“Of course I can undo a runic curse,” she assured him. “But I will need the leg marrow and brain matter of a red-haired infant. They don’t appear often on the middens so one must be stolen. Can you pay for it?”
He dangled in her face a greasy leather pouch heavy with silver denarii. As she reached for it greedily, he snatched it away. “First, the infant, foul daughter of night.”
When one was procured, a frightful ceremony was performed. That night a prostitute from the Circus stalls cried out in vain for her red-haired infant, stolen while she slept. Aristos watched it all to make certain he was not cheated. Haruna boiled a potion composed of the human remains, along with the lung of a white sheep and the urine of a black goat; to this she added a pinch of henbane and Thessalian honey. Next she burned a figure of wax modeled to represent Auriane. Then, while muttering in Etruscan and daubing blood on his forehead and hands, she bade him drink part of the horrible mixture. Aristos drank as much as a sparrow might have, then spit it out and gagged. He was relieved to see that she ignored this. When the ceremony of cursing was done, Haruna proclaimed that not only had she nullified the power of the runes; she had as well ensured that Auriane’s heart would freeze before the next celebration of Saturnalia.
Six months passed; Saturnalia approached. Aristos hoped that by this time Auriane was at least feeling slightly ill. He wondered if the curse might have partly turned against himself—his hair was falling out in patches, and he had boils that would not go away. And then he saw her on the festival’s eve. She had returned to light practice, and to his dismay she appeared sleek, spirited and healthy.
He sent two of his henchmen to seek out Haruna and strangle her.
For the first time he thought—perhaps I should just answer her challenge. It might be the surest and perhaps the only way of getting rid of this scourge.
You think like a half-wit. This city loves you like a god—overnight you’d have them laughing at your back.
Then he began to dream of her. Auriane would beckon with an encouraging smile; she wanted to lie with him. He became aroused in his sleep. But when he moved toward her to take her, her face began to melt and distort, until it was transformed into the rigid, waxen face of Ramis. His muscles became paralyzed, and he collapsed and lay helpless on his back while that Hel-hag mounted him, tore into his chest and pulled out his heart to boil in a potion. He would awaken panting and bathed in sweat.
He began to drink neat wine to stifle the dreams, and soon, when Meton did not push him to practice, he was lurching drunk by midday. When a wart appeared on his right hand, he knew Haruna must have cursed him in dying. And so after a month of boils and bad dreams he thought once again of disposing of Auriane in the arena as she begged him to, calling on Wodan to show him a way to do it without inviting the world to heap ridicule on his head.
Domitian would have counted Aristos’ complaints as gnats next to what he faced. The Dacian War had gotten away from him utterly, and the measures that his military council assured him would bring swift victory he dared not consider. The first of these—that of assembling a sufficient number of legions to efficiently humble the Dacians and leading them to the Danube in person—meant leaving Rome untended for years, and he was now convinced the Senate was infested with men who lusted for his absence, waiting their moment to usurp the throne. The second, that of choosing a man of senatorial rank to command them, was even more unthinkable—for there was no man of the senatorial class whom he dared trust with such a massive fighting force. What was to prevent his appointed commander from turning his back on Dacia, marching home and making war on him? And so repeatedly he sent out forces that were too small in number, subjecting Roman forces to a series of humilating defeats. In one engagement in the Danubian wilds, the Dacian king surrounded an entire legion and annihilated it with all its cavalry and auxiliaries. The imperial councillors saw with alarm that for the first time Domitian’s obsessive distrust of the men about him began to compromise military strategy. Domitian knew the good will of the army, hard won in the Chattian War, was rapidly eroding, and this only served to increase his certainty that half the members of the Senate were courting its favor with bribes, hoping to seduce the legions away from him.
