And to Domitian’s right sat the man who had betrayed it, his confidential counselor and First Advisor, Marcus Arrius Julianus.
Julianus felt sharply separated from all about him. He knew he had but his wit, his hands, and a will of adamant to pit against the coming horror. The evening before, he had lectured the students of his beleaguered school on the words of the esoteric philosophers regarding the futility of sorrow, hoping it would help him bear his own. The students had applauded and wept, but it had left him feeling ever more strongly that something was gravely missing from all known teachings. And there had come a memory, invisible and emotionally undermining as old, loved music: He saw again the broken fort where he had taken refuge on the pine-clad slope of the Taunus, and remembered that striking peace.
Our philosophies are brittle houses of words, Julianus thought; they collapse in every gale. The wind-rattled pines speak with an older voice, one afire with nature’s gentle omniscience…. Could it be the barbarian sybils do have the means of healing the wounds of cities, of showing the way to natural life? Did not that vision-ridden madman Isodorus hint at it? Is not Auriane’s primal innocence a sort of proof?
I think sorrow is taking my good sense.
If this day does not end in her death, it will certainly end in our exposure—for how can I restrain myself from rushing in to aid her if she seems truly to need it?
Montanus’ next words brought Julianus to cold stillness. “Here’s one from some rascal named Corax,” Montanus said to the Emperor. “He insists he was unfairly removed from his post after the Torquatus affair, and asserts he has a truer version of it to relate to you. He wants his post back, or a better one.”
Domitian gave Montanus the combination gesture-and-grunt that meant—put that one aside so I can study it later.
Nemesis, Julianus thought. If Corax says too much, Domitian might easily guess that I ruined Torquatus to save Auriane. I must act quickly. I’ll either have to buy Corax’s silence or find him a better post myself. I sail a ship that daily springs more leaks.
In back of them Junilla reclined on a couch, attended by two handmaids chosen for their colorlessness so they would not unduly distract Domitian’s attention from herself. Normally Domitian would not flaunt Junilla in public, but he did so today to punish his wife—for yesterday he had learned the truth of her miscarriage, after questioning her personal physician under torture. He meant to publicly banish Domitia Longina from his side until she came before him of her own will to confess her crime.
Junilla looked about with worldly confidence; every year her far-flung estates brought her increasing wealth. As long as she occasionally yielded to Domitian’s restless lusts, he repaid her by neglecting to closely scrutinize her private life. Her stola of carnelian silk was so finely spun that her rouged nipples were visible beneath; its clasps were studded with emeralds. She had smoothed green verdigris around her eyes, giving them a glittering, snakelike brightness. Her hair was set in tight, disciplined tiers of curls that had taken her maids half a day to fashion; the result made it appear as though she had summoned an architect rather than a hairdresser. Her periods of imperial favor never lasted more than a few nights. Repeatedly Domitian discovered that her intimidatingly perfect mouth, those dark and barbarous eyes, that beauty so unchanged as year added to year that it seemed embalmed, and her moods, shifting with whip-crack speed from honey to acid—began to repel as much as they first excited, and he would dismiss her. And Domitian would realize, greatly annoyed, that a good part of the reason he returned to her repeatedly was because she was enshrouded in an unaccountable haunting allure because she had once been Marcus Julianus’ wife.
But Domitian had not dismissed her yet and Julianus knew she was at her most dangerous at these times—imperial favor lent a reckless quality to her malice. She scented his unease at the mention of Corax; that beautiful head came up, and he felt her eyes fixed on the back of his neck like claws.
Domitian abruptly lost interest in Montanus and the petitions and turned to Julianus. “What is gnawing at you, my good man?” he said with obstinate good cheer, putting a bullying hand on his First Advisor’s shoulder. “You make me uneasy when you ascend to these reveries. Come down from Olympus for one day and pay us mortals a visit. Sport with us. Place a bet with me. I insist. Not on this—” He waved a deprecating hand at the struggle below. “That net-fighter looks ready to drop dead if his opponent sneezes on him. But the next pair. Don’t you think he should, Montanus? Do you think, Mountainous?”
