‘We could say we’re selling a slave,’ suggested Una drearily, looking at the section of the magazine that carried such advertisements.
Sulien sighed and took it off her. ‘We’ll say a tropical fish-tank.’
‘All right,’ said Varius with a half-smile, and he paused. ‘I might look for Delir.’
‘I think they’ll have gone— No, they’re bound to have,’ said Sulien, trying to quiet a sick flutter at the thought of Delir’s devastated voice on the longdictor, while Lal’s lost touch flared suddenly over his skin.
‘They might not have left Rome,’ said Una. ‘They had more time. And Delir’s Persian, Zeya’s Sinoan, and she’s got the scars on her face . . . they wouldn’t stand out so much together if they stayed in the city.’
‘They’ll have made themselves hard to find. And you shouldn’t try; it’s too dangerous, for you and for them.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ promised Varius, unsatisfyingly.
Una wanted to say: Better get it over with quickly, Varius, make sure they have to shoot you on the spot, and do it soon, don’t let them drag it out. And as she subdued that impulse, for courtesy’s sake, another sprang up unexpectedly: an urge to plead, Don’t go, stay with us, because we need your help already. But instead she made herself mumble weakly, ‘Good luck.’
Varius hesitated, and placed a hand on her shoulder to draw her a little distance from Sulien. ‘Una, when we were in Bianjing, when Marcus left us there . . . do you remember what he said to you?’
Una stared carefully at a dried-out fencing post to one side of him, avoiding his face. She didn’t want to have to spend the last time she saw him tamping down irritation with him, and it was unfair of him to force her to do it. But it was a ridiculous question. She would hardly have forgotten – although she could only just stand to skim over the cutting edges of the memory. ‘If I never see you again,’ she had cried out, and Marcus had answered—
But she and Sulien had ground to cover; she couldn’t drop down into the dust and howl, which was all she would be able to do if she let herself remember in detail. She knew Varius only wanted to be kind. She said, tight-lipped, ‘Yes.’
‘I know it doesn’t help now,’ said Varius, ‘but later it might.’
Una nodded slightly, to please him. For another moment she had to struggle to stand firm, not to cry out under Varius’ soft look at her. Then, to her relief, he went and patted Sulien’s arm with awkward warmth. ‘You got us out,’ he said.
Sulien pulled him back and embraced him briefly, with a rather obvious and final air of making sure he would not have anything to regret. They went through another round of ‘Good lucks’ and Varius shouldered his bag and walked away.
Later, reaching into the pack for a map as he crossed a field beside the Pontine Road, he discovered the heavy bundle of cash Una had left there, and the terse note wrapped around it.
Una and Sulien reached another coast that night, flying across Samnium in a cramped, dirty train. Una didn’t like being trapped like this, under electric light with so many people, but at least they had the protection of adult respectability now: she’d strapped a round pillow under the long, matronly dress; they pretended, queasily, to be a young married couple. The curve at her waist drew attention away from her face, at least, though the drawback was that it encouraged people to talk to them, even to try and touch her.
Turned loose into the dark at Aternum, they were drawn as if by gravity into the large crowd below the public longvision in the forum, by the sea. The footage playing had been taken from a volucer cockpit: pale missiles flowed through the evening sky over the Promethean Ocean, leaping like dolphins and diving down onto Yuuhigawa.
For a while, a grave, frightened silence held around Una and Sulien. Then, as a splash of fire blazed close to the camera, someone uttered a wild, barely celebratory cry, and from that an angry cheer began to spread.
Varius gripped the barrier set out along the Via Triumphalis. As the cortège bearing Marcus’ body approached, the weight of the crowd behind pushed gently, at once forcing him off balance and propping him up. He could see Marcus’ face, quite clearly – and he tried to keep his eyes on it as long as he could, until the soldiers had carried the bier past him and towards the Forum, out of sight. But he could not, quite; his vision warped and blurred and once he had ducked his head to wipe his eyes he couldn’t bring himself to look back.
There were Praetorians and vigiles everywhere – Drusus himself could have looked out of the window of his slow-moving armoured car and seen him – but Varius felt strangely safe, even though he hadn’t meant to get so recklessly close to the procession. They would not expect him here, and he was one of so many faces.
It was strange; when Leo and Clodia had died the glut of public mourning had irked and embarrassed him – what business had people to cry and make fools of themselves for someone they had never met? But now, dissolved into this crowd which stretched back from the route of the cortège for so many streets, he felt grateful to them for their company. He was so fond of this fat woman, crying beside him, who looked up at his face with blind fellow-feeling and clutched his hand. How sweet that she cared about people she didn’t know – Marcus and Faustus, and himself – even if only temporarily. He spoke to her, choking out, ‘This shouldn’t be happening,’ and she shook her head sorrowfully and answered, ‘I know.’
