“Go busy yourself with something, Meton. You’re spreading laziness. Just looking at you makes me feel like taking a nap. Are all your men ready? Go curl your hair again. Leave me!”
If Acco had come just then to tell him that Auriane was missing as well, Erato’s suspicions might have been roused. But Acco was struggling to keep the agitated Chattian captives quiet—they were unusually restless today, even for captives recently taken. Their behavior put him in mind of animals before an earthquake. Two had savagely attacked a guard and had to be killed. He could not afford to lose more; their full number was needed for the mock naval battle set for the eleventh hour.
And so in the guarded chambers where the school’s costumers laboriously painted, combed, masked and dressed the contestants, Auriane’s and Aristos’ preparations continued undisturbed.
At the fourth hour of the morning Petronius was lost in the office work that beset every Commander of the Guard; as he reviewed the names of men he was considering for promotion, one of his senior Centurions sought an audience with him. The man greeted him, then said simply, “Today, you must sacrifice five doves to Venus.”
Petronius felt the man struck him a hard blow in the stomach. These words were only known to Marcus Julianus and himself. “Five” and “doves” symbolized the freedom and peace the assassination would bring. But today? There was no mistaking the meaning of the words, or from whom they had come. He guessed at once that something must have gone gravely wrong down in the prisons.
Julianus has seen or heard something he fears will give us away. Today it must be, then.
He had somehow to inform, secretly and at once, the Senate and those Centurions of the Guard who were part of the plot. And they in turn needed to inform those who answered to them. And what of Nerva? Petronius wondered. He had begun with the antidote only yesterday morning. It was too soon for him—at the ninth hour he would hardly be able to stand without aid. And today it would be doubly difficult to draw Domitian off from the games. Those absurd costume battles, he thought. Domitian takes perverse pleasure in them. Petronius cursed Julianus, then silenced himself, knowing well the man would never have sent this message if all their lives did not depend upon it.
At the same hour of morning the throng in the Colosseum dropped into respectful quiet, for the originator of the show that commenced then was Domitian himself. The Emperor stared glassily at the gladiators’ entrance as twelve gold-helmeted swordfighters came forth, two abreast. Domitian saw all about him as a gauzy waking dream that grew sharp and dangerous only when he thought of Julianus’s arrest. In one moment, it made him powerfully anxious, as if he had offended some ineffable power, and he half expected a punishing hand from the sky to smite him down. But in the next, he felt he carried the scepter of Jupiter.
I am the stronger. Marcus, my truthtelling friend, this was a truth you missed. Philosopher and seer, how is it that you failed to foretell your own fall?
The Numidian attendants removed the helmets from the twelve contestants and whisked off their scarlet cloaks. Domitian, sharply alert, forgot the thousands arrayed about him. Twelve women of the tribes of Germania were revealed; each was comely and tall, with hair of red-gold sleeked into a knot at the back of the neck. They were clad in leopardskin tunics that hung from one shoulder, leaving one breast bared; all were armed with wickerwork shields and Samnite swords. Terror was quite visible on several faces. At a long tone from a horn, twelve dwarfs attired as Thracian gladiators entered the arena and faced the women in a line. A shriek from the horn ordered the attack.
The slaughter lasted less than a quarter hour. When ten women and eight dwarfs lay dead, the horn signaled a halt. The crowd broke into nervous applause in deference to the show’s creator. Domitian gave the order that the two women who survived were to be sent as they were, armored and bloody, to await his pleasure at the Palace. He examined them as they were brought close to the imperial box, feeling the familiar hot, anticipatory stirrings in his loins. Their faces bore not a trace of Aurinia’s insane stubbornness; they were openly terrified of his majesty.
When I take them they will think they have been raped by Zeus.
The herald then announced that from this hour forward, all combatants would appear in historical costume, and that wagers could only be made before identities were revealed. A man in the plebeian seats with a voice as penetrating as a hound’s howl called out in a moment of quiet, “No more stupid, dull shows! Give us Aristos!” Scuffling ensued as guards seized the offender and dragged him off.
Plancius, sponsor of the games, seated at Domitian’s right, felt a covert surge of satisfaction.
You shall get him, you lowbred herd of human cattle. And my games will be remembered forever.
