Lady of the Light

by Donna Gillespie

  A fourth chair was significantly empty. After a tense, protracted moment, this chair disappeared beneath a man whose movements were possessed of such gravity and grace, Apion thought there must beat in that breast not a heart, but a military drum. His thatch of thick, gray hair curled a bit, as if in protest against how sternly it was trained forward. His towering form had the breadth and muscle tone of a discus thrower; he needed a larger chair. That impressive, bony brow, Apion knew, sheltered vigilant eyes that made a man think very carefully about every word he spoke. A complexion darker than most from a life lived under the sun made it easy to imagine he was, indeed, a man of iron. That lean face, with its high cheekbones and flat planes, smooth as armor, was possessed of but one outlandish feature—a great, tuberose nose, red-veined from the ravages of wine. Attached to such a man as this, however, even that nose managed to keep its dignity. That was the Emperor, Marcus Ulpius Trajan.

  Pylades indicated the Emperor’s old friend Licinius Sura, and whispered to Apion, “I can’t believe that man was once the Emperor’s lover . . . too fat, too slow, too bookish, too dull!” Pylades did a faint mimic of such a man as he spoke.

  “He wasn’t then!” Apion replied indignantly. Their whispers were obscured by the men’s greetings, the scraping of chair legs over marble. “Sura was still in the hands of a tutor in those days, and the Emperor not much older.”

  Pylades stared darkly at Apion, making much of how fervently the younger boy came to the Emperor’s defense in matters of love. Then he said, “Apion, you never told me—how came you to be Marcus Julianus’s man?”

  The question sounded slightly odd to Apion; perhaps it was Pylades’s timing. As you are, too, Apion thought. And why think of loyalties now, at this time when we’re most vulnerable to discovery? Marcus Julianus’s spy network was as vast and intricate as the Palace’s, and Apion felt great pride in being part of it.

  “I swear you know this already,” Apion answered irritably. “He restored my parents to their home after my island’s procurator imprisoned my father on a wicked, false charge. I would lay down my life for the man. Fix that meddlesome snout on Blaesus, not on me.” For reasons they hoped to uncover today, Blaesus had, of late, greatly stepped up his efforts to destroy Marcus Julianus.

  The council had not yet begun; Licinius Sura was speaking rapidly to one of the servants while the Emperor began to unroll and read a lengthy document that Livianus, the Guards’ praefect, had pressed on him. Apion squinted, but it was penned in spy’s shorthand and he made nothing of it.

  “Ah, Julianus!” Pylades whispered. “None of Rome’s women are good enough for him. For that matter, neither is Rome.”

  Apion’s discomfort increased, but he kept his demeanor calm. Never before had he heard Pylades speak slightingly of his true master.

  “The first time Julianus summoned me,” Pylades whispered on, “I thought . . . oh how I hoped!—but my exultant flutterings were cruelly crushed. The man’s tastes run entirely to women. And strange foreign women, at that.”

  Below them, the servants had departed. The four heads drew closer together. Apion wondered again over Pylades’s sourness, his sudden agitation. Did the older boy fear he was set to lose his golden fortune? To Apion, it didn’t seem possible. Pylades had basked in the imperial sun for over two years, and to Apion that was an impressive stretch of time, long enough to make Pylades’s place in the divine bed seem dependable as sunrise itself.

  Pylades snuffed out the lamp; the only light in the chamber was that which softly filtered up from below. The boys dropped into stillness, paying close attention now. In their trade they depended wholly on well-schooled memories; committing words to a wax tablet would have greatly increased their danger.

  The first voice they heard was the Emperor’s.

  “Were that there were two of me! I shouldn’t have to abandon all these labors, half done.” It was a glorious, full-throated voice meant for the windy expanses of a parade ground.

  “Grand, is he not?” Pylades whispered right in Apion’s ear. “He sounds like that even in the bedchamber, Apion. It’s not an actor’s role for him.”

  Apion silenced him with a cutting gesture. It was quieter down there now. Pylades would have them both found out and destroyed.

