Search the Seven Hills

by Barbara Hambly

  Marcus was silent, feeling suddenly very young and unfledged. Darkness had deepened in the gardens; the cavelike workroom had slipped imperceptibly from cool shadows to a thicker gloom. Churaldin said quietly, “I hadn’t known that.”

  The old warrior relaxed, as though wakening from a half-trance, or an ugly dream. His voice in the semi-dark was amused and kind, “There’s a great deal about my evil past that I’m at pains to keep from everyone—including my well-meaning meddler of a body servant.” He limped to the corner, where a six-foot staff of iron-shod hardwood leaned against the wall. “Have the lamps lit, if you will, Churaldin,” he continued. “I shall show this young man out.”

  Leaning on his staff he conducted Marcus through the murmuring twilight of the dark garden, through the hall and into the dusty atrium, where the last gleams of evening quivered like quicksilver in the waters of the pool.

  “The question, Marcus, is not entirely one of guilt or innocence,” his deep voice said out of the faceless gloom that surrounded them. “To undertake a general persecution of the Christians is one matter, and one that is entirely within Arrius’ sphere. But it will hardly serve to restore this girl to her family. To follow a single trail—to affix specific, rather than general, guilt requires judgment on your part, and at least a temporary tolerance of things that you might consider quite abominable. Don’t confuse the two.”

  They paused in the vestibule, a dark silent room as black as the anteroom of Pluto himself. No lamps had been lit in the front part of the house for many years. Evidently if this courteous, old-fashioned scholar had ever had clients, they had long since gone elsewhere for their patronage.

  “Socrates always opened an investigation of any truth by demanding that people define their terms,” mused Marcus after a time. “Once you understand the question, sometimes you don’t need to seek very far for the answer. I think you’re the only person I’ve met who’s done that.”

  “Recreational hysteria relieves the feelings,” replied Sixtus, “but it is seldom of use in achieving the best solution to what is not, at bottom, an emotional question. What you need is an unclouded mind, my son, and an unflinching capacity to confront unexpected truth.”

  “It isn’t all I need,” said Marcus quietly. “I need help. I realize it’s an imposition to ask it of you, when you’ve been retired for so long from the world, but do you realize that you’re the only person I’ve ever met who actually knows anything about the Christians? Can I—can I count on your help? I don’t know where to start, or what to do.”

  “Leave that to me, for the moment,” said Sixtus. “There are other ways to utilize Churaldin’s particular talents without forcing him to spy upon his acquaintances. In the meantime—”

  “I know,” sighed Marcus. “School myself to accept the dictates of Fate.” Relief, exhaustion, or the release of what had felt like an unbearable burden put a cracked, gritty edge to his voice that he had not intended; Sixtus raised one white bristling brow at him.

  “We should all learn to do that, of course,” he replied mildly. “Or at least learn to identify them. I was going to say, in the meantime, keep your wits about you. You may see one of your kidnappers in the street at any time, you know. If you do, don’t rush up and seize them—follow them, and see where they go.”

  Marcus laughed shakily. In the warmth of the distant gardens he could hear the crying of cicadas and the sweet voice of a woman singing a love song in Greek. Throughout that empty and time-haunted house, there was no other sound.

  After a time Sixtus sighed. “When I returned to Rome fifteen years ago, it was with the intention of retiring from the world, and in that I feel that I have been happy. In the last eight years I have scarcely gone out of the house; my world has been encompassed by my books, my meditations, my friends, my research, my little statues. I hardly thought to embark upon a Christian-hunt at this stage of my career.” He straightened his shoulders a little, folding his blunt warrior’s hands around his staff. “Come back, when you need advice. I fear you will generally find me at home.”

  And in the absence of a doorkeeper, Sixtus Julianus, former commander of the Imperial Armies, former governor of Antioch, opened the doors for him and bowed him graciously upon his way.