CHAPTER LVI
THE LUDUS MAGNUS WAS GIVEN OVER to the mob. They spilled into every available space and pushed against the rope corridor that stretched from the armory to the barricaded passage leading to the Colosseum. The throng’s cries echoing off vaulted stone were as violent to the ears as the din of a cheap bathhouse.
Sunia fought to get close to the rope. She felt like cloth in a press. This crowd was composed mostly of those citizens too poor or too late to get a seat in the amphitheater, many of whom were intent on getting a close, critical look at the costumed contestants before they laid their bets.
After a time Sunia heard soft calls of awe—elephant handlers were coming down the passage, guiding a small Indian elephant. She saw only the top of its knobby gray head and part of a red leather harness flashing with hundreds of mirrors. Astride was a gladiator costumed as someone called Hannibal, Sunia realized from the exclamations all about. She watched in bitter quiet, hardly seeing, not wanting to comprehend. Hannibal’s opponent followed close behind; he was Darius, the Persian king. Sunia saw a flash of red-and-gold-striped robe, a ludicrous false beard, and the top of a sedan chair studded with garishly colored glass meant to look like precious gems. Hannibal and Darius went on to their fates, and after a tense wait, during which fights erupted over their respective identities and abilities, word filtered back that Hannibal, despite his fine entrance, was dead. As debts were paid or promised, the crowd shifted restlessly, impatient for the next contestants.
Sunia at last gained the rope. Now she could see Acco by the school’s entrance, shepherding his shackled herd of three hundred Chattian tribesmen, readying them for their chance to die at sea—the day’s mock naval battle would begin directly after the costume events. To Sunia her tribesmen looked like wild animals fresh from the deep forest, ready to dash their heads against the walls in blank fright. She was saddened by how remote she felt from them, and slightly shamed by the thought that seized her— for certain, I did not look so when first brought to this place. The Chattian prisoners were kept to one side so the avenue would be clear; they huddled together like cattle protecting themselves from a storm. Sunia suspected they were poor farmers taken in a raid.
Then to her astonishment they tuned their faces to the sky and called out in thin, pitiful voices: “Daughter of the Ash! Give us vengeance!”
Sunia flashed to attention.
Silence, fools, you’ll give her away! Sunia looked about nervously, not thoroughly convinced that no one understood. But to the Roman mob her tribesmen’s speech was so much barbarous noise.
“Daughter of the Ash, lead us out!”
Sunia shut her eyes to stop the tears. It was soul-rending to hear the old battle-call in such timorous voices; she felt she gazed on a body once heroically strong now withered by plague.
And then a new chorus of shouts rooted Sunia to the floor.
“Cleopatra! She comes!”
“Hail, Cleopatra, Daughter of Isis, Queen of the Nile!”
Sunia threw herself against the rope, straining to see. For long moments the avenue was empty. Then four ibexes harnessed abreast came nodding into view—the sturdy goat-like creatures were graced with magnificent back-curved horns that formed a bold C, lending grandeur to an otherw
ise ordinary beast. Though the animal trainers had them lightly drugged, still the creatures were unnerved by the crowd; fretfully they threw up their extravagantly horned heads and walked with tight, mincing steps. Gradually she saw that these beasts drew Cleopatra’s chariot. The car was farcical, crudely painted to appear as though it were fashioned of ebony and ivory, and covered over with clumsily rendered Egyptian magical symbols. Affixed to the front were the horns of Horus, elegantly uplifted like hands in blessing.
Solemn and erect within the chariot was Cleopatra.
As the throng examined the stark, waxen face of the dreaded queen, they fell fleetingly into an uneasy quiet. Cleopatra was a much more recent threat than Hannibal, who had partly rigidified into myth; the oldest members of the crowd had heard her described by aged parents who had actually set eyes upon the strange, fearsome queen who nearly succeeded in making the Mediterranean world her own. Yes, all seemed to agree, that is how that cunning and voracious foreign woman must have looked.
As Cleopatra moved closer, Sunia was given an unpleasant start. This was a cruel farewell; there was little of Auriane here to see. A sharp loneliness bit into Sunia’s stomach.
