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by Gillespie, Donna

  With his Guards flanking him, Marcus Julianus ascended the steps of the Senate House; the outer walls of this venerable old monolith were blackened still from Nero’s fire. The Curia dwarfed the ceaselessly swarming human life below—the bankers and accountants going to their places of business, the hawkers, the wide-eyed foreigners. Though temples and government buildings of equal arrogance crowded closely about it, still the Curia stood apart with a sort of grim purity; its austere columns looked down on him in stern judgment. As always, here he felt the eyes of the dead—for so long this site had been holy ground. In the archaic earth beneath the foundation the blood of aeons of sacrifices turned to dust, mingling with the powdered bones of mythical kings. Many bold enough to linger about these steps past midnight claimed to have heard the voice of the long-dead Cicero or other great ghosts floating out from the Stygian dark.

  As Marcus Julianus passed through towering bronze doors, he felt the sweep of many gazes moving toward him. The day’s victim has come. He knew their only security lay in the fact that on this day they were safe—someone else was to be immolated.

  The Senators formed a small island of white almost lost in the vast gloom of the mammoth chamber. Entering this place even as a prisoner was faintly intoxicating, like being drawn up suddenly among the gods of Mount Olympus—for so many generations the fates of nations had been determined here. The stark light-and-dark pattern of the floor, made of precious marbles laid out in a bold geometric pattern, suggested some gameboard to be played on by gods.

  The four hundred Senators who were present sat in a semicircle of ornately carved benches set in tiers; the lowest seats were reserved for the members of greatest eminence. Facing the Senators was a dais; here sat the presiding Consul, Messalinus, as well as Veiento, acting as chief prosecutor, and his three assistant prosecutors. Behind them was a loftier dais and atop it was the imperial seat. Here Nero displayed himself in splendor, his gold-bordered toga spilling over the throne’s lion-headed, ivory armrests. He was a sulky god propped precariously on a high, narrow throne, his swollen body all but overflowing the space; Julianus thought of a turnip sack carelessly swathed in the imperial purple. The weighty, gem-studded diadem he wore seemed to press his head down into his neck. Those jowls were comfortably settled, and he sat unmoving. Only his eyes were restless, malign, as they scavenged the hall, gathering information from every face, desiring to learn what could not be learned from a recorder’s report, such as who spoke his praises with a faint look of distaste, who looked down to cover an inappropriate smile.

  Julianus took one of the seats in the rear reserved for the accused. He saw he got the barest of nods even from men he counted allies—few dared do otherwise with Nero examining their faces and occasionally writing notations on a tablet. Two men looked on him with friendliness: One was Saturninus, his father’s long-time friend, the sort of man who always turned round and ran against the herd; he risked much with the look. Why, Julianus wondered, does nature produce so few men like him?

  The other was Domitian, high in the visitors’ gallery, who risked little by his nod and smile of support—Nero held him to be of small account, and the Emperor was so shortsighted that Domitian was too distant for him to see, even with the aid of the outsized emerald Nero used to improve his vision. Domitian made quite a show of getting his attention, and Julianus understood at once: Now that he was something of a popular hero, Domitian wanted it publicly well established that Marcus Arrius Julianus was his friend.

  The Chief Augur, armed with a crooked, spiral-headed staff, was taking the auspices. He set down the wooden cage in which the sacred chickens were kept, then muttered a prayer while tossing them a measure of grain. Of course, they gave the best of auguries, pecking furiously at the feed; as a child Julianus had stopped wondering why no one ever objected that the chickens had been carefully starved beforehand. Tradition, in this place, he reflected, was the great blindfold. The Senate as a body he thought of as a rigid, remote grandfather walking stiffly through his last days, haughty to the end, affecting not to know he is consulted only for form. Collectively the mind of the Senate was so brittle and unchanging that he accepted his duties here as a heavy price of rank. He had experienced boredom here in great measure, while interminable arguments raged over petty issues—the settling of grander issues the Emperor reserved for himself—and so it was an odd sensation to experience dread, to know those who had bored him now meant to kill him.

