Aurora broke into tears and clung to my mother, who sat down on the bed beside her.
“There, there, child. It will be all right.” Mother turned to Democrites. “I don’t believe we have any further need of your services.”
Democrites stuffed his belongings into his bag. “I’m sorry, my lord, my lady. This is a new formula I made up especially for this patient. I don’t understand why this has happened.”
I was sorry to see him go. My uncle thought very highly of him, and I didn’t want to insult my friend Pudens by rudely dismissing his family physician. I had wanted to ask him about the karkinos in my mother’s breast, but, if the man couldn’t make a simple ointment without doing more harm than good, I didn’t see what he could tell me about her illness.
“You need to leave, too,” Mother said. I didn’t move, so she repeated the order more firmly, then called, “Naomi, get in here.”
*
I had no choice but to step out of their way. At first I took up a position near the door, where I could at least hear what was going on. The two older women made soothing sounds and Aurora gradually stopped sobbing. My mother came out and waved her hands to shoo me away, as though I was some stray dog hanging around, hoping for a bone.
Not knowing quite what to do with myself, I sat down beside the piscina and began tossing small pebbles from the pathway into the water. It’s hard to believe that Aurora and I swam and played in that water when we were children, the way Hashep and Dakla do now. Swimming in these pools is not something Roman children normally do. The first time we did it was when Aurora had been in the house only a few days. We were playing with small boats in the piscina when one floated beyond our reach. With the utter innocence of a seven-year-old, Aurora simply removed her gown and jumped in to get it. Demetrius ran over to the pool in horror. I knew Aurora was going to be in trouble, so I shed my tunic and jumped in with her.
Even after she could speak enough Latin, I never did explain to her that we weren’t supposed to swim here, and no one dared to tell me that I couldn’t until my mother demanded that we stop when we were nine.
“My lord? My lord?” I was called back from happier, simpler times by one of the servants who’d been sent to get ice. They had returned with an empty basket.
“Was the ice all gone?” I asked.
“You didn’t send enough money, my lord.”
When I heard the price that Callicles was demanding, I sputtered, “It’s just frozen water, not gold.”
My mother stepped outside Aurora’s room and closed the door. “Why are you even hesitating, Gaius? If you won’t pay it, I will. And I’ll tell Aurora what you thought she’s worth.”
“Of course I’ll pay it. I’m just surprised at what it costs.”
“Callicles says it’s the very last of his supply, my lord. He won’t have any more until next month.”
“All right. Tell Demetrius to give you the money.”
When the servants returned the second time, the basket they carried was full of ice packed in blankets and straw. I took it to Aurora’s door and gave it to my mother, but she wouldn’t let me in the room.
“She needs to rest,” she told me, putting her hand to my chest to push me back. “We’ll let you know if there’s any change.”
“But what about the redness and swelling in her eyelids?”
“That’s already much improved.”
At least I could be thankful for that, and even more for the change in my mother’s attitude toward Aurora.
“You just find something to do to keep yourself busy,” Mother said, “and out of our way.”
The only place I knew I might find something to distract me was the library. I was examining Phineas’ progress on my uncle’s scrolls when Demetrius entered the room.
“My lord, there are two men at the rear gate. They’re…they’re Praetorians.”
XVI
Demetrius had let the two Praetorians come inside the back gate. They were standing next to the exhedra. Even though they weren’t wearing their uniforms, their military demeanor couldn’t be missed. One was a bit older and heavier, a centurion most likely. The other was taller, with a menacing scowl that looked permanent.
“Are you Gaius Pliny, sir?” the older man asked.
“Yes.”
“We’d like for you to accompany us, sir.”
“Where?” A knot began forming in my stomach. “Why?”
“You’ll have all your questions answered soon enough, sir,” the centurion said, “but not by us.” He nodded and the taller man checked for weapons by patting my clothing. He stopped when he felt the Tyche ring.
“What’s this?” he asked, pulling it out where he could see it.
“It’s a family heirloom. An amulet of sorts, I guess you’d say.” I knew immediately that was a bad choice of words. The soldier’s grip tightened on the ring as he pulled me toward him.
“Are you a wizard, sir? Do you work spells?”
“No, of course not. Here, look at it. It’s just a silly old ring. I’ve had it since I was a child.”
“Any hidden compartments in it?” the centurion asked, turning the ring this way and that.
“No, nothing of the sort. Perhaps you should check my signet ring, too.” I held out my hand, hoping that would distract them from the Tyche ring, and it worked. The taller soldier tried in vain to twist and turn my signet and nodded that he was satisfied.
“All right, let’s go,” the centurion said.
“What is this all about?” I asked again, tucking the Tyche ring back under my tunic.
“We were just told to come get you, sir,” he said. “We were ordered to come to your back gate, and out of uniform, to spare you any embarrassment. Think of this as an invitation.”
I knew it was no such thing. “If it were a true invitation, I could politely decline, but this sounds like an offer I can’t refuse. If I do, I’ll be arrested. Correct?”
“Yes, sir,” the centurion said as politely as if he were offering me a drink. “You and everyone in your house. Now, we need to go.”