She didn’t know about the gun he carried under his jacket, just in case. But he hadn’t had much expectation of a chance to use it. After what had happened at the Colosseum, it was no surprise that Drusus was not walking behind the cortège this time, as he and Marcus had at the last Imperial funeral. And he would be safe, delivering his oration in the Julian Forum; it was closed to all but appointed guests, with a heavy Praetorian cordon blocking every entrance.
Still Varius tried to pay attention, noted the car that had been chosen, counted the number of guards who walked beside it, tried to memorise every detail that he could, in case it revealed some weak point later.
Helplessness caught him, and he told himself that for the moment he was only compiling information; he didn’t have to know what to do with it yet.
The centre of Rome was laminated with even more giant screens than usual, so that Drusus’ speech should reach all the thousands of mourners in the streets. Varius had only to lift his head to watch Drusus get out of the car and walk up to the Rostra. Already he moved with only a trace of a limp, although the bruises on his face were still vivid. Instead of the ceremonial black toga Varius had expected, he was dressed in military uniform with a black pallium draped across the breastplate, and the wreath bright on his head.
Varius, who had tried to prepare himself to bear the sight of Drusus victorious at Marcus’ funeral, was breathtaken with disgust.
Behind Drusus, Makaria, pale and dull-eyed, was flanked by ladies-in-waiting. Noriko was absent. Varius, who had seen a pack of furious Romans burning the Nionian Sun on the steps of the deserted Embassy only that morning, understood why. He still tried to observe and remember; he willed the camera to linger on the audience of aristocrats and generals so that he could see who had been placed closest to the front, who was not there.
But as soon as Drusus began to speak of the attack on Yuuhigawa, Varius knew he couldn’t stand to listen to him. Around him, people were gazing up at Drusus with a sort of longing, and Varius’ fusion with them was lost. He was a malign, disenfranchised presence here, not one of them. He pushed his way to the back, tolerance for the cramped density of the crowd fraying quickly now, dodged down the first turning, past the shuttered bookshops on the Vicus Sandaliarius, but with all the screens, and the speakers turned up so loud, he had to hurry a long way before he could leave Drusus’ voice behind. It waylaid him at every street corner: ‘Rome will find comfort in justice, and in the courage of her soldiers . . .’
At last, at the edge of the Subura, it was out of earshot, and the streets were empty; as everyone had drained in towards the centre,
like blood to the body’s core. Varius lowered himself to the ground, sitting against a wall like a tramp. He had been there; that was all he really wanted. And there was a measure of solace in the thought that Drusus had no idea how close he’d been, how close he still was.
The wall was patched with torn posters and graffiti, a lot of new scribbled curses and hysterical slogans against Nionia. Varius got up and moved along the wall, looking for a space that was clear, but not too clear, where an extra word would neither stand out too much, nor be swallowed completely by the surrounding clutter of letters. He took a lump of chalk from his pocket, checked around, and wrote ATHABIA on the brick. As soon as he’d done it a self-conscious flush of sweat rose to his face and for a moment his impulse was to rub it out: it looked so stark and obvious, surely the vigiles would see it at once and recognise it for what it was.
It could have been a woman’s name. He hesitated, then drew a heart around it, framing it, disguising it.
He began to walk again, with no destination in mind, fingers still closed around the chalk in his pocket.
Drusilla flinched as she entered the ballroom and a herald cried, ‘The most august Lady Drusilla Terentia, the Emperor’s honoured mother!’
The music died for a moment and the couples on the dance floor broke into polite applause. Drusilla felt her face blaze. She made her way stiffly down the staircase, as if afraid of falling.
Drusus was coming to meet her, his face brilliant with eagerness and aggressive pride. ‘Well, Mother, here we are!’ he exclaimed almost wildly as he bent and kissed her cheek.
Drusilla embraced him a little clumsily, hissing to him as they separated, ‘I didn’t want my name called out like that. It’s not right for a woman’s name to be shouted about in public.’
‘Mother,’ said Drusus, at once exasperated and faintly pleading, ‘you are the most honoured matron in the Empire. Isn’t that what you always wanted?’
Drusilla pursed her lips.
Drusus patted her hand coaxingly. ‘It’s perfectly right for you to be lauded as you deserve.’
Grudgingly, Drusilla smiled. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘congratulations.’
Drusus pressed her hand again, and an incredulous smile hovered at his lips. ‘It doesn’t feel real,’ he murmured.
‘You’ve been very lucky,’ she said.
Drusus scowled. ‘Luck— It’s not a matter of luck. That’s no way to speak about it. The Empire is in mourning. This is the gravest of all responsibilities.’ The musicians struck up again. He sighed and offered her his arm. ‘Would you like to dance this with me, Mother?’