  The Consul Messalinus rose and with a grand flourish cast incense onto the altar beneath the gilded image of Victory with outstretched wings. A cloud of dark fragrant smoke billowed up.

  The Consul then convened the assembly, and minor matters were attended to: There was a short debate over which of two cities in Gaul would be granted the right to erect a new temple to Nero’s divinity; then came the case of a city in Syria that begged one year’s remission of taxes because they suffered a pestilence. When the votes had been taken, the Consul rose and announced with an ominous tremor, “Marcus Arrius Julianus, come forward, that we might examine your case.”

  Julianus rose in his gray mourning cloak. A sudden thought of his father caused him to touch the black amulet at his throat—and for a heartbeat he was aware of the earth below and felt a bright calm, as after a bell has ceased ringing in a temple. The sense was quickly gone, but its nectar lingered.

  As he came forward to stand before the Consul and the throne, the vast space was silent but for the sound of his steps echoing off stone. All saw at once this was no cringing victim. Julianus inclined his head to acknowledge the presence of the Emperor, then turned to face the senatorial body. As he examined them steadfastly, fearlessly, with eyes that seemed able to expertly turn a soul inside out, the Senators for a fleeting moment had the sense they themselves were on trial. This was a man who could not betray, some thought before he uttered a word.

  Domitian was seized with envy; he realized then that part of him hoped this trial would humble his friend as the wedding party had not. Was that faint amusement he saw in Marcus’ face? The fool seemed not to know he was ready to be ferried across the Styx.

  Veiento rose and prepared to speak. That gaunt, narrow face was severe as a woodcut; soulless eyes looked out blandly from hollow sockets. There was a look of barrenness about him—cadaverous skin was stretched over jutting bones, a smooth skull, a knife-thin nose. His mouth was set in a curt line, revealing nothing of the rich pleasure he took in his role; long ago he had learned to keep desire concealed lest an enemy learn too much. He was a creature admirably adapted to this world, Julianus reflected: His single loyalty was to the source of power—its good or evil was of no concern—and for it he struck and killed with the passionless efficiency of a shark.

  Veiento did not consider this the beginning of a trial but rather the end of one. He had already won; this was the victory celebration. Treason trials were for form alone; the Senators never dared defy the guilty verdict they knew the Emperor expected. The questioning, too, was for show—a board of judges had already reviewed the evidence and advised Nero of the defendant’s guilt. The one difficulty in Veiento’s mind lay in making certain the vote was called for before too many embarrassing questions were raised about his own dealings.

  Of the three examiners with him, two were senior senatorial advisors, and one, a young Senator named Montanus who had held few offices. Nero himself had chosen Montanus for this honor because he had bested everyone in an eating-and-drinking contest held this year aboard Nero’s pleasure barge during the Feast of Mars, consuming wine enough to down ten men and a whole suckling pig—and such heroic voracity, as Nero had put it, called for a prize.

  Through one turn of the water clock Veiento began to enumerate the many crimes of Marcus Arrius Julianus, father and son. Veiento’s voice was not so colorless as the rest of him; it was florid and full as it arrogantly took possession of the hall. Julianus the Elder had used every means, natural and supernatural, to bring about Nero’s death, he claimed, an
d at the last he cried out compellingly that Julianus meant to put his son, standing before them, on the throne. By the end of the speech Nero was convinced all over again of the younger Julianus’ guilt; he sat forward, his fleshy face become rigid, his dimpled hands squeezed tight in rage.

  When the opening speech had ended, Veiento launched into the questioning. “Son of the traitor—did not your father, Marcus Arrius Julianus the Elder, divulge all his plans to you? And did he not give you first place in them?”

  “The word traitor in your mouth, my lord,” Julianus replied, his voice austere after Veiento’s, “is little more than a weapon of murder. Do you not fear such a capriciously wielded weapon will one day be used against yourself? And how smoothly and easily it comes off your tongue, when you’ve no real evidence—even the witnesses you bribed refuse to speak against us.”