  IV

  Kindly remember that he whom you call your slave sprang from the same stock, is smiled upon by the same skies, and on equal terms with yourself, breathes, lives, and dies.... I do not wish to involve myself in too large a question and to discuss the treatment of slaves, toward whom we Romans are excessively haughty, cruel, and insulting....As often as you reflect how much power you have over a slave, remember that your master has just as much power over you. “But I have no master,” you say. You are still young; perhaps you will have one. Do you not know at what age Hecuba entered captivity, or Croesus, or the mother of Darius, or Plato, or Diogenes?

  Seneca

  “SEE ANY OF THEM?” Priscus Quindarvis turned from the smooth mirror of polished brass with a startled growl; the slave who was holding it up for him bowed and effaced himself. “Great gods, boy, by the time I’d summoned the men of the house and come running to the scene those murdering scum were long gone.” He paused in his pacing, the folds of his toga settling into graceful lines around his heavy shoulders and massive arms. Marcus, who generally looked as though he’d been rolled in his garments like a piece of fish, regarded the effect with envy.

  “Did you notice anyone—well, hanging about the place earlier in the day? I know you were here when I called at the ninth hour...”

  Quindarvis gave the matter some thought, then shook his head. “Well, aside from the usual sycophants cluttering up the atrium, and beggars in the streets, and those infernal shopkeepers down the road. But then, I was here in the garden, with Aurelia Pollia and my cousin Varus’ steward.”

  There was an awkward silence. Outside, dew still glittered on the banked lilies of the garden, visible through the fluted columns that separated the drawing room from the court. Marcus had called early, on the way back from doing some necessary shopping in the markets by the river: an alternative, in the gray hours before dawn, to lying awake contemplating the familiar lines of the ceiling. There was a telltale puffiness about Quindarvis’ eyes that made him wonder how much sleep the praetor had had. But then, on the night before his games, that was to have been expected.

  “How is Aurelia Pollia?” he asked after a moment.

  Quindarvis shook his head. “She slept all yesterday,” he sighed. “I’ve told Nicanor to look after her—he’s trustworthy enough, for a slave. You know Aurelia as well as I do, boy. She isn’t very strong, and this has been a hideous shock to her. If she drinks more poppy and sleeps today through as well, it would be for the best.” He prowled to the open line of columns that let into the garden. They were red porphyry from Egypt, to go with the red of the painted walls. Against them his toga had the whiteness of marble.

  “I wish I could remain here with her,” continued Quindarvis. “I’m late as it is—You sure you don’t want a ticket to the games? They’ll be having the march-in in an hour.”

  “Thank you, no,” replied Marcus, trying to hide the distaste in his voice.

  “They’re going to be very fine,” continued the senator persuasively. “Since the emperor isn’t in Rome to give his own games, more than usual latitude has been allowed the praetors in charge. Over one hundred fifty—”

  “No, really.” He made himself smile. “I appreciate your offer, but...”

  “I know,” chuckled the big man. “Your philosophic principles.” He slapped Marcus genially on the shoulder. “Well, here. In case your philosophic principles wear a little thin.” He handed him a slip of fired clay, inscribed with a seat number.

  “I’ll look in on Aurelia again this evening,” he continued. “I spent last night here, you know. It isn’t good to leave her alone, with just the slaves. And by the way, I sent a suitable reward to that boy—that Briton boy, whatever his name was, Sixtus Julianu
s’ slave—for attempting to help.” He frowned to himself. “Perhaps I should pay a call on Julianus one of these mornings myself, to thank him personally.”

  Marcus smiled, trying to picture this highly polished portrait of elegance among the blown leaves of that dusty atrium. But he only remarked, “He’s supposed to be some kind of an eccentric, isn’t he?”

  The praetor winked. “‘Crazy’ I think is the word I’ve heard. But he’s one of the ancient aristocracy. They’ve bred among themselves too long. But the power’s there, and the wealth, from all I’ve heard. This might be the opportunity I’ve been seeking, to get to know him.” He frowned again, giving the matter consideration.

  From the hallway a slave’s voice bellowed, “It is now the beginning of the second hour of the morning! It is now...”