Cleopatra’s headdress concealed most of her face; it was fashioned of countless strands of small polished ivory beads, creating the appearance of shivering pearly hair that hung thickly to her shoulders. Atop it was a bronze circlet that became, at the front, a snake with upraised head. Laid along the sides of the heavy headdress were two fanned hawks’ wings. She wore no mask, yet Sunia would hardly have known Auriane beneath that heavy red, white and black paint. Her serene, deathly-white face might have been carved in Pentelic marble; those pitiless crimson lips belonged to a stranger. But it was her eyes that disturbed Sunia most—they were coarsely outlined with a heavily drawn line of black paint that extended at the sides like a tail. It made her expression seem fixed, calm as eternity; it drew out Auriane’s soul and left her a hollow image.
As Cleopatra passed by, Sunia saw the real eye within the hard black outline, shifting, liquid, struggling with grief. There at last was Auriane.
As Cleopatra wore a voluminous robe of white linen over her armor, the crowd failed at first to guess that a woman, and not a man of slight stature, was within.
Then Sunia heard the marbleworker pressed next to her mutter, “That’s the scrawniest Cleopatra I’ve ever seen. Did they train the poor fellow on bread and water?”
“He’s fair as Ganymede, whoever he is,” responded a crone behind her who reeked of the fish markets.
“That’s a woman, I would swear on Juno’s girdle,” came an irascible voice.
“Ridiculous,” the marbleworker retorted, wagging a finger in the direction of the avenue down which Cleopatra had come. “They’d never match a woman with that behemoth.”
Sunia saw that Marcus Antonius came close behind.
Aristos. Nausea churned up in her throat.
Marcus Antonius’ chariot was drawn by four Mesopotamian lionesses—this brought murmurings of admiration for the skill of the animal trainers, for here was a beast nearly impossible to break to cart. The lionesses’ backs were draped in gold netting that shimmered in their tawny fur. Their collars were inset with false rubies. They padded along with great composure, their expressions bored. Marcus Antonius’ chariot seemed solid as a marble cart beside Cleopatra’s flimsy car; its bronze plating was embossed with scenes of Bacchic revels.
If little of Auriane was visible, Sunia saw nothing of Aristos. He wore a garishly painted wooden mask so stylized it might have been the countenance of Jupiter; the eyes of the man were lost in the mask’s large, vacant almond-shaped eyes. His long red-blond hair was dyed black. A scarlet robe embroidered with palms flowed from the brutish shoulders. Two rocklike fists clad in leather gloves clutched the reins aggressively, as if he squeezed the life out of some creature.
“Embrace her! Embrace her!” the crowd called gaily to him.
The sight of this unlikely pairing was beginning to draw comment. Why had the givers of the games pitted a bull against a gazelle? Some decided Cleopatra must have some secret advantage and laid their bets on her. But most did the reasonable thing, and the wagers heavily favored Marcus Antonius.
When the two cars had moved many paces on and Sunia could see only Cleopatra’s white robe brushing the cobbles, she heard a jarringly familiar voice like a horse’s whinny: “Aurinia! Aurinia!”
Sunia caught her breath. Thirty paces ahead along the rope, she saw Phoebe from the herb market. It was certainly she; Sunia would never forget those eyes that sparked with playful malice, eager to worm their way into a soul and steal secrets. Somehow, through good guessing or witchcraft, the miserable toad recognized Auriane.
Auriane’s face was not so completely concealed as Aristos’ was, and once one person saw her through the paint, discerning the familiar curve of a cheek, the well-known line of a chin, others began to recognize her as well. After all it made a certain sort of sense—it explained why a burly giant had been set against one so small. The larger man was, no doubt, some clumsy novice whose size would do him little good against the near-magical skill of their carissima Aurinia.
Now the cries “Aurinia! Aurinia!” rose jubilantly all around, like the taunt of unruly children who have uncovered something they should not have. Sunia imagined Auriane must be gripped with panic. If the people guessed Aristos’ identity, all was lost—for in their unaccountable way the mob loved her and would never send her off to what they believed certain death.