  This brought sharp silence. Few could believe Julianus dared accuse one so senior to him of bribery.

  Veiento controlled a pitying smile. The fool actually seemed to think this was a trial. Good. Let him enliven my victory celebration. Veiento stole a look at Nero, who seemed to have lapsed back into a nap.

  “Time, perhaps, is more precious to us than to you,” Veiento said softly. “Your guilt is established. Had not your father’s arrest been ordered?”

  “Arrest, then, is proof of guilt? Well, then, you save us all much time. We can retire from the courts. We do not need law, only soldiers.”

  This brought cautious smiles. Nero opened his eyes halfway, unpleasantly awake as if after a best-forgotten night of debauch. It was impossible to tell if he were angered or amused.

  Veiento broke into one of his controlled furies. The words were fired off in a well-tempered shriek that echoed dramatically off stone.

  “The Emperor ordered him arrested! He then does not know the law?” This awakened Nero completely. He looked at Marcus Julianus with great affront.

  “His knowledge is not on trial,” Julianus said mildly. “The Emperor ordered him arrested on advice given by yourself. An emperor can be failed by those who give him information. A pity, but it occurs. This contest is more between you and me, not between myself and the state.”

  “I assure you your situation is too dire for sophistry.”

  “Yes, you’ve made certain it is.”

  “Does each generation of your family double in impertinence? Your children will piss on the throne itself.”

  “The throne can withstand that far better than justice can withstand your assault.”

  This brought cautious laughter and curious glances at Nero, who now watched Julianus with growing interest, as he might an untried gladiator who gained a sudden advantage over a seasoned opponent. Veiento seemed visibly to withdraw, but not in defeat, more as the predator that collects itself before it unleashes the next attack.

  Veiento then said, “Conspirators meet openly at your house every ninth day.” The last words were a shriek. “Deny that!”

  “Yes. Our tyrant is ignorance. Our talk is of nature and the spirit, not of government.”

  “Philosopher and trickster, your philosophy is in itself traitorous. Your Zeno teaches the wise must rule—and for certain, wise you count yourself. They have spoken thus at your meetings….” He paused to snatch up one of the tablets Montanus dutifully kept ready for him, then held it out theatrically and read, “‘Gentleness is the ruler’s best proof against assassination. When a ruler loses himself to his passions and lives by revenge, it is the duty of the wise man to destroy the tyrant.’”

  “We live in the world, my lord, not in a maze of words. I hardly see what those words have to do with this day and time…unless you count Nero a tyrant.” At this, a small cold smile of amusement came to Nero’s face.

  “You talking snake,” Veiento shouted. “Your father counted our Divine Lord a tyrant, and you know it well. Everyone knows it. He felt himself a better man, better educated, more fit to rule. He counted the hours he spent in study and measured them against the hours our Divinity spent at the games. And finally when he thought the Emperor’s position weakened enough, he invited his barbarian allies to come south and help him and his fellow rebels launch an attack on Gaul. His plan would have succeeded had not even more savage barbarians attacked his own forces. And now, enough of this!”

  Veiento looked meaningfully at the Consul, hoping desperately he would call for the vote. But Messalinus took his cue from Nero, and the Emperor seemed to be enjoying himself.

  Julianus counted it a victory that he remained calm through that gale of words; they seemed not words at all but shrieking wind. His reply was not meant for Veiento or the Senators—but for his father’s ghost. He looked toward the seat that would have been his father’s as he spoke.

  “My father, Marcus Julianus, was perhaps the only man among you who never had such thoughts. He was old-fashioned enough not to judge those who ranked above—he thought it right to leave that to Providence. He was of the ancient sort for whom duty was god. He gave his life defending the frontier—and a humiliating death was his reward. I will now prove to you his recruitment of Wido was desperation—”

  Veiento slammed down a tablet. “Enough of this criminal’s rantings.”

  But Nero, with the smallest gesture of his hand, motioned for Julianus to continue on.