  “Jupiter Capitolinus, I’ll miss the march-in! Baccus!” At his roared summons, Quindarvis’ Greek secretary came hurrying in from the atrium, followed by an undersecretary to carry the wax note-tablets and a page to run errands. Ignoring them as if they had been so many flies, he continued, “Look in on Lady Aurelia if you can, boy.”

  “I was going to come back a little later, if it would be all right.” Marcus gestured with his woven cane basket, which contained leeks, part of a squash, and a quarter of a skinned hare that was inclined to drip. “I’ve been shopping.”

  Quindarvis regarded it with wrinkled nose. “So I see. More of your philosophic principles, I suppose. Oh, that reminds me. That centurion of the guards, whatever his name is...”

  “Arrius.”

  “Just so. He left word with us that he wanted to see you; he has some Christians down at the prison.”

  “What?” squeaked Marcus. “When?”

  “Oh, his man was here this morning. They said they’d looked for you at your lodging....What would your father say about you turning police informer...?” He strode back toward the door to the atrium, Marcus and the string of slaves trotting at his heels.

  “The police are servants of the city and the emperor,” retorted Marcus quickly, stung at the imputation. “They represent order and peace. Does a man scorn his own faithful servants?”

  “No, but he doesn’t offer to help them clean out toilets, either.” Quindarvis brushed through the embroidered black curtains and into the atrium. Half-a-dozen clients sprang to their feet. “Get them out of here, tell them to drown themselves...”

  “Yes, sir,” murmured the Syrian underbutler.

  “Is my chair ready?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  A hand touched Marcus’ shoulder. He turned, startled, and met the eyes of the Greek physician Nicanor, who drew him quietly into an alcove that contained the statues of the Varus clan’s ancestral gods. “May I have a word with you, sir?”

  Marcus glanced back at Quindarvis, who was dispensing an arrogant tongue-lashing to the frightened butler amid a crowd of eager clients. The praetor had clearly forgotten his existence.

  “The other slaves asked me to speak with you, sir,” said the Greek quietly. “You’re a friend of the family. Are you going down to the prison, to help that centurion who’s looking for Mistress Tertullia?”

  “Yes, I’m on my way there now,” said Marcus, suppressing his annoyance with Quindarvis for not having mentioned the matter to him earlier, and wondering if Arrius would have given up on him already in disgust.

  “Is it true that the centurion thinks there’s a Christian in the household?”

  Marcus blinked at him, startled afresh at the speed with which news traveled among the city’s slaves.

  “Because it isn’t true, sir.” Those dark, intelligent eyes grew intent, and Marcus saw suddenly at the back of them a lurking dread. “By Asclepius I swear it isn’t.” He gestured toward the group in the atrium, me fussing praetor and his little court. “Does he know what was said?”

  Marcus shook his head.

  “Then don’t speak of it to him, sir. Please.” Nicanor’s office had protected him from many of the indignities of a slave’s life—there was a stiffness to his voice that spoke of a man unused to pleading. But the curtain of the archway at his back moved; Marcus wondered how many of the others were listening. “If he thought such a thing, it’d be the rack for all of us, you know it would. He’s had poor Hylas locked up...”

  “Who?”

  “Hylas. Mistress Tertullia’s footman. The one she sent away with her packages. The poor man’s half sick with grief that he left her to begin with, and he’s in terror of what will be done to him.”

  “But it wasn’t his fault!” protested Marcus. “It wasn’t any of your fault.”

  Nicanor shrugged fatalistically. “The law says when a man is murdered, every slave in his household can be put to death as well for not preventing it. Even the questioning is more than many can stand.”

  Churaldin’s words returned to him, “You must know there’s only one way they have of examining slaves.” It came to him how monstrous it was that this slim, gentle-handed man, with all his skill and talent, would have to beg like a scullion or a concubine to be spared torture. He was a man of full life, thirty-five or so, and handsome in his way, with his close-trimmed beard and wary dark eyes. It was monstrous, thought Marcus, that he should have no more rights than a child, who at a father’s whim can be exposed upon the hillside for the wild dogs to eat.

