Julianus felt hope vault upward. Veiento had at last fallen into one of several traps he had set. This charge had actually been inserted by Julianus himself, through “witnesses” in his own pay whom he had sent to Veiento when the Councillor was gathering evidence—for he wished for Nero to hear his reply.
“That is true, in part. But my father had no interest in the day of the Emperor’s death. His purpose was to learn the means of quelling night-terrors, to which he was prone in those days, possibly as a premonition of his own death. She knew the means, and told him the prayers and the herbal remedies required, and my father carefully recorded it all. By the way, he wrote to me that it was marvelously effective.”
Julianus knew Nero was so tormented by nightmares since he had murdered his mother that, in an attempt to elude the Furies, he never slept twice in the same bedchamber of his Golden House. The Emperor had sent as far away as India for concoctions to relieve himself of them. The ruse worked; he felt Nero’s interest sharply increase.
Once again, Veiento thought in fury, I grasped the snake by the tail.
Nero wrote out a question and had it brought to the prosecutors—rarely did he speak publicly, in order to preserve his voice for singing. Montanus read it to Marcus Julianus. “Where are these formulae at present?”
“Burned, my lord, in the unfortunate fire recently sustained in my house. I read them through once, however, and I believe that with practice and experimenting, I could rediscover what was lost.”
Veiento cursed silently. Julianus had given Nero a powerful reason for leaving him alive—at least temporarily. But I’ve one arrow left in my quiver, Veiento thought, and this one is tipped with poison.
He readied himself for the death-dealing shot, motioning with a withered hand to Montanus, who, with a smug smile of importance, rose and gave to him what appeared to be a small packet of letters. Then Veiento held them aloft so all could see.
“Marcus Arrius Julianus, these are philosophical essays written by your father, taken from his personal effects—and here is a veritable catalogue of villainies.”
“How did you obtain those?” Marcus Julianus asked sharply.
“It is not relevant; let us just say they were a—gift to the court.”
Julianus said with great resignation, “My father carried those essays with him everywhere, but he did not write them. And truly, I do hold with all therein.”
“Fine and good. No matter if he wrote them then, if you admit to belief in them. Let us take a passage at random. Here’s a likely one—it’s a brazen attack on our Divine Ruler’s love of the Games: ‘The entertainments of the amphitheater are base and cruel; indeed, they corrupt those who watch, for the immoderate letting of blood incites unnatural passions and awakens the savagery asleep in all of us—’”
“I hardly see—”
“Silence, you slithering serpent!”
Nero spoke for the first time. “Let him speak.”
That pale, unused voice made everyone uneasy. Nero seemed acutely interested in this, an enigmatic smile on those puckered lips.
“And listen well to this,” Veiento continued, pleased that he seemed to be gaining an advantage. “This is no less than an attack—albeit a clumsy one—upon the Emperor’s competence to rule alone. ‘Those who have the power to do all are in truth the servant of all.’ I am surprised at you, Julianus, I myself found these thoughts quite stale…. Shall I continue?”
“Please,” Marcus Julianus replied. “To me it is euphonious to the ear.”
“As you say. ‘Even Jupiter cannot hurl a lightning bolt without first listening to the counsel of the hosts of heaven. If Jupiter does not consider his judgment sufficient, how then can a man? A ruler not subject to his people’s will should relinquish his throne.’ Stinking treason, I say. You believe the Emperor is wrong when he rejects our advice. It seems, Marcus Arrius Julianus, you’ve been caught with your hands on the silver plate.”
Julianus said quietly, “Perhaps you should order the arrest of the author.”
And then Veiento knew. His thoughts seemed to halt in air and hang precariously like a bird stopped in flight. What he had said could not be unsaid. The predator had dropped neatly into the trap fashioned by its prey.
“Those words,” Julianus replied to the assembled Senators, “my father copied some years ago from an exercise Seneca gave to a favorite pupil, and he carried them with him always because he admired their style and sentiment. The pupil was Nero. Evidently my father had a higher opinion of the young prince’s style than you, my lord. A pity. If you think his words treasonable, of what worth is your judgment of me?”
