Rogue Emperor (The Chronoplane Wars Book 3)

by Crawford Kilian

  “I must insist, dear Juvenal, on paying for everything. It’s you who honor me.”

  “Before such a gracious offer, I am helpless.” He drank the wine in his cup and poured himself another. “More? Not yet? Well, then, it seems your visit to the consul was a helpful one.”

  “All thanks to you and your knowledge of this great city.”

  “Your kindness embarrasses me. Any Roman would have shown the same courtesy.”

  “Any well-bred Roman who believes in the old ways.”

  “Well, yes.” His bloodshot eyes focused sharply on Pierce. “If I can be of any further service … ”

  “The pleasure of your company is service enough. As a stranger to Rome, I am fortunate indeed to have crossed your path. Let us finish this refreshment and then seek out the baths.”

  “Of course. I know of a very pleasant establishment not far from here — ”

  “Do you know the baths of Scribonius Tertius, in the Campus Martius?”

  Juvenal’s face fell. “Indeed, but it’s quite a distance from here, and not quite the place for gentlemen of quality like ourselves. It’s frequented by slaves and freedmen and low sorts.”

  “No doubt it is,” Pierce agreed genially as he allowed Juvenal to pour him some more wine. “Still, it would amuse me to see the place. And afterward, I shall let you find us the best taberna in the city for our meal.”

  “Ah. Well, I believe I know a most suitable place. It’s — ”

  “Surprise me with it, dear Juvenal. Now, if that flagon is truly empty, let us be on our way.”

  “Of course. Only let me put on my toga and gather my bathing kit.”

  Pierce had obtained a toga of his own from the stores in the imperial palace. He had taken care to choose one that was not too elegant, but it still looked much better than Juvenal’s stained, patched garment. Nevertheless, the poet wore his with style and dignity.

  “We Germans never feel quite comfortable in a toga,” Pierce said. “I wish I could look like you.”

  “Allow me, dear Alaricus: a fold here, and here — tuck it in a bit here.” He stepped back. “Much better. If you weren’t so tall, no one would take you for anything but a young fellow of the equestrian order.”

  “I have no intention of disguising myself, only of conforming to proper behavior.”

  “Then you are fated to be part of a small minority in this city, my friend.”

  Pierce laughed. “I am undeserving to be the sole audience of such wit. Come, let us be on our way.”

  They made their way through the Forum; Pierce remembered the chaos here in the minutes after Domitian’s death. Now it was simply another late afternoon in the center of the city, with crowds milling about in search of gambling or gossip. Once out of the Forum, they were soon on the Vicus Iugarius, a street curving around the south slopes of the Capitoline Hill. It turned into the Via Tecta, a long, straight street running northwest past the senate.

  “In Egypt I yearned to be back here,” Juvenal said. “Oh, Alexandria is a fine city, some of their poets aren’t bad at all, but the climate! And the dreadful food!”

  “You were there in the army?”

  “A tribune of the III Cyrenaica. Not much work to do — stopping the occasional riot, escorting the governors, that sort of thing. I had hoped for a military career, but it’s all politics. The commander didn’t like me, especially when I complained about some irregularities in the men’s pay. Before I knew it, he trumped up some charges against me. Nothing that would stick, but enough to encourage me to resign. So I returned to Rome eight years ago, and misfortune has followed me ever since. My two children died, and then my beloved wife. My kindest patron died also, and his son has no interest in poetry at all. So I scrape along, teaching a little rhetoric, writing a bit of verse now and then.”

  “A bit of verse? Your satires are known all over the world.”

  “And I am not a sestertius better off for it.”

  “A sad comment, when Omnia Romae cum pretio — Everything in Rome is costly.”

  Juvenal smiled, showing bad teeth. “You have read me too well. I was wrong. Bread and circuses are cheap, the bribe we pay ourselves not to tear the city down about our ears. Now, enough of this lamentation. What interests you in the baths of Scribonius Tertius?”

  “Someone told me it was an agreeable place, with a good library.”

