When Domitian returned to Rome he turned his full fury on the Senators, whom he believed were ultimately the cause of the souring of his long, happy marriage with the army. The revolt left him with the sense that the legions were like some powerful consort who could never again be counted wholly monogamous—and the Senate teemed with her potential seducers. In this marriage he had a partner whom he could not rule by terror as he did his wife; this spouse needed to be courted always and treated with deference. If he couldn’t keep this consort faithful by force, he could terrorize her would-be seducers. He proceeded to do so, with dedication and violence.
And so he set the Senate to the task of trying and condemning its own. Gone was his earlier reluctance to play the role of tyrant—he had no use now for poisoned needles. Victim and verdict were given to the Senators in advance of each session, and trial after trial proceeded like a grim series of plays with one plot. The charge was always the same, but the evidence was often ridiculous. One Senator perished because he had a map of the world painted on the walls of his bedchamber, which was read as proof he intended to rule the world. The wife of another was condemned because her household servants reported she had undressed before a statue of Domitian set up in her own house, which showed mockery of his divinity. Informing became a profession and a passion. Among the humbler orders it proved the quickest route to wealth; many a sumptuous seaside villa was bought with an innocent person’s blood. It was a lucrative game anyone could play: All a man or woman had to do was arrange to see one of Veiento’s secretaries, and in two days’ time he might find himself telling his tale to the great minister himself—and afterward he would find enough in his purse to buy a team of race horses or a cook as skilled as Apicius. If guilt over the victims began to trouble him, that could be cured by reading the daily Palace bulletins the notice writers put up in the Old Forum. There he could learn that the man on whom he had informed had taken bribes, was a follower of foreign superstitions, a defiler of temples who committed unnatural acts with women and boys, a profligate beast who had been narrowly stopped from seizing the state.
As the heads of Senators began to decorate the Rostra, a detachment of guards was posted nearby to prevent relatives and retainers from taking them down. Domitian chose a place where ordinary citizens were obliged to pass while pursuing their daily business, so all moved in the shadow of those blackening heads. Some grinned like Satyrs from Hades through their halos of flies, taunting the living with the remorselessness of death; others seemed to cry out in shapeless agony; none seemed ever to have been human. By dusk the Old Forum was deserted by the superstitious. But by light of day everyone forced himself to look—a Palace secretary might discover a missing relative or friend; a plebeian might recognize the head of his patron before he had even learned his benefactor was on trial.
Julianus fought desperately to save as many as he could; once he hid in his house for a month the three children of a condemned Senator—Domitian would have murdered them lest they grow up to avenge their father. Eventually he arranged to have them delivered from the city hidden under the debris of a garden-cart. The children of others he hid within his school, disguised as copyists. He preserved two Senators’ lives by implying to Domitian that, unknown to everyone, they were bankrupt. Domitian saw little use in taking the time to prosecute men with no property to confiscate—for with his many donatives to the army, the Emperor was rapidly emptying the treasury. Julianus worried constantly for the safety of Senator Nerva, but so far the man’s affable nature, which Domitian seemed to count as docility bordering on senility, had kept Nerva safe. There was but one remaining difficulty preventing Julianus from setting a day for the assassination: his failure to gain the confidence of both Prefects of the Praetorian Guard, one of whom, Norbanus, seemed ready to give him an ear before the Terror. For Julianus knew well that, ghastly as these times were, still it was the senatorial class alone that suffered grievously. The Praetorians could provoke a civil war that would cause Rome’s gutters to run with blood and whole cities to be laid waste by contending armies.
Erato’s request on Auriane’s behalf was delivered to Julianus shortly after the revolt. He had not dared risk having Auriane brought before this time because his house was watched closely by agents of Veiento, who was eager to uncover any evidence of treasonable acts, and, since her disgrace, by spies of Junilla as well. But this evidence of Auriane’s discouragement saddened him and caused him to think less of caution. And so he arranged the meeting, though twice, for safety, he was forced to cancel it; finally it was set in spring, at the time of the festival of Flora. On these days there would be drunken gaiety in the streets, lascivious dances, masked revelers scattering lupines on the ground, and hares, goats and other fruitful animals loosed in the streets. Auriane could be more easily disguised amidst this joyous confusion. As a further precaution he decided it must not be at his own house but at the mansion of Violentilla, a wealthy senatorial widow who was one of the conspirators. Erato was relieved, for it seemed Auriane’s melancholia grew steadily worse.
Auriane’s recovery required seven months; her devotees among the mob waited out this time with rude, noisy impatience. When she returned, she fought and won three times in one month and each time her fame grew greatly. A prankster set up a crude likeness of her in battle regalia before the Temple of Venus; temple authorities were scandalized to learn that more offerings were set before her image than were brought that day to the goddess. Vendors of votive statues made a brisk business of selling locks of hair they claimed were Auriane’s, prompting Erato to remark, “A turbot has more intelligence than the people taken as one. They never wonder that you are not bald!”
Auriane killed her Indian tiger with a fluid grace that belied the tedious hours of preparation. She insisted on choosing the beast herself and spent much time with it, studying its habits. On the night before, she made her peace with the tiger, asking its spirit to forgive her its death. When the final moment came, it seemed the beast leapt obligingly onto her sword.