The cry “Aurinia!” spread like a field fire in a brisk wind, and within moments the throng in the Colosseum knew she approached. As the two chariots came closer to the barricaded passage connecting the Ludus Magnus with the amphitheater, Sunia saw the dulled eyes of the Chattian prisoners catch fire. Many uttered charms, whose purpose, Sunia guessed, was to prevent the people from unmasking Aristos. As Auriane approached them, they stretched out their hands to her, crying in the native tongue— Wodan give strength to the hallowed sword of vengeance!
When the shout “Aurinia!” reached Erato’s ears, he was in his accounts rooms, sparring cautiously with Plancius’ procurator, striving to explain diplomatically to the man that both he and his master were thieves and extortionists. Erato pushed roughly past the procurator, strode to the end of the second-story colonnade, and looked down. In the distance he saw Cleopatra and Marcus Antonius creeping stiffly along like figures of gods carried in an Olympian procession. If Cleopatra was Auriane, he did not need to be told who was behind the mask of Marcus Antonius.
“Spawn of a black goat!” he swore, and threw his stylus noisily to the floor.
You impossible fool. I should have known you were too mule-minded to listen to sound, sober warnings. You too-clever whelp, it’s not me you’ve outsmarted this time—it’s yourself. Hades take this place.
He realized then that Auriane could not have deceived him without aid from the givers of the games. He turned slowly round and advanced on Plancius’ procurator, whose name was Tiro.
“You knew of this thing and did not tell me.” Decorum fled; Erato might have drawn a dagger. His thick fingers dug into Tiro’s shoulder.
“Unhand me, slave and son of a slave.” Tiro was a soft, pale man who had never engaged in rougher physical work than hoisting an inkpot, and he was terrified of Erato. He scuttled backward to get away, but Erato held his grip firm.
“You slimy little cheat. That’s Aristos! You skulked about behind my back and got him for the price of a novice. And what does a worm like you care if the woman Aurinia is slaughtered like a dog?” With one powerful shove he slammed Tiro against the concrete wall.
“Fiend! Murderer! Help me!” Tiro yelped. He gave Erato an ineffectual kick in the shins. Erato landed a brutal blow to his ear; Tiro collapsed to his knees. Then four Vigiles sprang forth from their discreet stations behind the columns of the upper walk—Plancius had taken the precaution of having his accountant accompanied by city policemen. T
hey seized Erato from behind and dragged him back several steps.
Tiro, seeing himself rescued, took his time getting up. With prim composure he addressed the Vigiles, “I order you to arrest this man for attempted murder—or you will answer to Plancius.”
Before Julianus’ fall the city policemen would have hesitated. But today the school’s Prefect had no more protection than a common plebeian. One delivered a blow to Erato’s stomach to render him easier to manage; another briskly shackled him.
Meton saw this disturbance and sprinted to Erato’s aid. But he stopped before he reached them, assessing the situation with a stricken look; it was obvious at once that he could do nothing.
Black curses on Fortuna, Meton thought, full of a sense that he looked upon a doomed man.
As Erato struggled, he managed to call out, “Meton! Stop that bout. I care not how you do it. That is Auriane—and Aristos!”
“Auriane and—” Meton paused, looked blankly at Cleopatra and Antonius, then back at Erato with a despairing look. Then he bolted off.
Meton could scarcely believe the swiftness with which all about him had fallen into chaos. The school, unknown to its hundreds of employees and slaves, was without a Prefect; he felt he bolted down the deck of a rudderless ship pitching toward the reefs. And as if this were not catastrophe enough, one of the school’s prized possessions, the woman Aurinia, was being delivered to certain destruction. The day was evil; he had felt a doomed wildness about this place ever since the arrest of Marcus Julianus.
When Meton came abreast of Cleopatra’s chariot, he shouted to the guards posted along that section of the roped-off avenue—“Erato’s order, stop the bout!” After much repetition and frantic waving of arms, at last he convinced them to take action.
Cleopatra and Marcus Antonius were by now abreast of the chained Chattian prisoners. The guards stationed along that section of rope moved from position and fanned across the open way to block the two chariots’ path. As they snatched at the reins of the beasts drawing the cars, Auriane’s ibexes skittered sideways, reared, and tried to twist their way out of harness, while Aristos’ lionesses stood with regal calm, as if knowing the guards were frightened of handling them.
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