  “You must trust matters into other men’s hands more than you do.” This came from the Emperor’s friend Licinius Sura, whose expressive hands were gesturing hopefully, suggesting his were the ideal hands to trust. “You’ve chosen capable men. The donatives will be paid. The architects will proceed. Your Forum will dwarf Augustus’s. I’ve arranged to have any amendments to the plans sent along to you. No harm will come from this sudden departure. It will be as though you never left Rome.”

  The Emperor spoke brisk words addressed to the room at large. “Early June is late to set out.” Apion knew he referred to his date of departure from Rome for the second Dacian war. “Three months into the campaigning season—it leaves us time to reinforce the bridges and no more; the main attack won’t come until spring. Which gives the Dacians another year to gather allies.” Trajan turned abruptly to the Praetorian praefect. “Tell us why you called us, Livianus. I trust this touches on the war. I’ve no time for matters that don’t.”

  Following Trajan’s victory, early in his reign, over the far eastern kingdom of Dacia, the Dacian king Decabalus had proved remarkably quick to forget he’d lost the war; he’d hardly waited for Trajan’s triumphal procession to end before he’d begun rebuilding his fortifications. Yesterday the fateful dispatch had come: Decabalus and his Dacian army had crossed the river Danuvius and broken into the Roman province of Moesia. This morn, the Senate had proclaimed Decabalus an Enemy of Rome. Four days after the Kalends of the month of Junius, Trajan would sail from the harbor of Ancona and begin his march into Dacia.

  “With all respect, my Lord, this does touch on the war,” the Praetorian praefect replied. “More specifically, on the safety of the dangerous Chattian frontier you must leave at your back.”

  “I have a dependable report assuring me that region will remain stable for two years,” the Emperor replied.

  Blaesus nudged in bluntly then. “And whose counsel was that?”

  His words were met with thick silence. Everyone knew whose counsel it was: Marcus Julianus’s. It was not a question so much as an accusation.

  The Praetorian praefect aimed a curt gesture at Blaesus—visible to the boys above, but not to the Emperor—warning Blaesus he was moving in too quickly. “The intelligence I give you has two parts, my Lord,” the praefect Livianus smoothly continued. “The first part concerns this turbulent Chattian frontier, which we’re forced to leave lightly garrisoned. The second part . . . concerns a man.”

  The Guards’ praefect then put several rolled documents onto the Egyptian writing table. “These dispatches from Germania are alarming, the more so since this notorious malefactor who’s been arming the Chattians all these years has never been found, and—”

  “That should concern you no more,” the Emperor broke in, lifting a hand. “Our esteemed Governor Maximus insists he’s close to bringing this person to justice.”

  “Ah, but the horse may already be out of the barn. Look at these dispatches, they tell a tale of increasing Chattian boldness—two of our observers were murdered in a drunken fracas at one of their tribal law-assemblies. And note that here, a common soldier of the Eighth Augusta, who was hunting in Chattian territory while on leave from duty, was kidnapped and ‘tried’ by one of the Chattians’ barbarous tribunals, for the supposed ‘crime’ of looting treasures from one of their sacred lakes. The Chattians condemned a Roman soldier with that virgin prophetess Ramis acting as judge. And none of our loyalists stopped it. And note here that—”

  “That frontier is Nemesis’s crown,” the Emperor interrupted. “The man-tic woman you speak of, Ramis—her sway over these simple folk has become too great. You will order her arrest.”

  Livianus nodded. “It shall be done. And th
ere’s also this: During the rebel Witgern’s recent attack, his band was armed with swords—swords it’s been illegal for this tribe to possess since the first year of your reign. Somehow this fact got buried beneath mountains of . . . of a certain man’s rhetoric.” Livianus’s voice dropped to a soft growl; Apion had to grope for his next words. “Which brings us to the matter of a man . . . an ever so subtle man, who keeps counseling us to ignore all these clear signs of insurrection.”

  Apion saw Lappius Blaesus move his head closer to the Praetorian praefect’s; the boy read close complicity between the two. Blaesus was alert as some carrion creature waiting for a larger beast to bring down the game so it could feast. Apion could not abide Blaesus, who he believed would prosecute his own mother if he thought the fame showered on him by the trial would cause his speeches to be memorized by students in rhetorical schools, and get him raised to the post of city praetor.

