Below her in the tavern’s shadow, one of the undercooks of the Palace kitchens called out, “That captive there, second from the end, in the fifth rank…by Venus, I know him! He’s apprenticed to one of the Palace bakers. That’s no Chattian savage. We’re being taken for fools!”
These words flew like grassfire through the crowds. Within the hour the whole of the throng was convinced that Domitian had filled out a hefty portion of the captives’ number with Palace slaves disguised as Chattian warriors.
But then the angry mutterings were momentarily stilled, for the Emperor approached. Domitian’s lictors, the footmen who traditionally cleared the way for a great man, moved beneath the gate with solemn step. The number of lictors allowed a magistrate had always served as an indication of the extent of his civil power; so august a personage as the City Praetor was preceded by six. But Domitian, to no one’s surprise, awarded himself twenty-four. Each bore on his shoulder the fasces, the bundles of birch rods and axes secured with a leather thong that symbolized the absolute power held by the man who came after them. Their march was accompanied by the stern, inexorable pounding of a drum, an exacting rhythm that reprimanded the soul and warned all to walk in time.
Then four milky horses harnessed abreast emerged from the shadows of the gate; they capered sideways, out of step with the drum, fighting their jewel-bedecked reins. From high on the Gate of Triumph, saffron was tossed into the air. The triumphal chariot bearing Domitian moved into yellow mist.
A prodigious roar swelled up at the sight of him. Those massed about the Triumphal Gate were mostly veterans, soldiers on leave, and merchants from outlying towns—people who had either benefited from Domitian’s rule or not been adversely affected by his acts. They were easily drawn into the heady delusion that the figure standing motionless as an idol in that fantastic chariot of ebony, ivory and gold was an earth-bound divinity, the deliverer of them all.
Domitian stared stiffly ahead, rigid and cold as his ever-more-numerous golden statues. The red paint daubed on his face made him appear to wear a bloody mask—a macabre visage somehow fitting since he had commanded the letting of so much blood. A garland of Delphic laurel crowned his head. In his upraised hand was an ivory scepter surmounted by a golden eagle—spirit-bird of this tribe that had overswept the world. His tunic was of Tyrian purple stitched with silver palms, the sign of victory. Over it was a majestic purple toga embroidered with stars. Public slaves walking alongside the chariot bore swinging pots of incense; the dense black smoke drifting from them veiled the chariot, obscuring then revealing the Emperor, suggesting the clouds shrouding Olympus. He was mythic, remote, a terrible yet merciful colossus deigning to let the common people look upon him.
Standing behind Domitian in the chariot was another public slave; to him fell the duty of holding over Domitian’s head a gem-studded Etruscan crown. This slave repeated the ritual words, “Look behind you—remember you are mortal,” a charm intended to protect the triumphant general from the jealous wrath of the gods.
But Domitian heard the words of the charm no more than he heard the buzzing of the pesky fly that seemed determined to follow him from the moment he ascended the chariot in the Field of Mars. He was absorbed in studying every nuance of the populace’s cheers as critically as a musician listens to a rival’s music.
Yes, he thought, those cheers sound well and sincere. But, by the bones of Aeneas, they were louder and more laden with love for my cursed brother after Jerusalem.
All the years I fought for this! And it is naught but empty noise. As always, the prize disappears like smoke in the grasping of it. Those masons there by the way, with their bent backs and callused hands, are more content than I.
Next he thought of Marcus Julianus, who had first refused to take his place among the Senators leading the procession, then at the last even hatched an excuse not to join the dignitaries awaiting him at the Temple of Jupiter. Domitian suspected his First Advisor harbored some obscure and unaccountable contempt for all of this—the war, and the people’s need of war. How can the soured view of one man foul what I have lusted for all my life?
But it does. Domitian realized then, his eyes watering from the smoke, how vital it was to him that Marcus Julianus witness the procession; that he was not here made it almost as if it had not been.
Madness. Do I love the man that much? I more nearly loathe him. It is impious, of course, to hate a man who saved your life…but it’s difficult to love a man who lays ever more skillful traps for you, determined to show you unworthy.