Her first human opponent after her return was a man called Taranis, selected by Erato from a pool of one-time victors. The bout had the rigor and cold beauty of a well-written tragedy; each tempered stroke brought eruptions of applause. Once again she felt herself a bird taken to flight. The end came swiftly. Taranis was unsettled by her from the start, for he believed only sorcery could have brought about her victory over Perseus; he had as well neglected to learn how to block a powerful backstroke. She did not kill him and the crowd voted to spare him, for they remembered the bout with Perseus and knew it was what she wished. He survived to fight again and was eventually released, living on to tell tales of her to his grandchildren.
Never in their history had the people had so many games lavished on them as in these times. The Colosseum was a world apart that preserved the illusion that the state was guided by a benign, capable hand. It was Domitian’s one place of refuge as well; here he could silence their growls in an instant and have them licking his hand by tossing them Aristos, or a show of elephants, or the woman Aurinia, and so nourish his fantasy that he ruled perfectly and absolutely.
On the eves of days Auriane was to appear and on the nights of her victories, idlers gathered under her high window and sang bawdy songs to her until the Vigiles drove them off.
“They care for you not at all, really,” Sunia observed with lofty impatience following Auriane’s eighth victory, as they were kept from sleep by cries of “Carissima Aurinia!” “When they call your name it means no more than ‘Death to the Emperor.’ To my way of thinking, they deserve that Emperor.” Sunia hesitated, then looked at Auriane. “Auriane…, was he there today?”
Auriane’s uncomfortable silence made a reply unnecessary. But finally she answered, “No. He was not. But must he be there every time? There are many possible reasons…. He could have been kept at some task…then, too, he might be…” She hesitated, then ventured on bravely over treacherous ground. “Sunia, do you wonder, ever,
why he alone of all their great men should be left alive?”
“Auriane, I cannot believe he’s come to ill, and you must not. Erato would tell you. Men like that do not perish without everyone hearing of it.”
The crowd’s torches cast a hobbling light on the wall of the cell; dimly it illumined Auriane’s form collapsed on the bedcushion. Sunia put a comforting hand about her shoulder and discovered that the mob’s darling was convulsed with quiet, struggling tears that she obviously wished to conceal. Sunia quickly took her hand away.
She loved Decius, Sunia thought, but not like this. It alarms me. This man is to her as the draft of air is to the bird. Fria, as you are guardian of lovers, preserve her.
That November, during the Plebeian Games, Aristos was given his greatest fright since his capture. He was matched with Hyperion in a contest that endured nearly an hour; they battled to an exhausted standstill. There was no dishonor in that; he had known he was close-matched. But Hyperion at the last knocked the sword from his hand, forced him to crawl before him on all fours, then placed a conquering foot on his back as though he intended to use him as a mounting block.
Aristos had never been at the crowd’s mercy before. The glory of all his victories, layer by layer, was stripped off; he felt himself small, awkward, grotesquely naked as some plucked fowl. The crowd’s hot, eager stares melted all life’s acquired armor; he was a boy again, tied to a tree and waiting for Wido to beat him. Even though the people readily spared him and loved him no less—indeed, the next day children in the streets reenacted every part of the battle with staves, and in their games Aristos won, for everyone had trouble imagining any other outcome—he was certain his golden fortune was failing because of the runic curse. His fate was like a body that outwardly appeared still vigorous while inwardly, it was secretly being devoured by worms.
And that night when he thrust a torch into his cell, he was met with a sight that brought a child’s whimper from him. Slowly he backed out of the cell.
On the back wall the runic sign of the war-god Tiwaz had appeared as if painted by a spectral hand; it was rendered upside down, in blood. To Odberht this signified the great god withdrew his help in war, leaving him exposed to blood-drinking enemy blades. On his sleeping-mat lay his short spear of linden wood, hallowed in the worship of Wodan, guardian of the sanctity of the runes; it had been broken in two. Between the broken pieces was placed his small clay figurine of Nihellenia, the name by which tribes who dwelled northeast of his people called the death goddess Hel; her blank round eyes regarded him innocently, pitilessly. The meaning was unmistakable—if he did not answer Auriane’s challenge, Hel would rend him in two.
If the ghost of Baldemar had appeared before him demanding wergild he could not have felt greater dread. He knew this whole barrack block was cordoned off always—there was no way Auriane could have stolen in to do these things.
Aristos demanded and got new quarters.
You have your wish, then, you she-demon, you spawn of guest-murderers. I shall cut you up into pieces small enough to feed to Junilla’s pet carp.
The following night, over mutton stew, he listened with sharp interest while Meton complained loudly to a fellow trainer about the annual games of August, held to celebrate the birthday of one of their most illustrious heroes, a man he sometimes heard called Octavian, at others Augustus, a warrior of old who won a victory in a great sea battle over a foreign queen called Cleopatra and her scheming lover, Marcus Antonius.