  “This man we speak of has long been blessed with your friendship,” the Praetorian praefect continued, “which causes us great sadness for what we must tell you now. In the inquiry after the rebel Witgern attacked, twenty men of your Council were in strong agreement about the seriousness of these recent threats to the security of Germania’s frontier, and—”

  “—Julianus’s is the one report that contradicts,” Blaesus finished for him, giving dread weight to each word.

  A long silence followed; to Apion, it had a foul smell. Not even the mild-mannered Sura raised an objection. Apion felt the first prickle of horror. In the language of these men, failure to speak up in a man’s defense amounted to a strong condemnation.

  Apion felt himself in the grip of a waking dream, so intently was he listening. He never noticed that Pylades was ignoring the drama below and staring at him.

  Below them, the Emperor spoke on with challenge in his tone. “I must confess myself surprised by what you imply. This is Marcus Julianus. In the past, he has been correct with his every recommendation. He has an impressive record of saving us much in troops and supplies. Twenty disagreed, you say? It would take twenty men of the Council just to equal him in learning.”

  Apion saw the Guards’ praefect visibly contract; the boy sensed aggravated ill-feeling over the high esteem in which Trajan had always held Marcus Julianus.

  The praefect Livianus continued, “That is so . . . and doubtless, it’s not because of compromised loyalties, springing from the fact that Julianus took one of these Chattian savages to his breast, that he consistently counsels a light hand against this tribe—”

  “Just give me this new evidence!” The chill in the Emperor’s voice caused Apion to feel one brief spasm of relief.

  “Here is a private letter Julianus wrote—”

  “I do not look at private letters!” It was a voice to annihilate all but the steadiest of men. Apion had to grudgingly admire the Guards’ praefect’s courage.

  “Of course,” the praefect Livianus smoothly continued on, “but this letter—well, I won’t bore you with it, because I see how this offends you, so I’ll just leave it here so you can look at it later . . . Just know it was culled right from Julianus’s own library, by one of your most loyal Horse Guardsmen, a fine man who only this morning passed it on to me—but more on him later. In it, Julianus says the Dacian war’s our fault. And be aware, these base ideas are also the text of a lecture Julianus gave. To eager, attentive students. In a public place. At Confluentes, a small, but influential town—”

  “Enough! I don’t care what philosophers think.”

  The Praetorian praefect Livianus placed the letter on the Egyptian writing table, close by the Emperor. To Apion’s dismay, Trajan did not push it away despite that fine display of imperial wrath. The boy sensed that Livianus had hooked his fish.

  The praefect Livianus rapidly spoke on. “Julianus met alone with the commander of the fort attacked by Witgern’s Wolf Coats—after first concocting some lie to trick the other Consilium members into leaving the room. He drew information from this fort’s praefect, a man called Speratus, that he never passed on to the Consilium. And—it grieves me to tell you of such impiety—he swore this Speratus to silence. Julianus got a man to swear allegiance to himself, over you.”

  Apion read the Emperor’s silence as evidence of true surprise, as when a man strikes a wall in the dark.

  After considering this for long moments, Trajan said, “What information was withheld?” Now Apion heard weary sadness in the imperial voice.

  “That the rebel Witgern broke into that fort to steal the sword that belonged to the Chattians’ old hero-chief, Baldemar. Julianus learned the rebel has hatched a plot to put that sword into the hands of some new war chief. Our informant did not discern the name. Now our Governor there, Maximus, he’s a good man but he couldn’t be expected to know what to make of this peculiar theft. But Julianus does. He has described in his published works on the nature of these northern savages how they believe the soul of a sword’s former owner dwells on in the blade. He knows Baldemar’s sword’s a rallying point for rebellion.”

  “Now, that’s a thing to report,” Blaesus broke in. “The Chattian savages are resurrecting the old rogue.”

  Trajan was rapt as a sentry alerted to an enemy’s approach. Apion could feel the fine, sharp edge of his concern.

  “I’d want to hear Julianus’s version of this first,” the Emperor said at last. But to Apion, Trajan’s protest lacked his usual firmness. This is more than one day’s work, the boy thought with accumulating dread. Doubts these men had planted before this day had sprouted, flourished, and were ready for harvesting. What clever scoundrels Livianus and Blaesus are, the boy thought. There’s no better time to reap the ruin of a powerful man than when an Emperor must turn his back on his Capitol for a long campaign.

