A playful voice from the plebeian seats rang out—“The King is dead. Long live the Queen!” This brought an eruption of catcalls from Aristos’ followers, and another shower of shoes.
In response, from the highest seats a cry thundered out that seemed to come from one defiant throat—“Aurinia Regina!”
Had there been doubt in any part of the city who the victor was, it vanished then.
Auriane the Queen. Auriane felt a soft jolt, remembering Ramis’ strange prophecy— you will be a queen in death.
A queen with no queendom, she reflected, except in a few minds, and for a time brief as the blooming of a poppy. A negligible thing to the world at large, but not for the world within.
An angry retort was thrown up to the sky: “Aristos Rex!” Then the warring factions broke into turbulent motion. As Auriane’s heavy-footed cart horse was led through the Victory Gate, the beast threw up its head and ponderously capered sideways in fright.
The amphitheater was brought once more to terrified quiet when the people saw the bowmen begin to move down from their stations with their catlike creep. But the mob milling restlessly in the open space about the Colosseum was not so easily restrained. Those who loved Aristos, who were fewer in number but more violent, began chanting his name as a war cry and took up whatever they could find in the streets that might be used as a weapon. They set out to roam the city in wolf packs, breaking up and destroying the shops of anyone they believed to be disloyal to their King—for were these not common traitors? But the opposition was quick to seek revenge. They too found weapons—broken amphorae, glass jars, wheel spokes, or bull whips—and, accompanied by the cry, “Long live our Aurinia!” they energetically set upon the loyalists.
Every other street became a battleground. The City Cohorts were called out and bucket brigades were made ready to quench fires. Plancius declared the remaining contests of the day canceled, and soon discovered he was a hostage in the imperial box. Aristos’ devotees held him partly responsible for their hero’s death, and he knew he dared not venture into the street without a small army at his back.
When Auriane entered the barricaded passage she saw why the horse was needed. The people had broken in—but for the stolid and steady beast she rode, she might have been crushed. These crowds, at least, were mostly friendly; they called to her with outstretched hands, pulled at the bridle, and put rose garlands over the bowed neck of her mount. This time no one attacked her clothes with barbers’ razors; it was as though they felt such a great and good omen ought to be reverenced.
To the people she presented an odd sight, one that was strangely unsettling—she looked less like someone who had just quit the well-ordered confines of the arena, more a Bacchante returning from a frenzied revel on a forested mountaintop. She was a vision of the wild unknown that lay in wait at civilization’s edge—her hair was in rebellious disarray, thick with blood-matted tangles; sprigs of green and scattered rose petals were caught in it like wildflowers scattered over a field. The hastily wound bandages were unraveling, as though she had torn her garments while racing through the wood. Those flushed cheeks, those ardent eyes ringed with fading black paint lent her a bright, savage hunting-animal beauty. Now that she had delivered her sign and heralded a tilt of the world order, hopefully she would withdraw to the haunted wilds from which she came.
To Auriane the world shimmered and glowed, as if washed clean after a rain. The air about shivered with pipe music—though she knew it played only in her own blood. Each indrawn breath filled her with the mind of Fria, and she felt lush surges of life-love that left her a stranger to nothing and fearless enough to walk an urn-field at midnight. She felt the drums of Eastre pounding deep in the earth, and imagined she saw, settled in the clouds, Fria exultant on a throne of flowers. As her gaze rested contentedly on the throng, in one moment all perception condensed, and her focus became diffuse. She felt the pricking of an internal ear. And knowledge began to settle upon her. She sat very still, sensing it.
She wanted to cry out, but this knowledge brought with it a strange and not unpleasant numbness.
A cataclysm approached. She knew it as certainly as she knew she sat a horse. She sensed a dread hush, a great gathering for a leap.
Today the earth will shake.
She wanted to say to the people—Calm yourselves. Still your rioting. You have come already to great good fortune. For when the earth is still again, you will have a hundred years of peace, and good and decent kings.
