back to the farm, the long way around to skirt the City traffic, and went back to the Circus to watch the dancing ponies with Emer.
“You should have stayed,” she said when he appeared beside her. “There were elephants, Forst! One of them wore a toga, and t
wo more ate breakfast at a table, and there was one that played the cymbals!”
Forst smiled at her. “No expense spared.” That was what they always said on the signs that advertised the show. The emperor wasn’t there, of course, but one of his officials, a sleek, fair man named Vettius, was in the imperial box, throwing coins and little wooden balls into the crowd. The balls had tickets that were redeemable for wine or gold or new clothes. Some of the senators were scrambling for them as avidly as the common people, and Vettius was amusing himself by throwing the balls between two men and watching them squabble over them.
Three tumblers with horns ran out onto the sand, flipped themselves into the air, and blew a fanfare as they landed. One of the gates by the track opened, and six little chariots came out, drawn by ponies and driven by furry brown monkeys wearing the colors of the four factions that traditionally raced in the Circus Maximus – red, white, blue, and leek green – as well as the two new ones recently added by the emperor, gold and purple. They trotted around the track with the monkeys grasping the chariot sides with their feet, tails curled up over their heads, and clinging to the reins for dear life with their hands. They wore little tunics in their team colors, and the chariots were painted to match. They were somewhat better mannered than the human drivers, being careful not to crash their chariots into each other.
Emer giggled. “Julius should see this.”
When the monkeys had gone round and disappeared back into the gate under the stands, a pair of leopards came out wearing blue leather saddles and collars with reins attached. A small, solemn boy and girl sat in the saddles with a beaming dark-skinned man walking beside them. Emer thought they were probably the trainer’s children. They waved proudly to the crowd, and the women in the front rows cooed and threw money to them. An older boy in a loincloth and a red jacket ran behind them and scooped the coins up in his cap.
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