There came the silence that follows shattered glass. Then the whole of the hall erupted to life with excited mutterings.
Loud talk nearly overwhelmed Veiento’s shouted protestations: “You put it there so it would be found! I know the Emperor’s student writings, and this is not among them! This court will not be mocked by a criminal!”
Nero regarded Veiento with the primitive fury of the wronged child.
This was a trap Julianus had set long ago, a suggestion he had written to his father when he was still Governor of Upper Germania, and both caught wind of a coming treason charge. Nothing will keep you safer, Julianus had written him, than carrying around as a sort of fetish some of Nero’s writings. Julianus the Elder had not thought much of the idea at the time, but complied anyway. The essays were with Julianus’ corpse when it was publicly laid out—and not closely tended—on the morning it was taken to the pyre. The younger Julianus had rejoiced when he discovered them stolen.
Nero wrote an order and gave it to a Centurion of the Guard, who turned and signaled to Veiento to follow him. There was a stifling silence in which Veiento stared at nothing, unable to accept he was caught in his own web. Then with slow, deliberate movements he set his tablets down and met Julianus’ gaze with a look that promised, For this you will die a wretched death and crows will pluck out your eyes, if ever the gods grant me the least chance to avenge this.
Veiento was then taken from the dais, escorted by ten Guards. For the men of the Senate this was a fresh horror: Never had one of their number been arrested before their eyes, within these sacred walls. They speculated in tense whispers over whether Veiento would suffer exile or execution.
The Consul Messalinus then arose and called out, a tightly controlled tremor in his voice, “All who favor acquittal, go right!”
For an unnerving length of time no one moved; Nero’s will was difficult to determine in this case. There was no doubt that at the day’s beginning he wanted Julianus ruined. He had never liked the family, and he was in desperate need of their ancestral estates. But it was apparent now that young Julianus had taken the Emperor’s passions hostage.
In Nero’s eyes was a vacant, vulnerable look, a private expression not meant for subordinates to see; his honor guard stood a little more stiffly than usual, looking faintly away, embarrassed for him. Marcus Julianus knew how to banish nightmares. And old Julianus had actually carried his student writings about—he took such great pleasure in knowing this that he was reluctant to dull it by destroying Julianus’ son.
Then Saturninus got up and decisively moved to the right. Several of the bolder members followed, deciding to take the chance Nero wanted Julianus’ life preserved. Then, more hesitantly, the rest followed. The vote was unanimous.
The Consul called out in rising crescendo, “The court judges Marcus Arrius Julianus innocent of treason.”
The mob pressed about the doors of the Curia raised a joyous clamor of approval.
He has done it, Domitian thought, quietly stunned. He has turned round a charge of treason, and this does not happen on earth. Surely he called down some powerful magical protection. His very presence seems a charm against destruction.
Marcus Julianus felt a great relief like an outrushing tide. His father had his eulogy at last. But relief did not last: He saw his own circumstances were still grave.
&n
bsp; The verdict at once began to bring about a change in Nero. Julianus could almost see the shadow pass over his face, and he guessed the sort of anxieties at work in the Emperor’s mind.
Marcus knew then neither verdict would have satisfied Nero. Had the Senate found him guilty, Nero would have counted them insensitive to his needs as an artist. But the acquittal inverted Nero’s suspicions; already he seemed greatly affronted, as if he’d forgotten his own part in influencing the verdict and had already begun to wonder—why have they acquitted this Stoic troublemaker so readily?
Nero motioned irritably to the court’s secretary. He spoke rapidly while the man copied his words on a wax tablet and marked off names on the Senate roster. This required some time and many tablets. Then tablets and roster were brought to the Consul, who caught his breath when he read what was there; for a moment he could not speak.
Finally Messalinus steadied himself enough to read Nero’s words.
