by David Blixt
Mamercus pointed at the Hundred Steps that led to a gate at the southeast corner of the hill. “We should station someone here on the rock. They'll have a clear view of the steps.”
Sabinus was gazing across towards the Palatine Hill. There, in the palace built by Augustus and disdained by Nero, sat Vitellius, the unwilling Caesar. The palace was less than a ten minute walk away, but with the milling Vitellian mob below, it might as well have been ten miles.
Pointing at the Vitellians, Sabinus said, “They're arming, too.”
Mamercus squinted. “But not gathering siege tools – no ladders, no rams.”
“So they mean just to pen us up here.”
“For now,” said Mamercus grimly.
The duty of watching Vitellian movements was given to the consul Atticus. He had found ink and paper in the Temple of Fortuna Primagenia, protectress of the first-born, and spent the whole rest of his day penning invective little epigrams, praising Vespasian at the cost of Vitellius. Sitting upon the Tarpean Rock, he screwed the papers into flyers and cast his bitter missives to the wind.
As the day expired, the Flavians found themselves in a not-impossible position. They were trapped, but well-armed and had soldiers enough to keep the Vitellians at bay.
When he could, Sabinus drew his father aside. “Come the dark, we must send messengers out.”
“To Antonius,” agreed Old Sabinus. “Command him to come to our rescue.”
Sabinus frowned. “I was actually thinking of Tertius, Clemens, Domitian, and the girls. They would make excellent hostages. We must make certain they run.”
Old Sabinus snorted. “If they have a lick of sense, they're already gone. Which means, of course, they're still here.”
* * *
Inside Jupiter's Temple, Abigail watched the goings-on with a building fear. Not for herself, but for Perel. No matter what happened, her daughter had to survive.
Watching her daughter's savior from before, she wondered if she could appeal to Sabinus again. He was obviously a kind man, a good one, if a Roman. But why should he sacrifice himself to save a slave girl?
With nothing else to do, Domitia had focused on questioning Perel. “But when did you meet him? You know that my sister wished to marry him. Why did you not say anything?”
“It was not my place, domina,” said Perel, lowering her eyes.
“Rubbish,” said Domitia. “If you know something about him, you should have said so.”
“I only met him twice, and briefly.”
“Yet he remembers your name,” pressed Domitia. “Why is that?”
Perel flushed, which only made Domitia more fascinated. Then she remembered. “The Saturnalia! That was it. He chose you, didn't he?”
Perel shook her head. “He did not choose me, lady.”
Abigail said, “He did my daughter a kindness, lady. Nothing more.”
“Then why does he know her name?”
“She is memorable, lady.”
Domitia examined the fallen side of Perel's face. “True.” Stymied, she looked out the open doors. “The sun is setting. Do you think we can go home soon?”
“We can only pray so, lady.”
* * *
The day hours ended in tension, but no hostilities. Rumours flew around the city. The impromptu siege took on an oddly festive air. Gawkers and carousers went down to the Forum to stare up at the odd struggle between different factions that, in truth, had nothing to do with the lives of average Romans. When it became clear that the Praetorians did not mind their fun, singing broke out, with naked men parading themselves for all to see, pretending the stone penises at the streetcorners were their own manhoods. It was Saturnalia, and the common people went about their revels with only the occasional amused glance upwards.
But one set of on-lookers watched the Capitol with particular intensity. Several were clearly Jews by their dress and features. Others were Italians, and even Roman. Some were free, others slaves or freedmen. One slave bore a wicked scar that stretched from nose to ear. All of them stared up at the besieged Capitoline Hill and prayed silently for the deliverance of their most important member, the daughter of their late leader, now trapped with her mother up there by the mad whim of Roman politics.
No word came from Augustus' palace on the Palatine. Vitellius was said to be seated on his balcony, looking helplessly across at the rebels on the Capitol. He had issued orders to leave the Flavians in peace, but his people would not countenance it. Their power derived from Caesar, and they refused to have their leader step down and so diminish them. The most Vitellius could do was to convince his men not to attack. Instead, they had guards at every entrance to the Capitol. No one could enter, no one could exit.