Montanus started from his frightened fog, embarrassed that he had not responded at once. “Magnificent idea, my lord. I’ve always said our dear Julianus should come down here and sit with us mortals.” He tensed when Domitian gave him a chilly look, wondering what he had said that was improper.
Julianus said quietly, “If offense was taken, I meant none.” His smile was not quite readable to Domitian; its amused tolerance would have angered him had it not been mingled with a certain earnest innocence. “But you know it is the tradition of my family not to bet on men’s lives.”
“Bet on a woman’s, then. Got you, there. That insolent Amazon comes in next, does she not?” He leaned toward Montanus’ gold-lettered list of events, feigning a need to consult it. “Put five hundred on her,” Domitian persisted. “Come now, everyone has bet against her—she needs your help.”
Julianus heard Junilla eagerly shifting her position on her couch.
He smiled good-humoredly. “And bet on a certain loser? You think sudden impoverishment will put me in a gayer mood?”
Junilla was enraged that Marcus Julianus was not more agitated by this. Her hatred of him was all the more tenacious, tangled as it was with unacknowledged desire, and as she sensed ever more strongly the bond between him and Auriane, it grew into a misshapen, monstrous thing. Her memories had remade themselves as her soul required, and in these times she even held Julianus to account for the death of her child, because she could not believe ill of Nero, who in spite of his cruel use of her was still the most powerful protector of her youth.
Discard me like some Circus trull, will you? How dare you be so sure of yourself, Endymion.
“My pretty titmouse,” Domitian said, turning round to look at Junilla. “What do you think on this matter—or is that delightfully vacant head of yours still stupefied by thoughts of last night?”
One covetous hand moved over the swell of her hip, claiming it with a collector’s pride, as if she were the finest of Corinthian bronzes.
She waited until she sensed she had everyone’s attention, making a desultory show of fanning herself with her parrot-feather fan.
“Well, I think a man should bet on the woman he loves.”
She had struck. Montanus was delighted that he had not missed this; as soon as he could get free he would scurry back to the Palace to relate this exchange to Veiento.
Domitian turned to Julianus. He put little trust in Junilla’s word, but he knew also that she could have chosen more direct methods of ruining his First Advisor. Why make such an odd accusation if it were not true? Slowly Domitian’s look became brutal. The thought of anyone having Auriane raised a jealous storm, but the thought of Julianus having her was past bearing. Even the Guards posted in the box stole covert glances at Julianus—the thought of a man like that destroying himself for a woman worth no more than a dray animal was as bewildering as it was farcical.
Junilla gave them her what, did I say something out of place? smile, then watched Julianus with great interest. But his face bitterly disappointed her. In his eyes was only a calm, flexible strength; it was almost as though he had been expecting this today.
Julianus then said to Junilla, “Has Aristos tired of you so quickly, my dear? Your malevolence always was at its most unbridled just after your latest lover realizes his mistake.”
Domitian was perhaps the only man in Rome who did not know this, for he had been meting out severe punishments to men of all ranks who libeled the nobility. No o
ne had had the courage to tell him; none were willing to take the risk of not being believed.
Domitian turned to Junilla, something turbid and violent churning in his eyes. “Aristos?” he whispered, his expression betraying he was in the act of vividly imagining that embrace. Had anyone but Julianus said it, he might not have believed it so readily.
Junilla’s lips parted slightly in shock. She had miscalculated. Years of imperial protection had caused her to drift gradually into the trap of believing herself invulnerable to ruin. And she had not counted on Julianus’ fierce protectiveness of Auriane. It left her with no doubt that there was some connection between them.
Domitian withdrew from her as if she were a pail of night soil. His face ashen in his anger, he mutely waved her off while refusing to look at her, as though addressing her directly would defile him. When Junilla remained frozen in astonishment, he commanded the Guards—“Take that thing out of my sight.”