Then she knew that Marcus Julianus was alive, and poised at the cataclysm’s center. In fact, he was its cause.
Marcus was alive. She wanted to embrace the neck of the cart horse for joy.
But she sensed dark savagery clinging about him like a bog-mist. She shook her head violently once, as if to fling out a nightmare. When the seeress-state left her, only her exhaustion kept her from shouting out, throwing herself to the ground and pummeling the earth in protest. She tried to assure herself he was not being tortured. Perhaps her sensing had been wrong. Frantically she tried to remember all the times her sensings had been wrong.
Fria, grant that this be one of those times. At least he is alive—and if he lives, he will fight his way out. Has he not always done so before?
But this brought little comfort.
As she approached the arched entranceway of the Ludus Magnus, she saw a half-dozen men of the First Hall standing in its shadow, watching her with the bored confidence and riveted attention of large carnivores. The men of the First Hall were a fiercely bonded brotherhood who felt they possessed exclusive rights to killing their own. Many regarded Aristos as a brother or son, but even those who did not felt she had dishonored and ridiculed a member of their guild. It was insult enough that she was a woman; to worsen matters, she had killed him with her hair, denying him his natural right to die by the sword. As she drew closer, one of them met her gaze, grinned, and slowly drew a hand across his throat.
They would kill her, she knew, in the arena or out, at practice or at dinner. As soon as they found a chance. If she lived on in Rome she would not live long.
Meton shouted to her then, “We’re taking you up to the Second Hall barracks. We’ll have to lock you in with a guard day and night. I do not know what’s to be done with you after that.”
Auriane nodded; then suddenly she remembered Erato. “You might save me from Aristos’ friends, for a while at least,” she shouted down over the din, “but who’ll save me from Erato? He must be ready to set me out as the target for javelin practice. The gods grant me time to regain strength before I must face him!”
Meton started at this, as if he expected that she knew. A flash of grief showed in his eyes, to be replaced quickly by his usual cynical distance. He grasped her arm and pulled her closer. “You’ll not have to face him, Auriane,” he said in a covered voice. “Erato’s paid the Ferryman. And knowing Erato, probably wore him down on the price.”
“What?” she whispered, suddenly still, as if the wind were knocked from her body. Slowly, black sadness wormed its way in. “Is this some cruel jest?” she protested hoarsely. “It cannot be.”
This she had not foreseen.
“It is true, Auriane. The news was brought to me near the end of the bout.” He pulled Auriane still closer, glancing suspiciously to the right and left as if he feared spies. “Plancius’ thugs did it. He was whipped to death in the custody of the City Police.”
Tears quickly overfilled her eyes; a series of shudders passed through her as she suppressed sobs. She bowed her head and closed her eyes, trying not to envision the scene.
Erato. Not you! You were a good man, to whom I owe much. You gave me a scrap of hope when I had none, a bit of air to breathe. You were fair, when you’d no need to be. It is impossible that you are gone. How surprised you would have been to see me cry over you. I know you thought I had hardly a thought for you at all.
Fria, be kind and gentle to his soul, though he nearly forgot you and knew you only as Nemes
is.
She laid a hand on her belly, and for a moment the budding life within acted as a balm. One life is snatched, another is given. It’s never equal, it’s never enough, but it distracts us. Fria, you sly and merciful mother. But the chaotic sadness returned, bringing Marcus to mind again, and now she cried silently, unashamedly for both.
Marcus, this is past bearing. Yet still it is far better than if our short time together had never been.
What will become of me, and of Sunia? I want to cry out to the moon. I am weary enough to sleep through nine seasons.
As the crowd clamored after, the cart horse and its disheveled rider melted into the darkness of the yawning entranceway of the school. A common thought hung on the air— She could not have done what she has done. It was easy to believe, suddenly, that she never was, that she was some collective delusion, one of the phantoms that materialize at crossroads to mark the turning of times.