Though eager fighters, the Vitellians were not accustomed to such onerous duties as night watches. And it was Saturnalia! They wanted to join the carousing all around them, not stand guard over a bunch of old men and second-rate soldiers. Once the sun set and a December chill sank in, they clustered close to warm braziers and started passing the wine around.
* * *
The torches were lit within the confines of Jupiter's temple, and Sabinus called a gathering of every man not engaged in guarding the gates. “Now that it's dark out, we need someone to take a message out of here.”
“How?” asked Atticus.
Sabinus gestured to Mamercus, who had devised the plan. “We'll use the houses along the north side. Someone will have to climb up to the roof of one…”
“He'll be seen,” objected one man.
“Surely the Vitellians have someone in every house!”
Mamercus held up his hands. “From there, they'll drop down into the Asylum and slip across the walkway. The enemy is guarding the stairs down from the Asylum, but I haven't seen any guarding the Arx. If someone crawls across the bridge from this hill to the next one, they can descend the north side of the Arx and slip away between the houses.”
“Any man that can fight should stay,” added Sabinus. “And I'm not sending out the elderly – this person needs to be spry.”
Instantly hands were raised, voices too, volunteering to brave the task. As Sabinus surveyed the possibilities, Abigail had a wild notion. Leaning forward, she whispered in her mistress' ear. “Domina – he should send Perel. She is small, and as a child she loved to climb.”
Overhearing, Perel stared at her mother, but Abigail had no time to worry what was happening in her daughter's head. She was focused on saving her live.
It was on the tip of Domitia's tongue to rebuke her forward slave for interfering in Roman affairs. But then she checked, started nodding. “Yes. And if she's caught, she's only a slave.”
That made Abigail flinch, but she nodded. “Yes, and a woman. They may not even think to stop her. They'll think she is a slave in one of the houses.”
Leaping to her feet, Domitia was suddenly dragging Perel forward. “Take my slave, Titus Flavius. She's small, and darker of skin than a Roman. She can carry a message to my husband to come and fetch me.”
“Fetch you!” cried Verulana in dismay. “You can't wish to leave!”
Domitia Longina cast her fear in the best light. “We're only in the way, distracting the men.”
“How can you leave this much excitement? I've never felt so alive—”
Ignoring this unseemly debate, Sabinus stared at Perel. Was this a sign? Was this why he had preserved her, not shamed her? Was this all some mad part of the Pythian prophecy?
Already his father was objecting. “This is man's work. Far too dangerous for a women, let alone a crippled slave.”
“She is not crippled, father,” said Sabinus. “And it is not a bad idea at all. She is small, and will be harder to see. And she'll be able to navigate the rooftops better than a full-grown man. Still…” He approached Perel. “You understand what we're asking?”
“I do, Titus Flavius.”
“And are you willing?”
Perel shot a glance towards her mother, who nodded. �
�Yes, Titus Flavius.”
Sabinus smiled at her kindly. “Thank you, Perel. We'll do everything we can to keep you safe.” This was said both for her benefit, and for her mother's.
Abigail thanked the Lord, then began praying that this mad plan of hers might succeed.
XXIV
“When you leave the hill, make your way to my father's house on the Quirinal. There you will find my sons… No, wait. They'll be watching the house, won't they?”
“They absolutely will,” agreed Mamercus.
There were only four of them standing on the rampart of the Capitoline's northern wall – Sabinus, Mamercus, Abigail, and Perel. The air was chilled and thick, the sky cloudy – the weather was about to turn. They had come without a light, lest they give away their intention. But with the stars only occasionally visible, it had taken them some little time to reach the spot.
Though darkness covered them, they couldn't risk opening a gate. It might creak and give away the whole affair. Instead they had come to a point beneath a rooftop that overhung the wall. In its shelter, Sabinus had begun issuing instructions, only to stop himself. “Damn. I can't think of anyone friendly to us whose house won't be watched. What good is a message if we can't get it out?”