Demetrius handed me a cloak as we left the house, but I had to wrap it around me as we walked in silence. We made our way down the Esquiline, past the Iseum, and behind the Temple of the Deified Claudius. The only positive thing I could glean from their route was that I was being taken to Domitian’s house on the Palatine Hill, not to the Praetorian Camp. People who are taken to the Praetorian Camp do not return. Anyone who crossed our path, though, stepped aside and averted their eyes. The lack of uniforms didn’t fool anyone. Who couldn’t detect the outline of the swords under their cloaks?
When the Palatine loomed before us, they led me to a door at the base of the hill that I couldn’t recall ever noticing before. A prearranged knock caused the door to be opened and we stepped inside. I never saw the person who opened the door and closed and locked it behind us—the most ominous sound I had heard since the eruption of Vesuvius.
We walked down a long, dimly lit passageway bare of decoration—even of plaster—forty paces by my count, then up a set of stairs, emerging into the construction site that would someday be Domitian’s imperial residence. Scaffolding, piles of stone, and a crane stood ready for the next day’s work as Rome’s uncrowned king continued to push everyone else off the Palatine. When we were past them, we went down a few steps to the more finished part of the building on the western side of the hill and into an unadorned room—no bigger than the average room in my house—where Domitian sat, fanning himself with a piece of papyrus.
The princeps, now in his early thirties, was by no means a handsome man. His upper lip protruded a bit over the lower, and his chin was short. He wore his brown hair combed from the top of his head toward the front and cut short, a fashion that hadn’t caught on yet, as styles do when set by popular rulers. His eyes turned down at the outer edges, giving him a perpetually doleful expression.
“Gaius Pliny, please sit down.” He motioned to another chair, set oppo
site his, with a small table between them. Along with a lampstand and a small chest, they comprised all the furniture in the room.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stand, Caesar? Isn’t that what prisoners usually do when they’re brought before you?” Domitian expects to be addressed as “lord,” but because of some interactions we’ve had in the past, I refuse to exalt him as a slave does his master. He knows he can’t demand that I do it. When you’ve seen a man wet himself in fear, he loses his ability to impress you. The occasional “Caesar”—a name his family has stolen—was all the respect I would give him.
“Yes,” Domitian said. “Prisoners stand, unless they’re on their knees groveling for mercy and betraying members of their family to save their own miserable lives. But you, Gaius Pliny, you’re not a prisoner. You’re a guest.” He was working hard to keep his tone affable. “An unhappy guest, I know. Please, sit down and let’s discuss a few things.”
I sat down, with one Praetorian standing behind me and the other off to my right. Guest or prisoner, I wasn’t going to be allowed to make any sudden movement toward the princeps.
“What can you tell me about this?” Domitian handed me a copy of the ROTAS square with the interpretation of the AREPO line written below it.
“Did Regulus give you this?” I hadn’t given Regulus a copy of the square, but he could have reproduced it easily enough, once he’d seen it. Or he may have realized that Jacob had kept the copy I’d shown him.
“How I got it is irrelevant. What matters is its meaning.”
I handed the papyrus back to him. “It has no meaning.”
“You seemed to think it did when you asked for a secretive meeting with Regulus, away from all eyes and ears.”
Apparently not all eyes and ears. “I had been misled about the meaning of the thing. My own scribe, Phineas, has racked his brain over it and cannot fathom it.”
“Perhaps if I racked his body—”
I hated myself for even mentioning Phineas. “You’d learn nothing more. The thing is nonsense.” And also a Christian symbol, but this didn’t seem the best time to bring that up.
“Ad Regis Excidium Popilius Optatus doesn’t sound like nonsense to me. Who is Popilius and who has chosen him to kill me?”
“Are you a king, Caesar?”
“We both know the answer to that, Gaius Pliny. Let’s not quibble.”
As succinctly as possible, I told him the tale of Popilius and Crispina and the murder of Fabia. From the arching of his eyebrows and the rapidity of his breathing, he seemed to be experiencing that catharsis—that purging of emotion—which Aristotle says is the purpose of drama.
“A story worthy of an old-fashioned Greek playwright,” Domitian said when I finished and he slumped back in his chair. “Where are these people now?”
“I don’t know where Crispina is, and that worries me. But Popilius is dead.”
“How do you know that for certain?”
“He killed himself. I saw him do it.” That wasn’t a complete lie. Popilius had said he was ready to die and agreed to the change of his name.
Domitian raised an eyebrow and looked at me, with his head turned to one side, almost like he was flirting with me. “You saw him kill himself and you didn’t try to stop him? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“It happened too quickly. There was nothing I could do.”
“I want to believe you, Gaius Pliny. I really do. I could sleep more easily if I knew that one person who wanted to kill me was dead. In my position I am caught by the greatest of ironies.” He shifted his weight in his chair and leaned back. “The only absolute proof of a plot against a ruler is the success of the plot. Remember that when someone finally does kill me.”
“Caesar, I don’t know what you expect from me tonight. I am not involved in any plot against you and I know of none, no matter what Regulus may have told you. Have you considered what his motives might be in bringing such a story to you?”