Junilla shook her head once in disbelief, the tower of elaborate curls shivering, the deep flush of her cheeks showing beneath her foundation of powdered white lead.
“You can’t believe him,” she whispered. “He despises me.” Her eyes stung like wasps.
Still addressing the Guard, Domitian said, “Tell this female animal she is not to tell me what I believe.”
Junilla rose an instant before a Guard caught her roughly under the arm. Fear warred with her rage. What will he do to me? she wondered frantically. Exile. I know it will be exile. Unless I can appeal to him later in a better mood and convince him Marcus Julianus is lying. None of them will get away with this. I will find a way to frame a treason charge against Julianus that will be believed. Has anyone in this age ever known such humiliation as mine on this day? I know of no one who was ever thrown out of the imperial box…. By this eve I’ll be the subject of every jest at every dinner party in Rome.
When Junilla was gone, Domitian said to Julianus, “What she said is true, is it not?”
Though Julianus knew this was coming next, still he felt the ground cracked open beneath his feet. Vile woman, you did your work well, he thought. He knew at once denial would be foolish; Domitian was shrewder than most at detecting lies.
He managed an expression of mild anguish and replied, “I can conceal little from you, can I?” He thought rapidly, knowing he would have to steer a careful course. He knew Domitian enjoyed uncovering the secret vices and degradations of those who seemed, in most things, to be above them. While confessing some regular crime to him was never wise, admitting to some shameful lust could often endear a man to him. “But what would you know of such humiliation?” he added.
Domitian frowned, suspended precariously between jealous rage and covert curiosity. “Now, out with it, and quickly, whatever it is you can’t conceal from me.”
“Can a man determine who or what will carry him off on a tide of lust? I bribed one of the guards of that school and went in there once, well disguised as you might guess, to spare myself needless embarrassment. He brought her to me and helped us to hide. It is better that you know the worst, somehow it relieves my mind.”
Domitian frowned threateningly, but his grunt expressed contentment.
“I think the woman is addled in the mind,” Julianus continued. “At first she was…more than encouraging. I forgot who was seducing whom. But all that alluring sweetness turned to venom at the first touch.”
Domitian listened intently, nodding slowly, thinking, by all the gods, that is precisely what happened with me.
“She was transformed in a heartbeat from nymph-in-heat to frothing bitch-dog,” Julianus went on. “I was fortunate to walk out of there with everything I walked in with. She attacked me with a broken potsherd. The names she called me still haunt me.”
“She’s got an adder’s tongue, that one.” Domitian was smiling companionably. “We should cut it out.”
“Oh, let her keep it. It taught me a lesson.”
“Well, she’s getting what she deserves today, is she not? This should trim her claws. Don’t take it to heart—I’ll find you something better. I’m sending you a Syrian maiden, thirteen years old if the importer didn’t lie, and proportioned like Niobe, with saucy eyes and breasts white as doves. I meant to keep her for myself but I don’t have time for her. She’s yours, for as long as you want. But you have to let me borrow her if I change my mind.”
Not this again, Julianus thought. “Your generosity humbles me.”
What will I do with this one? If I send her off with her freedom like the last one, for certain then he’ll ask for her.
And now his rage will be all the greater, if he ever learns the full truth of this matter.
CHAPTER XLVII
IN THE GLOOM OF THE ARMORY Auriane stood before the keenly honed instruments of death laid out upon a table. Torchlight snaked along double-edged blades. She tried one short sword, then another until she found one that had weight yet at the same time felt weightless.
This one is mine. I must mark it somehow, so I’ll know if it is exchanged.
Erato waited outside the door. The guard who admitted her, whose loyalties were unknown, looked on with a bland expression. She took up two swords at once, feeling the balance of both, feigning indecision. Then she scratched on the bone handle of the sword she chose the runic symbol of Tiwaz, god of the battlefield—one upright line capped with two shorter converging lines. When this was done, she thought she felt a rush of air, as though the god’s swift, invisible blade swept across the room. She sensed the ghosts of all her dead crowding near—Sigwulf, Thrusnelda and Baldemar held out arms that protected—and begged help. Relief rushed in.