“The first day is utterly wasted,” Meton was saying with a world-weary shake of his head. “Those mock naval battles show no skill, they’re just a lot of carnage with newcomers. And then there’s that foolish business the next day when the fighters are disguised and the people are supposed to guess who they are—who cares? And they want volunteers of status! What man who’s made a name for himself is going to volunteer not to be recognized? Whoever hatched this notion should be arranging shows in Pannonia.”
After asking several careful questions, Aristos learned that all the contestants that day would be masked and robed as celebrated or notorious personages of history; the final exhibition was a pairing of Cleopatra and her ill-fated Marcus Antonius. He learned that a similar show had been staged in the days of Titus, when Cleopatra’s costume was worn by a man of slight stature.
Aristos thought, if this plan I’ve just conceived bears fruit, I wager our new Cleopatra will be of a more appropriate sex. This is the gift of Wodan, given me because I no longer make war upon the runes. If everyone believes our identities are unknown, even to each other, until the last when we are face to face before the mob and it is too late, how can I lose status by fighting that miserable woman?
And so Aristos volunteered at once to be costumed as Marcus Antonius. The secretary of Plancius, the magistrate responsible for this show, could scarcely believe his luck when he realized what a prize fish had swum into his net. Plancius’ games would be remembered forever, and his master would surely give him some rich gift when he learned of this. Aristos threatened the secretary with a slow and unpleasant death if he broke silence about this to any official of the Ludus Magnus.
Then Aristos sent round his henchman called the Acrobat with a message for Auriane. As she struggled through the idlers that gathered as she left the practice ring, the Acrobat approached with mincing walk, then inserted himself in front of her in his gaudy tunic, half red, half blue; all the while he juggled balls of colored glass to disguise his purpose. Fish sauce and garlic were heavy on his breath as he leaned close.
“Antonius desires to meet Cleopatra,” he said with a false lilt, as if he spoke lines in a drama, “to teach her a lesson she’ll not live to remember. That is, if this trembling ewe before me has the mettle to play the part of a queen.”
The Acrobat was disconcerted by the look of triumph that slowly came into Auriane’s eyes. Aristos is right, he thought; Mars coupled with a Fury to beget this creature.
Auriane replied, her smile amused, “Tell him Cleopatra trembles with gladness that he wishes to see her…and she eagerly awaits the day.”
That night Sunia and Auriane embraced each other, laughing. “We have won it!” Auriane exclaimed. “The monster has gobbled up the bait.”
“Thank all the gods for that,” Sunia said, falling wearily onto the bedcushion. “Nothing could force me to go back into his stinking cell again. I’ve got pig’s blood under my nails and splinters in my hands from his wooden spear, and one of those beef-witted guards poked me with his sword. I think he thought I looked a little too tall to be one of the cleaning boys.”
“It was well done, Sunia, and bravely done.”
“Fria is with us, who can doubt it.”
“Until Erato finds out. I’m hoping he’ll discover it too late. If this Plancius wants it to be, he won’t be inclined to let Erato interfere.”
“Who is Cleopatra?”
“Some woman-chieftain of a people whose name I cannot remember who lost a war to them in the time of their great-great-grandfathers.”
“Auriane, you should not dress as someone who lost a war—it will bring ill luck.”
“The man whose mask Odberht will wear also lost. We cannot both be unlucky. Our freedom comes, Sunia. May Athelinda know it wherever she might be, and the ghosts of our people. On the third day after the Ides, in the month of Augustus, I avenge Baldemar and all our dead.”
Carinus heaved himself away from his noisily slumbering Lord and God, slid off the silk-swathed bed, then slunk soundlessly from Domitian’s octagonal bedchamber. He fled down a flight of steps gauzily illumined by a light-well, then leapt over the reflecting pool of mosaic glass at the bottom, one hand firmly on the precious prize freshly plucked from beneath the imperial bedclothes—a stack of thin sheaves of linden wood he had tucked into his tunic—and darted into a dark passage used only by guards. This was the quick, safe way to Domitia Longina’s quarters; better than anyone, he knew his way about this maze of resplendent public and private roo
ms that was Domitian’s newly completed Palace. When he was nearly safe at her door, a gold-helmeted Praetorian reached out and snared him.
“It’s the imperial gelding!” He hoisted Carinus up by his tunic. “Someone’s hurt his feelings. Come here, Peach-Face, I’ll make it better. What are you hiding in there?”
Carinus panicked. If he sees what I have here, all of us die. He bit down hard on the hand that held him. The guard cursed, then tossed him off, laughing, as if at a bad-tempered puppy. The marble-sheathed halls reverberated with aggressive guard-laughter.
Domitia Longina’s maid Arsinoe admitted him to the Empress’s apartments. Once safely inside, he felt himself a hero, like Prometheus or Hercules—as long as Domitian does not awaken. It will be well, he reassured himself. It would take a herald’s trumpet in the ear to rouse my lord from that dense sleep he falls into after he’s taken his pleasure of me.
Carinus’ panic was eased by the thought of how proud of him Marcus Julianus would be.
“Carinus! Dearest dear, come. What have you there?” Domitia Longina’s voice, silvery, frayed with anxiety, rang out from her writing room; he heard in it that languor that signaled she had taken her tonic already. That was good. She would be less alarmed.
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