Behind the Emperor’s ceremonial chariot marched the men of the legions that had fought in the war, in rank upon endless rank, excepting the detachments left behind to guard Domitian’s new frontier. Their upraised javelins were green with laurel. The next titanic wave of cheers were for them. The people threw roses, which caught on their weapons or were crushed on the paving stones by booted feet.
The procession passed round the Flaminian Circus’s course, then on into the city’s heart, its carts of glittering treasure like some sumptuous barge drifting through a human sea.
Auriane for long had let herself be aware of nothing but the hot cobbles beneath her feet, her searing thirst, the press of more humanity than she knew existed in all the Nine Worlds, the strangely disturbing smells of competing perfumes with their oil bases growing rancid in the heat, the odor of burnt fat from the vendors’ stalls, the smell of death and sickness coming from her own people, the mercifully blinding sun that blotted from view the hard, curious faces of the multitudes. But as the procession made its way through the Circus Maximus and around the Palatine Hill, and the sun climbed high enough that it did not blind, curiosity overcame her and she began to look.
All about her she saw amazements to stop the heart, edifices Decius’ paltry descriptions fell miserably short of capturing. She was long used to wondrous displays of nature; it was new to her to be humbled by the works of men. Climbing the hills, almost seeming to rest atop each other were blindingly white dwellings for giants, at once massive and delicate as they soared up, pushing back the sky, many so covered in bronze or gold they glowed with liquid fire as if freshly pulled from some colossal forge. She did not know the temples of their gods from the dwelling places of men. She could no more comprehend the complexity of it all than she could have known every leaf upon entering a grove. The columned temples and government buildings were, to her eyes, groves of stone, with columns in place of trees, brimming with the labyrinthine mysteries of this strange race. Here nature was brought to her knees, and men made themselves magnificent in her place. Everywhere along the way images of goddesses and gods loomed, their serene faces frozen in gold; everywhere water rushed with forceful purpose or leapt playfully as salmon in a stream, to land noisily in stone beds. And the bestial roaring echoing through these stone canyons never ceased punishing the ear. She feared the sights and sounds crashing in upon her would drive her mad.
The Sky Hall itself could not be so dizzying or mysterious. These people need go nowhere after death, she thought; they lived like gods already. If the Three Fates themselves had issued forth from the high doors of one of the temples, her astonishment could not have been greater. This was the most fantastic weaving of Fria’s magic, the ultimate source of the marvels of which she had glimpsed but scraps in her own country. The villas, the far-shooting missiles, were wonders enough. But now she came upon the nest; here marvels swarmed.
How simple these people must think us, she thought as she felt acutely the throng’s probing looks. Why does this enemy bother with us?
She forced herself then to remember the man in the Emperor’s garden. Marcus Arrius Julianus. The memory of him was a stable place in the midst of brilliant, pulsing chaos. And already that memory had begun to animate the dead part of her, to rouse what she thought would never sense again, and tantalize her with the possibility of dissolving old, calcified shame.
Great spirit and friend, Auriane invoked him silently, you who bear the name
of my father’s enemy…spirit that always was—between us is a graceful understanding bound to take me to the end of my days.
Ramis would say there’s no mystery in all this; it is only that he mirrors me as I truly am. Somehow that disappoints. Can that be all of it? Normally Ramis makes things too obscure; in matters of love it always seemed she made them too simple.
How unaccountable that he possessed the sacred mold—there are, after all, only nine in existence. No matter how he says he acquired it, it was given by Ramis. And stranger still is that he gave it to me. Perhaps it is the very one I lost on the battlefield?
Baldemar, witness—I understand none of this. Why was I brought here if not to free you? But I cannot, without spilling more blood. But the return of this amulet can only be a stern warning to shun battlefields forever, a reminder that all who stand on this Middle-world are of one blood.
She knew then that the current that had tugged at her all her life, always dragging her outward, meant to pull her here. Here the pull slackened, the deep waters pooled. The city seemed a sentient thing, watching her with subtle, glittering eyes. It had waited long.