CHAPTER LX
AS THE BOUT CAME TO A close, its victor still unknown, the eighty Praetorian Guards posted in double rows along the vaulted corridor that served the imperial bedchamber paid little attention to the bestial roars issuing from the Colosseum. What was one more victory for Aristos on a day such as this? Especially in some bizarre match with a woman? It all seemed but one more reason for ridding themselves of Domitian, who had debased the honor of the games by filling the arena with women.
The ninth hour loomed close. Sweat dampened every back, plastering woolen tunics to flesh. Palms slipped on javelins. All flinched at the ringing shout of a guard change that issued from the distant peristyle courtyard at the center of the vast multistoried Palace. Their part was uncomplicated: They were to stand silent and still while the deed was done, no matter what alarming sounds might come from the imperial bedchamber. They believed the plot was conceived by Petronius and went no further; this was to ensure the safety of Nerva, should one of this company of eighty prove disloyal. All were young recruits whose first loyalty was to Petronius; he had promised promotions to every one, and rich money gifts. Still it was a dread and awesome thing to defy a sacred oath to protect the Emperor. Most thought privately that were they offered a chance to back out of the affair even now, they would seize it in a moment.
As the August heat grew fiercer and the mounting tension made them feel they were being broken slowly on a wheel, the thought recurred insistently—and why should this attempt succeed? How swiftly and savagely their still-loyal colleagues would turn on them if they knew.
By tomorrow morning all of us could be in line for the block.
A hasty trumpet fanfare signaled that their Lord and God approached the Palace from the more private Forum entrance, and was moving now through the grand vestibule. Many felt a private throb of despair. They had hoped Petronius would fail to draw the Emperor away from the amphitheater, and that would be the end of it. In an hour their watch would end; they would go quietly back to their barracks and not another word would ever be spoken of this.
Then came a disciplined tramp of feet. Domitian’s twenty-four lictors strutted into view, bearing the fasces, the ancient symbol of unlimited power on earth—and the men found themselves transfixed by the dully gleaming axes put in with each bundle of birch rods—symbols of the Emperor’s power to execute. Next they saw Petronius, who walked at Domitian’s side. Petronius’ complexion was the color of freshly kneaded dough; this did little to still their fears. But it was the sight of Domitian that overcame them to a man.
Somehow, perversely, never had Domitian appeared so imposing. Their fright rendered his height heroic; he seemed to move through clouds with Zeus-like indifference. That formidable brow was unforgiving as death. A direct look from those eyes could roast them to ashes. He looked neither left nor right; their existence was utterly beneath his notice—they might have been a row of columns.
Many believed the Emperor with his divine senses could smell the odor of treason on them. This is folly and blasphemy. He cannot be killed. For Petronius’ greedy ends, all of us will die.
They felt like foolish servants tempting the wrath of the father-god. The same thought formed in many minds: We must move swiftly—we’ve but one hour to alert the loyalists.
But as the Emperor’s entourage passed on, there came from the amphitheater a series of dull, rumbling explosions of noise, like a mountain erupting with fire. Finally the cries melted into a continuous din, and they knew the bout had ended. Oddly, they heard but several halfhearted attempts to ignite the chant “Aristos Rex”—then nothing more. What in the name of Mars were they crying out instead?
Finally they heard it unmistakably—“Aurinia Regina!”
It could not be. This was some elaborate jest. Again and again the mob cried the woman’s name, and gradually they had to believe. For long moments they were suspended in baleful confusion, not knowing whether to count this violent upset of natural law for good or ill. Then one of their number spoke up with authority, whispering loudly, “The divine will’s never been clearer—this is the hour for the weak to strike down the strong.” Within moments this interpretation was passed down the line, and it had a wondrous effect. Through the victory of the barbarian woman, their god-filled universe had given them an answer and a blessing.
The plot would succeed. Those who had thought of defecting swiftly changed their minds. Each fresh cry of “Aurinia, Regina” further fired them with boldness.