  Juvenal’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? It’s a well-kept secret, then. I know it only by repute, as a place frequented by slaves and foreigners, especially Jews. Ah, perhaps you enjoy staring at circumcised men?”

  “Not in the slightest. Dear poet, humor me in this. I am new here, and I wish to see all sides of this great city.”

  “You will soon be tired of the foreigners’ side of it, I assure you.”

  “I’ve heard it said that he who is tired of Rome is tired of life.”

  “A nice line; whose is it?”

  “Oh, it’s just a saying in my homeland.”

  “Perhaps I can find a use for it.”

  Here and there along the streets they saw men slapping up posters announcing tomorrow’s great assembly in the Amphitheater, and handing out free bright-yellow tickets for admission. Pierce admired Willard’s efficiency; organizing an event for fifty or sixty thousand people, on twenty-four hours’ notice, was no small achievement. Doubtless that was why Willard was one of the Elders: Those who could not satisfy Martel’s demands would not last long.

  “Shall we get tickets?” he asked Juvenal as they read a poster.”

  “I have no interest in games and shows.”

  “Martellus promises no games; look at the poster. ‘A great assembly of the senate and people of Rome, to witness the miraculous powers of Christ acting through the emperor Martellus.’ Surely it will at least give you good material for a lampoon or two.”

  “I came near enough to grief that way with the late Domitian; I shall not mock this new pretender.”

  “As you please.”

  The houses and apartments were lower in this part of the city, and Pierce could see Domitian’s Stadium over the rooftops to the east. That was where Aquilius’s father had enjoyed going to watch the chariot races; one day it would become the Piazza Navona, where Bernini’s fountains glittered in the sunlight and little girls squealed as they chased one another. Pierce wondered where Aquilius was.

  The baths of Scribonius Tertius stood in a relatively empty part of the city; the Campus Martius, a broad field running down to the Tiber, lay just across the street. Men were riding horses or driving chariots in the distances, while others nearby ran races or wrestled, or practiced military drill.

  Pines grew along the sidewalk, giving some shade to the entrance of the baths. A porter at the gate charged them half an as apiece. Pierce and Juvenal went through a courtyard into a changing room where they stripped and got out their bath kits: oil, combs, strigils, and towels. They put their clothes into their shoulder bags and kept them close at hand; too many thieves prowled the baths.

  “That’s excellent oil you have there,” Juvenal remarked.

  “Please share it with me.”

  Once oiled, they joined the dozen naked men who were exercising in the courtyard. Some wrestled, while others played a ball game called trigon.

  “Not a circumcised man among them,” Pierce observed. The poet muttered unintelligibly.

  With another man they set up the threesome needed for trigon. Standing in a triangle, they tossed a small, hard leather ball back and forth, often feinting a throw in one direction before hurling the ball in another. A missed catch cost the player a point: The winner was the man with the lowest score. The game was enjoy ably innocent; Pierce found himself relaxing for the first time in days, with Pentasyn in his blood and his enhanced reflexes making the game even pleasanter.

  When the game broke up, Pierce did some stretching and calisthenics while chatting casually with the other bathers. Most were hard-bitten men with scars and missing fingers or toes. A few
seemed to be slaves, clerks to rich men, and two of those were Blacks. They talked about the price of vegetables, rates of pay for construction workers, and good brothels. No one mentioned Martellus, Christianity, or anything to do with politics.

  “Where is the balneator, Scribonius Tertius?” Pierce asked.

  “He wanders about,” one of the men answered. “Sometimes out here, sometime in the piscina, sometimes in the sweat bath or the library. You’ll know him when you see him. A fat one-eyed fellow.

  Pierce and Juvenal went on into the piscina, a long, narrow swimming pool about a meter deep. The water was scummed with oil, and the floor of the pool felt slimy. Even so, it was pleasant to swim a few laps. After quick dips in the baths and a few minutes in the sweat room, the two men scraped each other clean and toweled off.

  “So far I find this a tolerable place, but nothing out of the ordinary,” Juvenal commented.

  “Go and examine the library; we’ll meet again in a little while. I’ll be interested in your opinion of it.”