“The verdict will stand, for I honor the Senate and I refuse to interfere with the will of this court. But you must know you have incurred my extreme displeasure in acquitting a man who has insulted me time and again, and with relish. Even at his own wedding, an occasion of joy, he stooped to accuse me of plagiarism. Let it be known that beginning on the Kalends of the month of Junius, the following members will be tried for treason: Gaius Saturninus…,” and so followed a list of over a hundred names. A quarter of the Senate would stand trial for their lives.
Angry murmurs rose to a restrained roar. The whipped hounds, Julianus saw, were turning on their master. Does Nero truly expect all of us to bare our necks to the blade? One torch lit now might set off a conflagration. Nero, we will show you another Great Fire. But I cannot be the one to light it. I am so close to freedom! But that is foolish. There is no freedom while Nero lives.
I must do it, even if I forfeit my life.
When the hall had fallen into fitful silence, Julianus turned to Nero. “I beg your indulgence, my lord. I was acquitted too quickly. I had a few more words to say. Might I say them?”
Nero stared at him a moment, protruding eyes opened wide in surprise. The wretch escaped death today. Doesn’t he know he is better off keeping grateful silence? But curiosity overcame him, and he gave Julianus the barest nod.
Before he spoke there came, unaccountably, a vision of the ghostly woman of his father’s records; she watched him expectantly, a gentle lioness afire with natural life. Who are you…patroness of those who offer themselves as a willing sacrifice? A great soul you must have, to touch this hall over such a flight of miles.
He addressed not the Senators, but Nero. “I do not wish to be absolved by this court. Nor do I wish, Lucius Domitius, to be absolved by you.”
A sickened silence fell, full of averted eyes, held breath. He had addressed Nero by his childhood name, bare of titles and honors. “I have what I wanted—I cleared my father’s name,” he went on, voice gathering in strength. “Your justice I do not want. By Minerva, justice here is capricious as the weather!”
What madness is this? was the question in every eye. Why would one who had so cleverly saved himself turn round and leap onto the blade?
“You now will truly call me a traitor…but somewhere within, you must know I am your only ally. You have surrounded yourself with men who will not speak the truth. They are flattering you to a bloody end!”
Domitian watched in a fearful rapture. The words unspoken for so long were spoken; it was as if Julianus’ words were a blaze of light that illumined a cavern. All the vermin scurried out, all that was foul was burned away.
Nero sat as though numbed by a poison dart; he did not seem to be breathing.
“Since what people write on the walls is carefully washed off before you ever see it,” Marcus Julianus went on, “here then is the truth. The army makes sport with your name, and nothing you can do will regain their confidence. The whole of the city reviles your name. You should have lived by your student essay on gentleness—you’ve murdered too many of us, and you’ll never be safe here. Many in the provinces love you still because they know you only by your largesse—but of what use are they without the army? The thing of which you wrongly accused my father is what you yourself bring about—endangerment of the frontier. For when competing armies do battle to the death because you refuse to name an heir, do you think our barbarian enemies will stay on the side and watch? No, they will come down and ravage us with abandon. Preserve your memory, the Empire, and your own life in the only way possible. If you’ve any love of good left in you, step down before you are dragged down with a blade at your throat. And name an heir!”
The last words rose to passionate pitch. Then there was black silence. Nero’s spirit seemed to have fled his body; he was propped up stiffly on the throne like some wooden effigy.
Finally life came to Nero’s right hand. He crooked a finger, summoning a Centurion of the Guard. Indicating Marcus Julianus, he whispered, “Drag this monstrosity from my sight.”
Julianus did not wait for the Guards to seize him; he inclined his head once in farewell to his colleagues, then stepped down from the dais, walking swiftly to the door, a stride ahead of the Praetorians.
Nero cried hoarsely after him, “You’ll have all eternity to bore the hosts of Hades with your noxious moral lectures! Marcus Arrius Julianus, I condemn you to the dogs. You’ll make an insulting meal for my faithful Molossians, but make a meal you shall. To the dogs…. Do you hear me, fiend?”