He calmed his nerves by rewriting the laws, curtailing the freedoms of the humble, solidifying the privileges of the great, imagining he resurrected the glorious old order and made his domains a safer place for himself. A freedman who did not pay proper respect to his former master could be re-enslaved. A plebeian who usurped the seats reserved for Equestrians and Senators in the theater or Circus could be scourged and fined. He limited further the number of slaves a man could legally manumit at his death. Prostitutes were prohibited from accepting inheritances.
Gradually his moral sternness slid into the perverse. He accused the Chief Vestal, Cornelia, of taking a lover and had her tried in secret at his Alban villa. Then he horrified the city by ordering her buried alive. This was the ancient punishment for unchastity among the Vestals and had not been employed for two centuries. At the last, however, he became anxious that she might be untouched in fact—in which case the gods might vent their wrath on him for persecuting so sacred a personage. And so before Cornelia was led into the underground chamber and sealed in darkness forever with but a measure of oil and one loaf of bread, he had her brought to him and took her by force, lest some future tribunal of gods charge him with the slaying of a virgin.
In these days Julianus observed a shift in Domitian’s behavior that alarmed him greatly: His ability to turn Domitian’s mind on a subject seemed strong as ever when he was in the Emperor’s presence. But once he took his leave, he lost all hold on him; Domitian’s suspicions were a wild gale that buffeted him about, and no human voice could be heard above its shrieks. It happened that Domitian ordered the execution of one of his freedman-secretaries, a man named Epaphroditus, simply because the man had helped Nero to commit suicide more than twenty years before—guiding the dagger when Nero lost courage. Domitian by this means meant to terrify all his freedmen in advance, should they contemplate any act of violence against him. Julianus argued that this act would accomplish the opposite of what he expected. Its cruelty—for Epaphroditus was ill and aged—and its unreasonableness—for Nero had commanded this freedman to do the deed—would only serve to unite Domitian’s own freedmen against him in common cause. Domitian had nodded, and there even came into his eyes that intent look that signaled he agreed. Julianus considered the matter settled, but on the next morning Epaphroditus was dragged off to death. Domitian had him beheaded in the crowded Old Forum rather than on the regular execution ground so the Palace servants could take heed.
Julianus passed these months in covertly approaching each Senator in turn, employing Domitia Longina’s help in arranging meetings ostensibly for other purposes. Patiently he tricked or cajoled from them the name of the most trusted and best loved of their colleagues. Many were openly terrified of him, supposing it some ruse to test their loyalty. When he had polled all save the dozen or so Senators no longer of sound mind, he found he had marked down the name of one man more than any other—that of the aged and amiable Senator Cocceius Nerva.
For a month Senator Nerva avoided him, guessing what was coming. And then one day Julianus intercepted him just when his quarry thought he had outmaneuvered him by leaving the Imperial Baths through a humble, little-used entry that opened onto the cook stalls. With Julianus hard in pursuit, Nerva walked with swift, angry strides, his gaze locked steadily ahead as if he thought it possible to pretend he did not know him.
“Off with you!” Nerva sputtered breathlessly. “Go annoy someone younger. And in a better humor. I’ll have no words with a man who makes me feel like a bullock prodded to sacrifice.” He brushed his arm with annoyance as if Julianus were some stinging insect that had settled on him. From behind them came the hollow shuddering of the gong that signaled the closing of the baths. Both men frequently collided with people in the crowd, most of wh
om either hurried frantically to evening engagements or felt the necessity to pretend they did so.
Julianus struggled to stay abreast of the surprisingly vigorous old man, while silently wagering that Nerva had not moved this fast in a decade.
“Now that’s an ungrateful thing to say to someone who is trying to place two-thirds of the known world into your hands,” Julianus replied, “not to mention immortal fame, and the peace of mind that comes with knowing you’ll always have a seat in the theater even if you’re late.”