  “It will be my pleasure, especially if any of my works are in it.”

  Pierce bought a snack of honeycake and walked about the courtyard until the fat man, one eye clouded white by cataracts, appeared.

  “Salve,” Pierce greeted.

  “Salve. Have you enjoyed your bath?”

  “Very much so. A young fellow named Terentius recommended this place to me.”

  Scribonius Tertius’s round face was almost unreadable, but Pierce saw the involuntary revelation of interest and anxiety.

  “A welcome customer. I am grateful that he spoke well of this humble establishment.”

  Pierce found his fish pendant in his shoulder bag; knowing he would be going naked, he had taken it off before reaching Juvenal’s room. Holding it cupped in his hand, he let Scribonius glimpse it.

  “I am looking for people who have worn this symbol in their souls for more than a few days.”

  “May I ask where you spoke with Terentius?”

  “In the baths of the imperial palace, where he works as an attendant.”

  “Then you serve Martellus.”

  “I do.”

  Scribonius waved him into a marble bench in the shade of the courtyard wall, and shouted to an attendant to bring wine.

  “The new emperor proclaims himself a Christian, but many have their doubts,” the balneator said. “They think it’s only a ruse, a trick to make them come forward and expose themselves to death.”

  “Why would they think so?”

  “It stands to reason, does it not? The Christians are a tiny group in this great city. For every Christian, a thousand people honor the gods of Rome. Why should anyone risk the support of the thousand for the praise of one?”

  “If he thought he could convert the thousand with the help of the one … ”

  “My friend, such a man would be foolish, or else truly blessed. The Christians are slaves and freedmen and foreigners. Most are Jews, and many have been slain in the last few days. I do not think the gentile Christians will put their lives in this stranger’s hands. Least of all when he behaves more like Titus to the Jews than like Christ to his disciples.”

  “You sound as if you know a good deal about this sect.”

  “A man who keeps a public bath learns a good deal about everything. And keeps most of it to himself.”

  “Then let me draw upon your knowledge, friend. If Martellus were sincere, and wished to save the Christians from persecution, how could he prove his good intentions?”

  “By ceasing to murder Jews,” Scribonius said instantly. “And by ceasing to murder Romans who served Domitian. By allowing all religions to worship in peace. Then, perhaps, the Christians might announce themselves.”

  “And if I were to announce myself a true Christian in the service of Martellus, what would be your advice to me?”

  “To keep your mouth shut, young friend. Even if your master has only love for Christians, many Romans do not. He cannot be everywhere to protect the faithful. Someone attacked some followers of Martellus in the Subura today, and died for it; since then, at least five people have been killed for wearing that pendant you showed me.”

  Pierce nodded. “Your advice is wise. I will show the pendant to no one else. And I promise you that no harm will come to Terentius or yourself.”

  The fat man’s one good eye fixed on Pierce. “You are an unusual young man. You look like a German, talk like a drunken patrician, and behave like a senator.”

  “And work for a Christian whom other Christians don’t trust.”

  Scribonius chuckled and poured him some more wine. “Am I right in saying that a man like yourself welcomes powerful patrons?” asked Pierce.

  “You are indeed. No man has too many friends.”

  “Then count me as one of yours. If you find yourself in need of help or advice, I hope you will call on me at the palace of Domitian. My name is Alaricus; I am the satelles of the lady Maria — the woman they call the Amazon.”

  “Not a lady who needs a bodyguard, if the stories I hear of her are true.”

  “Even Amazons need friends.”

  *

  “Not an interesting library, I’m afraid,” Juvenal said as they walked back into the center of the city. The sun was down in the west. “It has Aristotle on comedy, too much Menander, a very many books about Greece and Asia and their cults, but few of the great Romans.”

  “But you yourself have said ‘omnia novit Graeculus esuriens, the hungry little Greek knows everything,’” Pierce teased him. “Why bother, then, with Roman works?”

  “You provoke me, Alaricus.”

  Pierce patted the poet’s shoulder. “Only to stir your digestive juices before a fine meal.”