  “To hear whatever tricky defense he’d have at hand?” the praefect Livianus replied. “I know I can’t outparry him. He’d probably tell you they’re arming against that King Chariomer and his Cheruscans, not against us. But given that the Chattians are unpredictable as a herd of bolting horses, this does nothing to ease my concern. But then, I’m just a plain, simple soldier who sees the matter as our noble grandfathers would.”

  The Emperor’s heavy silence was not encouraging to Apion.

  “This is new for Julianus,” Livianus pressed on. “He’s never before acted on his eccentric beliefs.” The Emperor gave him a hard look. Livianus amended, “I mean only, we’ve known, all along, how Julianus lectures at that Academy of his that ‘the time of Rome’s expansion is done,’ and how he dissects and discards, in the worst Stoic fashion, the base of every authority you’ve ever claimed—but I know you don’t listen to that sort of evidence, so—”

  “He’s out there assembling a party of opposition in the provinces!” Blaesus broke in hotly. Apion observed that the two men had distinct roles: Livianus marched in the vanguard, cutting swaths with broad, clean strokes. Then Blaesus scurried in under the Guards’ praefect’s cover, to deliver the blow that was messy and brutish. The Emperor’s old friend Sura seemed present only to observe, or perhaps Trajan brought him here to serve as a sort of anchor, to moor these men’s vengeful flights.

  Blaesus then added, while nodding significantly toward the letter, “And we must remember Julianus’s history, my Lord. Before he turned against Domitian, he began by speaking against him.”

  “What I tell you next,” Livianus pressed on, dropping his voice again, “we found difficult to credit at first. It comes from that same loyal Horse Guardsman I mentioned before. His name is Marcus Ulpius Secundus and he is a decorated soldier. The rebel Witgern was welcomed on Julianus’s estate.”

  The silence that followed was thunderous.

  A queasiness rose in Apion’s throat; he feared he’d lose his morning porridge. This cannot be true, the boy thought. These faithless men are spewing lies.

  “This is proved?” Trajan’s voice was taut, emotionless.

  “I fear the source is impeccable. Witgern came to Jul
ianus’s villa in the dead of night to meet in cabal with its mistress. He was welcomed as if he were an old friend by that woman Julianus lives in concubinage with, and was given food and shelter.” Livianus paused just long enough to allow the Emperor to absorb the enormity of this, then added, “I fear Marcus Arrius Julianus is not our friend.”

  Blaesus spoke up then. “In light of his displays of treasonable disloyalty to you, my Lord, it should surprise us little that Julianus refuses to accompany you to Dacia.” Blaesus handed Trajan a gilded wax tablet; Apion could see it was an elegantly penned letter.

  Trajan read aloud Marcus Julianus’s brief, polite refusal to join him on the Dacian campaign. Apion marveled at how every word of that courteous, mildly phrased letter sounded decidedly sinister, against the backdrop of suspicion these men had prepared.

  Apion knew well the shape of the concerns that would be on any ruler’s mind at this time: the inadvisability of departing for a long war while leaving behind a powerful man you can’t trust. Once, Apion saw the Emperor briefly put a hand to his temple, as if this were too much for even a strong man to bear.

  The Praetorian praefect Livianus spoke. “This is an awkward matter, my Lord. The hopeful news is that we’ve the means to handle this cleanly and quietly. There’s no need to worry over leaving a dangerous source of instability at your back. You’ve worries enough. My Lord, you need only free us . . . to do what we must.”

  The silence that followed was difficult for Apion to read, for the Emperor’s encompassing spirit housed multiple souls, some of which harbored conflicting aims: One part of him seemed wreathed in a god’s omnipotence as he shouldered the burden of the world, and strove to bring well-being and justice to its peoples. Another part was a tough, plain soldier who could nip every appetite and stow every desire, if necessary, to forge himself into a man able to inspire an army to march half a world away and die for him. And yet another part was a practical ruler, ever aware that the man who holds absolute power is never secure. And then there was the generous part that would rather perish in fire before he’d fail to show gallantry to a friend.