  He supposed in his place someone else might have felt powerful, or magnanimous, to receive such pleading. But in his shabby toga, clutching his shopping basket in both awkward hands, he felt embarrassed and ridiculous. The noises in the atrium faded as Quindarvis and his train boiled through the vestibule doors. “All right,” he said quietly. “I won’t mention it to him, or to Lady Aurelia, and I’ll—I’ll do what I can to help Hylas. He’s not Quindarvis’ slave, after all; he can’t do anything to him.”

  “No,” said the Syrian doorkeeper, coming across the echoing marble of the empty hall. “But may the goddess Cybele help him—and all of us—when the master returns.” He took Marcus’ shopping basket from him and added to its contents a little bundle containing bread, some cold meats, and several sesterces: the usual handout a wealthy man gave to the clients who hung around his anterooms all day. “They’ll never miss an extra one,” he confided. “Thank you, sir.”

  From behind the curtain, Marcus heard a murmuring chorus of “Thank you, thank you...”

  The thanks embarrassed him, and the gift still more. As he hurried down the hill toward the Forum, he wondered at the terrible injustice of it, that these people should have to beg for safety, not from a judge or a lawgiver, but from a twenty-two-year-old dilettante philosopher, and not a particularly good one at that. They had shown their thanks in the only way they could, with goods pilfered from their master, and to Marcus’ eternal and acute discomfiture, he was aware that he could not have afforded to turn them down.

  For many months his father, faced with his stubborn desire to pursue a philosophic career, had refused to send him money, merely stipulating that he should come and ask for it when he was in need. He had done so, hating it, hating the old man, starving in his ramshackle room in the Subura tenement until Felix had persuaded their oldest brother Caius to change the arrangement. Caius had understood neither the philosophy nor the pride, but he was pragmatic enough to realize that with an income of ten sesterces every few weeks and a rental of a denarius per month, and no surety that that might not be raised (not to mention fluctuations in the market prices of various commodities), if his brother did not starve himself to death he would in very short order undertake disgraceful means of remedying the situation. “Didn’t know whether he meant crime or trade,” Felix had remarked, dropping the small wash-leather purse onto the plank table in front of Marcus one afternoon. “But the old paterfamilias nearly had a stroke at the thought of it. He’ll send old Straton over with one of these every quarter day. Mind you don’t blow it all on fast women and slow horses.”

  It was an improved situation. But not so improved,
thought Marcus, as he pushed his way through the crowds in the spice markets that clustered at the rocky end of the Quirinal Hill, that he could afford to turn down free food, no matter what its source.

  The mob around the offices of the city bread dole was far thinner than usual at this hour of the morning. Most of them had got their tickets to the games in yesterday’s basket and would be at the Flavian already, defending their places against all comers. He passed a poster inked on the base of the statue of some defunct emperor, advertising them as being given in honor of the emperor’s victories by the praetors of the city, headed by Priscus Quindarvis, that most generous and popular of all good fellows. He noticed that there were more of the Praetorian Guard in the city, too, an obvious precaution if most of the population was going to abandon their shops and houses for the day. He thought of the centurion Arrius, and the Christians in the jail, and his normally mild blood stirred with sudden hot anger.

  Among the imperial splendor of marble columns and gilded shrines in the Old Forum at the bottom of the hill, the buildings that housed the Senate and its archives looked small, old-fashioned, and a little dowdy. The usual racket in the bookshops and the silver exchange in Caesar’s forum just behind had quieted. The doors of the Senate house were closed. Everyone was at the games.

  At this hour of the morning, the main guardroom of the prison on the Capitoline Rise was still cool. It was a brick building, and small. Somebody—Juvenal?—had been very proud of the fact that Rome had only one prison. But it had been Rome’s prison for time out of mind. The structures above the ground came and went, the present one dating from some forty years back; the cells of its pits were eternal. Marcus felt his flesh creep as he stepped into the bluish shade of that whitewashed guardroom. The place stank of bad death.