She heard a sound like a puppy’s cry and gradually realized Sunia was speaking in an ululating voice: “…now they kill us…now it comes…”
Auriane turned slightly to look at Sunia, all the while carefully concealing her own feelings of alarm, for she was determined to give her tormentors no satisfaction. Sunia’s eyes were glazed and her head lolled forward; she looked like a beast under the yoke.
“Sunia,” she said, shouting to be heard over the din, “I swear by my mother and father, the oxen die today, not us.”
“Every tribe of the earth gives its prisoners to the gods.”
“Not this one. We’re to be saved for another purpose—but know that for now at least, we will live.”
Sunia seemed to listen intently, but Auriane saw little comprehension in her face.
“I have…” Auriane hesitated. “I have the word of a man greater than their Emperor, a man too noble to say an untruth.”
It was no use. Sunia’s wild, sightless look remained.
As the procession moved past the House of the Vestals, closing in upon its destination, they came to the district where the poorest and bitterest people were massed, those who had felt most keenly the punishing hand of Domitian, in the form of brutally enforced regulations for small shopkeepers, harsh restrictions on the freedoms of freedmen, and most recently the savage suppression of the street play. Here the throng was like turbid, dangerous water—the jeers directed at the captives were more bold. Some made obscene gestures at her tribesmen or chanted mocking words in unison.
“A poor show!” several voices cried from the upper story of a tenement block. She felt her limbs weighted with dismay. Now the eyes of the mob had the empty glint of beasts of prey.
For the first time Auriane began to feel broken inside.
Have they not humiliated us enough by parading us as criminals? Fria, give me the strength to keep my head lifted and walk on….
Auriane struggled to do the ritual of fire. She was aware that Sunia’s steps had slowed; she feared the younger woman would collapse to the ground and be dragged by her chains. She found Sunia’s hand and grasped it firmly, while a knot of terror began to form in her stomach.
What possesses this monstrous people? She felt flayed alive. Her shame embraced even her people.
We drag thatch to cover ourselves while they build stone mountains. Is it any wonder they find us laughable? Loathsome people of Rome. How can they take such pleasure in a foot placed upon a helpless neck?
If Auriane did not understand what had roused the throng’s malice, Domitian knew all too well. The hand that held the ivory scepter began to tremble with wrath. His eyes were no longer empty and remote; they flickered with murderous light.
“Go back and fight a real war!” came a shout from so near it was an act of defiance shocking in its audacity, but Domitian dared not risk his dignity by turning to look for the offender in the crowd. The taunts were spreading like fire in a wooden tenement. And he could do nothing—he was as closely bound as the prisoner readied for torture. He prayed to his patron goddess Minerva that the City Cohorts would quell this rebellion with a minimum of disturbance to the august occasion.
“Where was the enemy—couldn’t you find him?” came a bellow from a rooftop. Domitian was glad of the red paint; it concealed his scarlet flush.
The foul ingratitude, Domitian thought bitterly. Five captives died in their cells and so I was forced to put in five of my own slaves to make an even row—and the people behave as though this proves the whole war was a hoax. Any reasonable man in my place would have done the same.
So, you mewling herd of miscreants, you have shown me your true face. You despise my works and all I am, and for no cause but your own perversity.
As they approached the solemn beauty of the Basilica Julia, Auriane found her growing rage lent her strength. She sought out individual faces in the crowd and met them with bold contempt. She knew Sunia was crying.
But Auriane did not know that, all along the route, she had roused deep sympathies. Quiet voices continuously pointed her out, and heads nodded in approval. And in this part of the city the feeling for her was even stronger. Fragmented tales of her had come to them over the years, always badly distorted or made fantastic, lately given greater clarity by the speech Marcus Julianus had caused to be delivered in the Senate. They knew she had once pulled down Domitian’s statue and set off a mutiny among the legions at Mogontiacum. These poorer and more wretched people saw something of themselves in her pitiful bravery, her stubborn pride.