“Your father was a vexatious troublemaker, and you are many times worse.” Nerva gave him the comically exaggerated frown of one who did not have the face for a convincing fierce expression; age had softened it into comfortable shapelessness, and a mild, gentle nature gave him a sheepdog’s eyes, full of patience and understanding. “I did not ask for this.” He looked at Julianus accusingly. “What if I decide, after a year, that it’s a life I despise? What then? Did you think of that while you were making plans for me? It’s not a post a man can exactly step down from—not with his head on his shoulders.”
“Well then, if after one year you decide you dislike what I got you into, I invite you to seek me out and avenge yourself upon me in any way you like.”
“I retire to my estates next year. Now I’ll never retire. You are too late. You should have come to me thirty years ago.”
“I beg you, slow your pace and listen!” A cart stacked with crates of hens blocked Julianus’ way and Nerva almost got away from him. He cursed, ran to catch up, then continued on with quiet fervor—“It will be you and no one else.” He forced himself to smile blandly so a suspicious eye in the crowd might imagine they discussed the yield of their vineyards in Gaul or the weather in Umbria. “You alone rouse no jealousies. You’ve held no high military command, and to our colleagues it’s a great point in your favor. In you, they see a way to give power and dignity back to the Senate. You may count it ill, but they don’t, that you are distantly of the family of Claudius and Nero. Like it or not, you’ve got the most illustrious lineage of any man living. A lesser man the army would throw off like a testy horse an unfit rider. Three-quarters of your fellows named your name and the reasons to me are obvious. You’ve a reputation for firmness and for speaking your mind, yet at the same time you’ve got fewer enemies than any man—how you manage that, you alone know. You know the government better than any of them. And you’re as utterly different from him in temperament as it is possible to be. All will welcome a man who lives by the laws he makes.”
Julianus was encouraged when Nerva’s strides slowed somewhat. Then he thought it might only be that the old man was finally becoming winded.
“I cannot believe,” Nerva said almost wistfully, “that they truly want such an old man.”
“Even that they count in your favor. It’s an unflattering reality, but one that must be considered. As one man who I’ll not name put it: ‘He will die before he becomes dangerous.’ No one believes any longer in the ability of any man to withstand the temptations of absolute power for long. But whatever their reasons, you are their choice and you cannot run from this.”
Before Nerva could object, Marcus Julianus pressed on in a grimmer tone. “There are other arguments I could make. Do it, or die in your turn. He’s had a dream about you, you know, and it gnaws at him. He dreamt your mother lay a night in the temple of Apollo and a serpent came to her, and so you were conceived—just as the ignorant said of Augustus. Take heed. And what if his new astrologer claims you are destined to rule? No man of high birth is safe from his suspicions—if you don’t use your birth to your advantage now, it will be your doom later. I don’t see you have a choice.”
For a bare instant Nerva’s features seemed to settle into weary acceptance. Then he vigorously shook his head. “Curses on you,” he muttered. Then he turned sharply, narrowly avoiding a procession of dancing matrons in swirling robes who were sprinkling the street with sweet-smelling balsam, doing homage to the goddess Isis amid airy tunes played on pipes and the rhythmic clicks of silver rattles. Both men were blinded for a moment by the bronze mirrors the celebrants held while the women gestured with ivory combs, miming combing the goddess’s hair. The procession forced Julianus to one side of the street and Nerva to the other. This time Nerva escaped.
But on the next day at dusk, Nerva found himself purposely taking a route from the Curia that was certain to bring him across Julianus’ path as he departed from the Council chambers in the West Palace. Nerva was a skillful enough actor to make the meeting appear entirely accidental. This time he listened attentively to Julianus’ arguments. By the time they turned into the Street of Booksellers, Nerva had nearly surrendered.
“But I have no sons,” he said in a last weak protest. “Vespasian at least had sons.”
“One of whom was Domitian. To my mind, adoption brings better results anyway. But you must do it soon as you take up the purple. Give the people a sense of continuity at once, and your position will be that much stronger.”
“This has the stink of dreams about it. You are mad, and I’ve caught it.”