  Julianus brought out two rolled documents he had concealed in his tunic. “I mean to submit as evidence these records, taken from the Military Treasury, that begin with the date of the outset of our lord the Prosecutor’s time as minister—”

  Veiento tore them from his hand. “This evidence was not shown to the board of judges.”

  But Nero was intrigued by Veiento’s displeasure, and he scratched a quick note for the Consul.

  “The court decides this evidence may be used, even though the board of judges did not know,” Messalinus read out.

  Julianus felt a rush of joy. “And there, too, are my father’s records of what he received in the same years so the court can make a comparison.”

  “These documents are forgeries made by our enemies!” Veiento shouted.

  Julianus gave him a look that a parent might give a child caught lying. Nero’s smile was smug and murderous.

  “I think not,” Marcus Julianus replied smoothly. “As the court will see, there is a great difference between what my father recorded and what the Palace records say he received. This discrepancy curiously disappears during Veiento’s year of absence from the Military Treasury and resumes the year he took the office back.”

  Veiento for a moment let fright show in his eyes. How had Julianus obtained those records? He must have stolen into the military records room like a thief in the night.

  “Forgeries! All forgeries!”

  Nero sleepily whispered an instruction to the Guard posted next to him. Then he turned vengeful eyes on Veiento. Embezzlement in itself he counted a rather dull crime to which he was not really opposed in principle; good embezzlers could even be useful for some things, such as milking the provinces. But Veiento had sworn before him and by all the gods he had no shameful secrets for Julianus to uncover. And this meant that Marcus Julianus the Elder had spoken the truth when he protested the charges, making him look the fool as well as Veiento.

  The Guards took both sets of documents and gave them to the imperial procurator for examination. The Senators regarded Julianus with growing amazement. No one had ever successfully attacked Veiento’s character before his peers. Veiento sensed the power balance subtly shifting, and he hated more than death this feeling of being on the pitched bow of a ship that was slowly taking on water.

  But Marcus Julianus still felt death’s shadow hovering close. It was true he sensed the Senators allying themselves with him—they loved shows of filial fidelity, particularly when carried out at great risk. But in spite of the grave embarrassments he had inflicted on Veiento, still he had given Nero no good reason to spare him, no reason not to persecute his family.

  Veiento paced, eyes afir
e, lips pale. How could it have come to this? In a mere quarter hour his own fate had become nearly as dire as Julianus’. Vigorously he began a fresh attack.

  “This does not change the truth. Had there not been internal dissension within that tribe—the Cats—” An assistant motioned to him and whispered the correct pronunciation in his ear. “…the Chattians,” he continued, “your father would have unleashed these blood-drinking savages on us and succeeded in seizing all Gaul.”

  “The dissension in the tribe, gentlemen,” Julianus replied, “was over us. None here doubt the hostility of Baldemar. My lord, tell the court his motive for striking at Wido.”

  “I am not the one being questioned here!”

  “The answer has great bearing on my father’s guilt or innocence—and on the truth.”

  Nero nodded at Veiento, demanding an answer.

  “Revenge for the theft of his daughter,” Veiento replied reluctantly.

  “No. Baldemar had with him men of many neighboring tribes. You know well, or should know, that the Germanic tribes band together only when their common enemy is Rome. If Wido had been a weapon aimed at us, never on this earth would Baldemar have struck at him. Indeed, Baldemar would have joined him. No. This barbarian chief called Wido was to be used as a weapon against his own people.

  “My father was an innocent man, and he has died because of your greed.” Julianus’ voice rose to a ringing shout. “You created that tale to destroy my father so your own crimes would never be uncovered!”

  The last echoes of his voice died into a powerful silence in which many of the members found some of their terror of Nero ebbing away. Marcus Julianus’ audacity was contagious—it taunted them with the possibility of freedom from living daily in fear.

  Veiento quickly shifted the direction of his attack. “Your father used witchcraft to undermine the state. It is well documented he consulted a barbarian seeress called Ramis and tried to learn the day of Nero’s death.”