As the crowd began to lose control of itself, becoming drunk with the possibility of making Domitian look ridiculous, fruit pits and pottery sherds sailed through the air. It was in the spirit of teasing at first; most missiles struck the pavement or the wheels of the wagons. No one dared aim too near the triumphal chariot itself. The culprits were concealed in high windows and felt themselves safe.
Then one daring rebel pitched down a roof tile, meaning for it to fall just short of the polished hooves of Domitian’s four white horses. But a companion knocked his arm as he threw, spoiling his aim, and the roof tile struck Auriane.
She fell to one knee, clutching her ankle; the pain was momentarily blinding.
Sunia stopped as well, jerking the rank ahead to a halt. “Vile beasts!” Sunia shrieked. “Who would strike a person bound!”
Auriane could not move; she lost all feeling in her leg. One by one the ranks ahead of her were reined in, as all were attached by their fetters, and those behind were forced to stop as well. Eventually Domitian’s white horses were brought to a nervous, dancing halt.
Tradition and piety demanded Domitian not speak or move. He stood in silent, trembling fury.
Who in the history of triumphal processions has been made to put up with being halted like this? Indignities stalk me like buzzards. If one of those filthy animals fell, whip him up, drag him! The Prefect of the City Cohorts will pay for this. The gods in the heavens shall be called to account for this.
In back of Domitian the army halted, vaguely mystified looks on their faces.
It is an omen, Domitian thought. A disastrous one. Because it befalls me on such a grand occasion, it can only portend far-reaching catastrophe. It means my life will be halted at a moment of glory, and in my prime. I will consult with the augurs tomorrow—but they will prattle on, not meeting my eyes, saying what they think will please me. I need no augur to tell me this foretells my assassination.
The crowd about Auriane fell into awkward silence when they saw her injury, as if some ponderous beast were pulled up short and made to feel ashamed of itself. For long moments they watched her on her knees until collective guilt spurred them to act. It was as though each individual in the crowd of poor tradesmen and freedmen felt he had personally struck her down.
Without warning, effectively as if it had
been planned and timed, a mass of them charged through the line of soldiers. They were aided by surprise; six men of the City Cohorts were knocked down before they had a chance to draw a sword, and one was trampled to death.
Fifty or more swarmed about Auriane. Numberless hands reached out to her. Carefully they helped her up; the women uttered soft sounds of encouragement. One tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her stola and made a bandage, knotting it about Auriane’s ankle with sure hands.
Auriane was as confounded by this strange outbreak of kindness as by the magic mountains all about. She got trembling to her feet; the crowd stayed protectively about her until she showed them she could walk. Sunia, buffeted by this friendly crowd, looked on with a stupefied expression, as if she had seen a wolf pounce on a lamb and lick its face instead of devouring it.
The people then fell back to give her room. When the greater part of the crowd saw her recovered, a raucous cheer arose. Auriane was not ashamed of the tears that stung her eyes. Fria led her through barren waste to a deep, hidden spring of humanity and pity. The mob of Rome no longer had one single demon face. The men and women who helped her had suffering hearts, frail hopes, the eyes of kin.
I am not weaponless. I am not alone. This land has its fertile places like any other. Ways can be found to carry on.
The cheers were punctuated now with cries of “We are not fools! There was no war!” Auriane knew suddenly the people had never been mocking the captives, but rather their Emperor. She felt an even greater kinship with them.
“Auriane,” a faceless voice called to her.
“Aurin, Aurin,” cawed a toothless old woman. Dozens now called her name, saying it softly lest it reach the ears of the Emperor.
Moments later, behind her the crowd let out a great groan, as of some heavy animal in pain. This was followed by the clatter of horses’ hooves and a series of piercing shrieks. Auriane turned quickly round, almost pulling Sunia off her feet, striving to see the place where the people had come to her aid, but the cobbled street had curved around. The Emperor has unleashed his soldiers on the people who lifted me up. As ever, that craven soul lusts for petty vengeance.
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