  He noticed, without mentioning it to his companion, that the fish graffiti on the walls had often been scratched over, or turned into obscene priapic sketches. Scribonius had been right: A lot of people didn’t like the Christians.

  The taberna Juvenal had chosen was near the Forum, with a terrace overlooking a little garden and the tiled rooftops beyond. They were dining late; the sun had just set when they entered, and most of the remaining customers had settled down to drinking. Pierce let Juvenal order for both of them as they reclined on couches at a terrace table already much used.

  “I noticed that your conversation with Plinius led to surprising results,” Juvenal commented as the waiters brought a tray of appetizers including hard-boiled eggs, olives, and a kind of salad of lettuce and mint. “What may we expect from your visit to the baths?”

  Pierce shrugged. Juvenal squinted at him in the light of the lamps hanging beside the table.

  “What is your occupation, friend Alaricus?”

  “I turn my hand to whatever comes along. Like you, I served once as a soldier.”

  “And you still do. Your bearing gives you away, and your way of looking at everything. What I do not know is who your master is.”

  “You do not need to know.”

  Juvenal smiled. “I have been instrumental in your comings and goings, have I not? If you are taken and tortured, whose name will spring first from your lips? No, my friend, I think I should know your motives a little better than I do.”

  Pierce looked him in the eye. “I am a supporter of Marcus Ulpius Traianus.”

  “Ah, I knew it!” Juvenal murmured excitedly, glancing from the corner of his eye at the nearest drinkers. “A German newly arrived in Rome with plenty of money, meeting with consuls, bathing where brigands and cutthroats are known to gather — just as a pretender tries to make himself emperor. Such skill in intrigue speaks as well for Trajan as his military achievements. Well, I shall gladly support you.”

  “I knew you would. Decimus Iunius, I put absolute confidence in you. And the general will be grateful for your help.”

  Pierce fell silent; the attendants had returned, throwing the leftovers to the tiled floor and setting out plates piled with roasted chicken, pork, and kid. As Juvenal’s fingers plucked
now at one plate and then at another, Pierce went on:

  “My task is to weaken the pretender, so that he cannot resist Trajan. If Martellus learns about me, of course he will kill me out of hand.”

  “You honor me with your trust, dear friend. Call upon me for whatever service I can give.”

  “I shall. Now, enough of business; let’s enjoy this meal.”

  Through the main course — slices of roast boar, baked potatoes, and an almost-Chinese dish of chicken, nuts, and vegetables — they talked about literature and music. Secundae mensae, the dessert, was a platter of raisins and dried fruit. Juvenal apologized; later in the summer, the fruits would be fresh.

  “As long as the wine is old, who cares about the age of the fruit?” Pierce asked.

  “Well put. Now, can I do anything else to aid you in your work?”

  “A great deal. You go everywhere; you know the common people and the wealthy alike. You observe them acutely. Continue to do so. Listen to the conversations in the street, and in the atriums of your patrons. Sense the mood of the people, and let me know what it is. I shall pay you well for this service.”

  Juvenal waved the idea away. “It will be a pleasure. And how shall I report to you?”

  “I will visit you from time to time. If I miss you, I’ll leave a message in the taberna on the ground floor of your building.”

  “Very well. And now that that is settled, what now? Another bottle?”

  “Alas, not tonight. I must bid you farewell for now. Perhaps we can meet the day after tomorrow. Until then, you will need some expense money.” He gave the poet ten denarii, more than enough to support him for several days.

  “You are too generous.”

  “A German vice that Romans must endure with their famed stoicism.”

  Juvenal grinned. “You are like the eiron in a Greek play — a fellow much more than you seem.”

  “On the contrary, I have much to be modest about.”

  They walked companionably to Juvenal’s insula and said good night. As he returned to the palace, Pierce wondered whether Juvenal was indeed a supporter of Trajan; his nonverbal responses had seemed sincere, and Trajan was the logical man for the poet to back. But Juvenal’s streak of weakness and self-contempt might betray his ideals. If he decided Martellus was going to win after all, he might denounce Pierce for the sake of a few denarii — or just the freedom to go on starving in his room under the tiles.