Abigail began to fret, worrying that they might call off her daughter's escape. That was when Perel said, “Titus Flavius?”
“Yes?”
“The first time I saw you, it was at the house of Antonia Caenis—”
Sabinus snapped his fingers. “Caenis! Of course. Yes, go to Caenis. She'll know what to do. And wait – take this.” In the dark he found her hands and pressed something into it. Feeling it with her own fingers, she discovered it was a ring. His gold senator's seal ring. “Give this to her. She is to send to Antonius Primus and let him know what has happened. She is also to tell Domitian and my sons that they must escape Rome this night or risk being used as a hostage against us. If they cannot get clean out of the city, they must hide. And to tell them this.” He gave her a phrase to memorize. “Can you retain all that?”
“Yes, Titus Flavius,” said Perel. “I can do that.”
“Then kiss your mother farewell. With luck, you'll be seeing her again soon.”
Perel found herself embraced by her mother. Instinctively, they switched to Aramaic. “You can do this. The Lord is watching over you. As is your father.”
“Yes, mother. I know.” Perel gave a tiny half-smile. “I thought you disapproved of me climbing rooftops.”
Though fraught with worry at having put her daughter in this situation, Abigail could not help a short laugh. “I do. Thank heaven I was wrong. Now, before you do anything, find Seth. You know him, he'll be planning to storm the Capitol with all the Jews of Rome.”
It was Perel's turn to chuckle. The she took a deep breath. “I should go.”
“I know. I love you. I am so proud of you.”
“Thank you, mother.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.” They tightened their embrace, then released. Perel turned to Sabinus, waiting patiently nearby. “I am ready.”
Mamercus and Sabinus cupped their hands together. Placing a palm on Sabinus' shoulder, Perel was about to step into their grip when Abigail said, “Wait, please. Titus Flavius, forgive me – is there some signal she can make to let us know she has escaped? Something we can watch for. So we know she has delivered the messages.”
“So we know she is safe, you mean,” said Sabinus, understanding a parent's concern. It was something his wife had once said. Being a parent means never again living without fear. And this fear was all too real. “It's an excellent idea. Let's me think, what can be seen from here?”
“The Campus Martius,” offered Mamercus. “No one goes there during Saturnalia.”
“Yes, good. Perel, when you've delivered your messages, go to the Campus Martius and light a torch near the stagnum. If we can't see the torch, we'll see it reflecting on the water.”
“Thank you,” said Abigail.
Again the two Romans cupped their hands, and Perel stepped into it with her right foot. A hand of each man's shoulder balanced her as they lifted her up. Then in hushed tones they began to count as they lowered and raised their arms. “One. Two. Three!”
Knees bent during the count, Perel leapt as their hands came up with the final number. She had expected to reach the tiled roof with only half her body, but the two men were stronger than she had expected, so she actually over-shot the rooftop. She landed lightly, but off-balance, and had a moment of teetering backwards while her arms flapped to compensate. Then she was steady, and immediately crouched, knowing that the watchers below were looking for someone to mount these roofs to try and escape. “I'm up,” she whispered.
“Good. Go,” hissed Sabinus.
“May the Lord our God watch over you,” whispered her mother.
Life pounding in her throat, Perel crept forward, not towards the Tiber side of the Capitol, but back towards the center where she wouldn't be seen. Reaching the edge of the roof, she peered down, perversely half-wishing there were more light tonight. But she saw that if she crept along another few feet, she would be directly over the walkway between the Capitol and its Arx. Moving to the spot, she swung her feet over, lowered herself to her waist, took a breath, then let go.
She landed sooner than she had expected – in the darkness the drop had seemed much further. Crouching beside the house where the shadows were deep and long, Perel steeled herself, then crept north along the sloping path, praying to the Lord to keep her hidden. Recalling the answer to the last prayer for her protection, she instinctively touched her slack cheek.