“Steady on, I wager you’ll get used to it soon enough. I can think of one or two worse lots in life. Now, you must begin at once rewarding those members of the Guard who are with us. I know exactly what he’s giving each of them—you must double it. Don’t trouble me with high-minded arguments. It is necessary. I’ll match what you give them from my own purse. Others will do the same—”
“What of the two Prefects?” Both men knew it would be disastrous to proceed without the support of both Guards’ Prefects—without them the conspirators could never win a sufficient number of Domitian’s pampered, well-paid Praetorians to their cause. With the Praetorians’ blades lay ultimate power; the consent of the Senate was empty noise without them.
“There’s work to be done there, admittedly. Both have been shy of me, but do not worry over it. Mark my words, I will win them. But there is one more matter. We’re never going to secure the whole Guard, that’s plain to me now. The ones that remain loyal are going to demand the death of the conspirators. But whatever happens after the deed is done, you must hold your ground. You will seriously undermine your rule if you give in to them. Do not advance the loyalists. Stand firm against them. And you stand a fair chance of cheating the probabilities and becoming one of the best rulers we have ever had.”
Nerva was actively silent for a time. Then he frowned and looked at Julianus. “You haven’t told me something. Why do you risk so much? What prize do you seek for yourself?”
“Only that monster’s death.” His steps slowed slightly as he permitted himself to reflect. “All my life I’ve never been able to shake the darkness of Nero. It clings like dye to cloth, like infernal slime…. At times I fall into a belief that destroying this tyrant might somehow nullify the curse of the one I could not stop.” A restrained anguish crept into his voice. “Though I suppose it is, in the end, for my father, as well…and for another poor old man who died with him, who was also my father,” Julianus added, feeling a need to do some small homage to Lycas. He was silent for several strides, then he firmly met Nerva’s gaze. “However, my good friend, here is one small gift I desire of you…afterward.”
“Ah. Of course. If we prevail, there is nothing I would deny you.” Nerva thought—I know what gift this man wants. It must be so.
Watching Julianus’ face intently, Nerva said, “The Asian province. Ask for it, and it is yours. No, Egypt. I would even give you Egypt, in the face of all custom.” The governorship of Egypt, the most prestigious post in the Empire, was not normally entrusted to a Senator, for the extraordinary fertility of the Nile Delta made this land crucial to the well-being of the state. It was feared an ambitious Senator might seize bread-producing Egypt, form an independent state and wreck the economy of the Empire. The post was given usually to a distinguished member of the Equestrian order, a man who was a trusted friend of the Emperor’s.
“An impressive
offer and a noble one! But you should have come to me ten years ago,” Julianus replied, echoing Nerva’s words of the day before. “Power doesn’t beckon anymore…only understanding beckons. No, what I would ask for is a minor civil post in the province of Upper Germania, something with little to do directly with governing—for example, to be your First Engineer in charge of public works in the province or perhaps legal counsel to the Governor there. And I would ask for a tract of good land on the west bank of the Rhine in Upper Germania, above the confluence of the river Main.”
“My hearing comes and goes. I think it just went. You cannot mean this.” When he saw that Julianus smiled tolerantly but held firm, he went on, “If you really want to be sent into exile, it can be arranged without my help. That’s an insulting post in a barren waste.”
“It is fertile waste to one who wishes to teach and write of what he has learned and pass time in considering the words of the philosophers. There, I mean to resurrect my beleaguered school, though admittedly it will be difficult to get learned teachers to follow me. Theophila has said she would come, as has Galerius—”
“If all of them followed you, it is still mad. Even the civil population out there barely reads. They chase down boar with fire-hardened sticks, not the newest theories of the origins of the universe.”
“If a dozen pupils come, it will suffice. I do not need great numbers. A lust for knowing can be born in the forest as well as in the civilized places. In that country, it seems the very air purifies and leads us back to nature’s first causes—”
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