Domitian rubbed a hand over his eyes and down his face. “What makes Regulus useful to me, Gaius Pliny, is that I know exactly what motivates him.”
“His greed?”
“Even more basic than that. It’s simple self-interest. Everything he does, he does because he sees it as being to his advantage. He doesn’t work with me because he admires me. He assists me because it is in his own self-interest to do so. As long as I remember that, Regulus is a useful tool.”
“Most people are motivated by self-interest,” I said.
“True, true. But you, Gaius Pliny, you’re entirely different.” Domitian leaned forward as though he wanted to examine a peculiar object more closely. “You don’t seem to be motivated by self-interest at all. It is definitely not in your interest to be a friend of Agricola and Tacitus, and yet you are. It would be in your own interest to make a friend of Regulus, and yet you oppose him at every opportunity.”
“I’d sooner couple with a disease-ridden whore in the shadows of the Temple of Saturn than ally myself with Regulus.”
“Yes, that’s you—a man of principle.” He almost spat out the last word. “Men like you make my life so difficult, even if you’re not actually plotting against me. Fortunately, you’re few in number, but I’d like to rid Rome of every last one of you. You, Gaius Pliny, present a particular problem for me. I know that if I kill you—or even send you into exile—Agricola and his men will sweep up the Palatine like a band of avenging Furies. So I have to stop short of that.”
He barely nodded and the Praetorian behind me grabbed me and lifted me up from the chair, as though I were as light as a child, pinning my arms behind my back. The other one hit me hard in the stomach, again, and then again. When I bent over, he landed a solid blow on my jaw and a backhand to the side of my face. Domitian raised his hand and they dropped me back into the chair, resuming their positions behind and beside me, as impassive as statues.
Domitian studied me for a moment, like a sculptor regarding his work, trying to decide whether to chisel off another piece here and there. “As frustrating as it is for me, Gaius Pliny, it is in my own best interests not to harm you any more than that. I’m not sure if Agricola’s protection extends to your entire household, but I know it embraces you and your mother.”
My breathing grew more rapid at the implied threat to the rest of my familia.
“So,” Domitian continued, “I must find some way to damage your reputation, to discredit you. Since you are a man of principle, that matters more to you than your money or your physical well-being, I think. Therefore, at the next meeting of the Senate, when I read a list of special grants that I’m making, I will announce that I’ve allowed you a reduction in the minimum age at which you may hold the quaestorship. I know that’s still two years away for you, but it will mark you as my man even now.”
I groaned, and not just from the pain in my jaw and belly and my broken rib. A man has to be twenty-five to hold the office of quaestor, the first step on the cursus honorum, the succession of offices which leads to a consulship. To be granted a privilege of this sort—without even asking for it—would signal that I was Domitian’s property. He was claiming me, as surely as a dog marks his territory by lifting his leg.
“You don’t sound impressed,” Domitian continued with an ugly smile. “Let me add this. When you do stand for office, I’ll support your nomination. Yours will be the first name on my list. In fact, if there weren’t such a disparity in your ages, I’d nominate you and Regulus to be colleagues in the consulship.”
Now I knew what it felt like to be pissed on. Each year a certain number of men are nominated for each office in the state. The princeps supports particular ones on the list, asking the Senate to look with favor on those friends of his, who are thus assured of election. The Senate then makes their own “free” choices from the remaining names. This is supposed to give the appearance of a republic in action. Such a distinction as Domitian proposed would be the end of my credibility in the eyes of my friends. But, if I publicly dec
lined the honor, I would be declaring war on Domitian.
“How do you think Agricola and Tacitus will feel about you when you become one of my men?” Domitian laughed as though he had just told a riotously funny joke. Because of the pounding my stomach had taken, I vomited into my lap and on the floor.
“I’ll take that as an expression of gratitude,” Domitian said.
The Praetorians escorted me—dragged me, to be more accurate—back to the rear gate of my house, where they punched me a few more times and kicked me when I slumped to the ground. I tried, with little success, to protect my rib. I regurgitated a lot more than I remembered eating.
When my pounding on the bottom of the door was finally heard, one of my younger servant women opened it, took one look, and screamed. Then she closed the door and ran screaming for Demetrius. I couldn’t entirely fault her; I wouldn’t want my servants dragging into the house every vomit-soaked derelict with his face bashed in who happened to fall at my door.
After all the fuss and flap had settled and I had convinced my mother that I wasn’t going to die (“You won’t as long as we don’t call Democrites” was her final word) and we weren’t going to be arrested, I was allowed to clean myself up and go to bed.
*
As soon as I awoke the next morning, I hobbled next door to Aurora’s room. If I could keep my voice normal and not groan too much, I hoped she wouldn’t know what had happened to me. I didn’t want to worry her. At least she couldn’t see that I still couldn’t quite stand up straight.
But as soon as I walked into the room, she cried, “Gaius! What happened to your face?”
“You…can see me?” I dropped to my knees beside her bed. “You can see—”
“Oh, I wanted it to be a surprise for you, just like it was to me.”
“What happened? How—”
She took my hands in hers. “I’m not sure.”
The Eyes of Aurora Page 24