Her instructions were to cross the narrow walkway spanning the Asylum until she reached the Arx. From there, she could climb down the far north face of the hill unseen. Kneeling, she exited her shadow and began working her way across on her hands and knees.
A chill winter rain begin to fall. As she still wore her mistress' gown, the cold reached her quickly – her own homespun would have held it off better.
Her bare hands found the cold marble of the walkway. Instantly Perel dropped to her belly and began sliding along it, keeping just below the low wall that edged the narrow bridge. Using her elbows, she dragged herself forward, pushing with her toes, trying to remain as small as humanly possible. That large Roman had said there were no soldiers up here. Was that true? Or had he simply not noticed them?
This had seemed more exciting than frightening when she had started out. But here Perel could not help imagining her capture, her condemnation, her crucifixion. Would they let her emulate her father and die upside-down? Or would she be whipped too raw beforehand to ask?
Halfway across, the left side of the wall vanished, replaced by stairs angling down towards the Campus Martius and the Tiber River. Perel could not help herself – she peeked around the corner and peered down the stairs. Yes, there was a covered fire at the bottom, and men standing around it, talking and looking up the stairs. Looking right at her.
Or so it seemed. But the light of the fire had ruined their night vision, so while they were illuminated through the falling drizzle, Perel was hidden. Pulling her head slowly back, she slithered like a snake on her belly over to the other side of the walkway. It took only seconds to reach the cover of the right-hand wall, but she felt as though she had been standing naked before an entire army.
Making sure not to hurry, she crawled the rest of the distance to the Arx. Here, on her right, were the Gemonian Stairs, leading back towards the Forum Romanum. There were no walls surrounding the Arx, no fortifications. Once she passed the Scalae Gemoniae, she would be safe. Unless they posted a guard up here…
Again she slithered, her knees and palms aching, her sodden dress offering no protection against the frigid slanting rain. Reaching the end of the bridge, she ducked into the shadow of the nearest building to allow her breathing to ease. Unknown to her, this was the Temple of Mens, the goddess of Proper Thinking. Perel huddled by the ste
ps, listening, listening.
There was no guard. Keeping low, she raced across the paved hilltop, past Venus Erucina, the temple for prostitutes, and Juno Moneta, the Giver of Timely Warnings whose temple doubled as the city mint. Reaching the northern-most side, she looked down on the houses built onto this side of the hill. One of them had once belonged to the famous Roman general Gaius Marius, but Perel had no notion which. She peered through the rain until she thought she had the measure of which roof was nearest. Then she backed up a few paces, took a running start, and leapt.
Landing on her toes, she felt her feet begin slipping on the wet tiles. Immediately she threw her hands forward, grabbing for purchase. Her fingers closed around the exposed end of one tile – and it came free. She released it and grabbed at the next one, which also tore away from the roof. Scrambling, she plunged her fingers into the exposed thatch even as her feet slipped out from beneath her and knocked yet more tiles loose. The thatch in her fingers came loose, and Perel was suddenly sliding with the tiles towards the roof's edge.
The tiles clattered and shattered upon the hillside beneath her as Perel fell to soft earth, bending her knees as she landed. Freezing for a moment, she listened. The noise had roused the household. Perel scampered left, diving into the deepest shadow she could find.
Men's voices. Footfalls. A lit torch approaching the window grille at the back of the house. Perel burrowed deep into her shadow, pressing her back against a wall. Lord, preserve me! I have not found someone to carry on my father's work! I have not shared his story the way he wished! Please, Lord, let me survive this, that I might serve you better!
She turned the seal ring Sabinus had given her over in her hands. She could not see it, but her finger traced the design again and again. At first it felt like a cross – a terrible omen! But as her fingers explored it, she realized it was a tree. She did not know about the famous old oak that still grew on the Flavian family estate, but she felt a huge relief. Trees were part of the Lord, while crosses were an invention of Rome, and had been used against her people. Her father. And now, herself?