The spirit of the Ash is in me still. I have powerful, rambling roots underground.
Baldemar, answer. Was I not the god of war’s good servant? You’ve pride in me still, I know it. Forgive me that I take so long. Walk with me now. Do not send me into that pitiless place alone.
The route from the Ludus Magnus to the gladiators’ entrance of the Colosseum was closed off by a wooden corridor. As boisterous groups of citizens attempted to climb it, the barricade thundered as if it were butted by elephants. Auriane fought to keep out the sounds of this raging human storm, striving to hear only the crackle of the flames of Ramis’ fire.
Two Numidian boys strutted ahead of her, bearing her sword and Perseus’ on crimson silk cushions. And beside her walked Perseus himself, clad in the azure and saffron cloak of the Claudian School. The wall of a fortress might have separated them. Perseus behaved as if she were invisible and inconsequential, keeping his closed, steely gaze rigidly ahead. She had met his eyes once when first she realized who he was, and had resolved not to do so again, for it had been like gazing into a labyrinth full of wrong turns, traps and trickery. At first look she had seen a lightly bearded man who might have been fair of feature except that his hard blue eyes were set in a permanent look of startled affront. She saw at once his too-upright carriage was carefully maintained—this was a man struggling to hold onto a precious dignity that he imagined the whole world waited to snatch from him. She guessed he felt keenly the shame of being matched with a woman. But it was what she sensed beneath this that disturbed her most. He had the look of a spirit lost. No firm purpose brought him here; his presence was the result of bad choices and accidents and others’ greed; here was a man slowly realizing he was being ground up on life’s millstone. She judged him ready to use any sort of treachery to set things right.
They moved through clouds of flies. The sun was savage. Behind them came four more red-liveried boys, bearing their helmets and shields. These were followed by six guards walking abreast, their javelins held horizontally as a barrier to the curious who tried to follow. Beyond the makeshift wall an aggressive new chant began— “No more women, no more unknowns—give us Aristos or we’ll rip the place down.” The thought of facing that crowd seemed humbling as being cast out in a tiny craft on a tumultuous sea.
The corridor curved and the great, brooding p
resence of the amphitheater forced her gaze upward. She allowed herself to look for an instant before she dropped her gaze back to her sword, and regretted it at once.
For the sight was utterly dismaying. Never before had she seen the grand amphitheater while it was infested with the thousands who came to watch men die. It teemed with loathsome life, as when a carcass is found to be overrun with maggots. Even death here is monumental, she thought as she looked on that blunt, brutish four-tiered mountain thrusting skyward; it seemed ablaze on top where the brazen shields set in the arches of the sky-tier were inflamed by the sun. The legions of gilded statues of gods and men inhabiting the arches of the middle tiers were leering spirits, welcoming the crowd while mocking the victims. High above, she heard a sound like a god cracking a whip; the many-hued velarium snapped angrily in the brisk wind. The Colosseum was an awesome ship of doom in full sail. She felt like some crawling insect as they passed into its vast sweep of shadow.
Auriane and Perseus moved beneath the gladiators’ entrance with its flanking Tuscan half-columns; then they were halted in the dim passage that formed a straight chute opening onto the sands of the arena. As they waited, delayed by some unknown cause, she heard a thin, determined voice cry out above the din—“Auriane.”
Auriane looked toward three small, barred windows in the wall of the main passage; these were underground rooms with a viewing window just above the level of the sand, where novices were sometimes permitted to watch the combats. She peered into the confusion of the crowded chamber, and there, to her disbelief, was Sunia.
Carefully keeping her gaze on her sword, Auriane moved to the small window. Sunia’s hand edged through the grate. She saw the injured woman leaned on a knotted stick; her leg was heavily bandaged to the knee.
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