Julianus fought for that brilliant calm he had felt fleetingly at the trial’s beginning—but it was gone, driven off by the memory of Isodorus’ pitifully thin torso sinking beneath a blur of whipping gray bodies and blood-flecked fur.
In his wake the Senators exchanged wondering looks, as though mildly surprised they still lived. Julianus knew they trembled on the brink of freedom—the long-beaten beast had spied the unlatched gate.
In the visitors’ gallery Domitian rose to his feet, watching Marcus Julianus until he could see him no more, cursing at the men and women about him who jostled him and blocked his view. He was seized with a kind of wild heartache, a sharp, filial love. All the jealousy he felt earlier was burned away by the thought of the hideous death his friend faced.
By all the gods, that man must live! he thought. There is not another like him alive in these times. I will have great need of him when I rule.
Never will I do what Nero has done, swimming in delusion until the pond is drained and I’m left there to die, stupid and gasping. I will not have a flock of flatterers to blur my sight till I am blind as he is. Men who tell the truth to a ruler are worth the provinces of Egypt and Asia together.
News of the arrest of Marcus Arrius Julianus set the mob in dangerous motion; they began to range through the city, hurling bricks, breaking up shops. Fearing the crowds might free Julianus on his way to the Mamertine Prison, Nero hastily wrote another order, commanding eighty of the Guards stationed before the Curia to accompany the prisoner.
But only twenty obeyed him.
It was deliberate defiance. From this time forward they would take orders from their Prefect, not from Nero.
Nero knew then how dire his circumstances were.
But he ordered the Consul to continue on with the day’s business, desperate to affect an air of unconcern. Before the day was done, the crowd outside the Curia had begun a dirgelike chant, Die, tyrant, die, and Nero began to feel all the demons of the sulfurous depths were ringed about him, ready to pull him down. At dusk he called for his litter so he could be borne back to the safety of his Golden House.
All was confusion as Guards rushed to close the bronze doors before the mob streamed in. Domitian watched with terror laden with contempt as Nero, all dignity gone, scuttled backward down the short flight of steps leading to his throne, shifting his bulk with manic agility. A soldier of the Guard caught and steadied him or he would have fallen. A plain litter was brought up, and Nero swiftly disappeared within, ordering the bearers to take hi
m out through his private door.
Julianus was brought to the lowest cells of the Mamertine Prison, a pit dug out of stone and earth with water puddled on its floor. Hourly he awaited the footfall of the executioner, making desperate guesses as to what passed above. Were enough of the Guard still loyal that Nero could perpetrate one more massacre and maintain his seat? Or had the world cracked open? If it had, he did not credit himself overmuch; he had opened a sluice-gate that would have burst open on its own shortly thereafter.
The throng about the Curia hourly grew more hostile; the Senators passed a desperate sleepless night imprisoned in the Senate House. The next day was ill-omened on the calendar, and they dared conduct no business. The Guard saw them supplied with food. On the third day, dazed by lack of sleep, they began a new session. The augur called it a day of great good omen. In the first hour they seized their freedom: They passed a resolution declaring Nero an Enemy of the People. This meant they condemned him to punishment “in the ancient manner”—the victim was stripped naked with his head thrust into a wooden fork, and he was flogged to death with iron rods.
Nero retreated to his audience room and passed three days in frantic indecisiveness, issuing terrifying edicts, then canceling them; he was stunned by how quickly his loyal protectors were fleeing his side. He ordered Locusta, his poisoner, to prepare him a mixture that worked swiftly, and carried it about with him in a golden box. Then he hatched a vague plan to flee somewhere beyond the borders of the Empire, Parthia perhaps, where he might live as a private citizen and support himself by acting and singing. Desperately he tried to persuade some of the officers of the Guard to escape with him, but the Guard shunned him. That night he retired to his bedchamber with a dozen concubines, leaving a strong guard outside the door. When he awakened the next morning, his concubines, chamberlains and valets had fled in the night, and many costly things were missing, including his golden box of poison.
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