When Domitian heard the cry, he halted in midstride. Petronius saw his features soften into an incongruous look of childish confusion.
“What do they shout?” Domitian whispered in a tone close to begging. The Emperor seemed dwarfed suddenly by the size of his Palace. His expression became one of reflective horror, as if he discovered he had been sleeping in a haunted room.
A Guard was dispatched to the streets to drag in one of the ragged boys who cry out tales of events in the city in exchange for a few copper coins.
“Horrible,” Domitian whispered when he had heard it all, including the strangling. “Aristos deserved a better death. She is a putrefying serpent in our midst.”
The third omen had stolen up behind him as quietly as an assassin in a midnight-dark street. He felt like a condemned man who is set free—and then realizes his reprieve was a dream.
Aristos, fool, you were to give me an omen of life. And now she has killed me, surely as if she ran me through herself.
“Curses on those criminal children and their rejoicing,” Domitian sputtered, his wrath turning suddenly on the mob. “For the rest of the games they shall have no awnings. Let them roast in the sun and soak in the rain. I’ll give them acrobats and monkey races until they shout themselves dead. Let them have their frolics, the vermin, the sewage—”
Servilius appeared in the vast corridor, advancing on them purposefully with his underconfident strut. At a respectful distance he halted before the imperial party.
“Your Excellency, I have a—a most strange thing to report,” Servilius began, his head bowed as though for the convenience of an imaginary executioner. “You ordered us to bring out your former First Advisor, and we could not, at first, find him. That is, he was not in the cell to which the day guard recorded he’d been brought. I found him finally—in the interrogation rooms. He apparently was taken by mistake—”
“What chicanery. Do not those addlepates know him?”
“My question, too. I know not how it happened—I mean to fully investigate the matter,” Servilius continued, his voice wobbling like a wheel loosened on its axle. In fact he knew precisely how the mishap had occurred, but meant to cover any appearance of incompetence. The Emperor was a stern but just god who could be placated with good deeds and right action. And he had failed miserably. “It is unpardonable. I will resign my office—”
“There’s much you do not say. Nothing happens with that man by accident. If he was taken, he wanted to be taken. Did you ask him what sort of mischief he was involved in?”
“He would not speak to me, my lord.
And…there’s not much life left in him.”
A glint of realization flashed in Domitian’s eyes. “If you lie, I’ll know it. Who did he say he was?”
“A—a man named Bato, your excellency.”
“A plague on you buffoons. Did it occur to you that this Bato is the man we want—that our canny Julianus meant to stop him from spewing out under torture something he did not want revealed?”
“I—yes, I did think of it. Yes, right away. As a matter of fact, just before I came to you now, I ordered Bato brought out. He—he died. Under torture.”
“So soon? You had better explain that.”
“He was so frightened. He died of terror as soon as they put him on the rack…. Weak heart, I think.”
“My dear Servilius, why won’t you look at me? You look like you fell into a vat of white lead. How convenient for Marcus Julianus. Perhaps for yourself as well?”
Servilius vigorously shook his head. “No, my lord. Of course not!”
Servilius had actually slain Bato himself. When he learned that Marcus Julianus was shielding the man, likely explanations sprang to mind, including the correct one, but terror for his own life overwhelmed all other considerations, for he knew Bato was one of Julianus’ many spies among the Guard. And Servilius had much to hide—there was the cousin he helped escape to Caledonia after he deserted the Tenth Legion, and the heavy bribes he took from his men for extra leave-time. Under Domitian such misdeeds brought much harsher penalties than loss of promotion. It had been a simple matter for Servilius to steal into the interrogation room and finish Bato with his dagger before the torturer began his work.
“I am your most loyal of servants!”
“The sad truth is, you probably are. It’s an eternal pity that loyalty of canine proportions and good, common human intelligence never seem to go hand in hand. You are dismissed.”
Domitian added happily to Petronius as they continued on their way to the prisons. “Perhaps Julianus will prove more sociable with me.”
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