‘You know I never dance,’ said Drusilla. ‘I don’t like fuss.’
‘Mother, now of all times—!’
Drusilla turned to survey the dancers with an air of suspicion. The ball’s splendour was carefully restrained, so as not to jar with the recent tragedy. There were military standards ranked around the walls, and wreaths of laurel branches hanging from the gallery, but no flowers, and the music had a martial urgency to it. Many of the men, like Drusus, were in ceremonial uniform; the women’s dresses shone darkly, deep indigo, pine green.
‘Are you going to marry any of these women?’ Drusilla asked sharply.
Drusus sighed again. ‘I cannot tell whether you wish me to say yes or no to that.’
‘It’s not right for the Emperor to be unmarried. Your cousin was married, and he was younger than you.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Though it wasn’t what you could call a proper marriage, not with that foreign girl. And look what came of that. What are you going to do with her?’
‘I will do what’s right,’ said Drusus.
‘I hope so. She must have been mixed up in what happened; the people will expect her to pay for it.’
Drusus said nothing for a while. ‘Father will be moving in here soon,’ he remarked after a while with artificial casualness, and Drusilla tensed. She hated any direct reminder of her marriage, of Lucius’ existence. ‘He’s been quite well, lately, you’ll be glad to hear. And it’s not as if there’s any shortage of room for him. Of course, you’re welcome here too. It is not really right for the Emperor’s mother to live outside her son’s guardianship, is it? And the people would appreciate an example of family unity at such a dark time.’
‘You know very well that’s impossible,’ said Drusilla, tight-lipped.
‘Ah, well. I try to be a good son,’ said Drusus, and went forward to take a senator’s daughter by the hand and whirl her into the next dance.
The Empress Jun Shen examined the new Roman Emperor on the jade-framed yuan-shi screen in her audience chamber. She saw how his new dark uniform suited him, how handsome and noble he looked, and at the same time she thought he looked like a little boy dressed up. In the latter aspect she found him more frightening.
She said, ‘But you were attacked by a group of anarchists from within your own Empire who have been trying to provoke a war for over a year. Do you not hesitate at all to give your enemies precisely what they want?’ She waited for Weigi to finish translating.
Drusus replied calmly, ‘No one believes a gang of slaves could have succeeded without both Nionian sponsorship and inside help.’
The Empress grunted. ‘If they are going by your speeches, I suppose they don’t.’
Drusus smiled tightly. ‘I have done my best to keep the Roman people informed. If you have been listening to my speeches, you can need no further explanation from me.’
‘And I see that you have grown no fonder of your cousin’s advisor or his concubine since I last saw you.’ She remembered them in their temporary prison in the Nionian quarters, the young girl tense and urgent, warning her what Drusus would do to Sina in a war . . .
‘They were traitors then and they’re traitors now. If my cousin had realised that he might still be alive.’
‘Even the girl’s brother?’ added Jun Shen.
‘It’s not a mere matter of association, your Majesty, I promise you that. They all had ties to my cousin’s killer.’
Jun Shen leaned forward, her scented armour of clothes stiff around her, fringes of petals and beads drooping against her forehead. ‘Perhaps you will not object if a much older sovereign suggests you reconsider your course? I saw how hard all sides worked to avoid this. You, I think, had other concerns at the time. But it is a pity if it is all to be thrown away. You have knocked over a lot of buildings in Yuuhigawa; I think there are Roman towns in Anasasia and Arcansa already paying for it. Must it go further than that?’
‘Yes, it must,’ said Drusus, quietly. ‘I am acting from necessity.’
And Jun Shen studied his face, radiant and terrified under the fading bruises, and thought, Yes, that much is true, for him it really is necessary. More truculently than mournfully, she considered and rejected the wish that history could have waited until after she was dead to produce him. She did not like to think of her ministers or her grandchildren attempting to handle this.
Drusus finished, ‘And Roman forces will need the freedom to cross Sinoan territory.’
Jun Shen sucked in her lips. ‘What am I to say when Nionia requests the same thing? I am not having my lands become a battleground.’
‘We will not be coming as your enemies, Madam.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Jun Shen, ‘any force entering my lands without my permission will have made itself my enemy.’
Drusus stiffened. ‘You would have to take responsibility for the consequences of resistance.’
‘Yes. But I prefer to have no part of this, your Majesty. I think you should be glad of that. You’ve already gone looking for one fight; it would not be wise to take on another.’
Drusus stared palely out of the screen at her, which then, without warning, flashed and went dark. Jun Shen raised her eyebrows and settled back on her throne with a quiet groan. She lowered her chin to the mail of necklaces on her chest and remained silent for several minutes, thinking.
She looked up at
last, to see the alarm on the faces of her interpreter and attendants. ‘He won’t do it,’ she said to them, ‘not yet, anyway.’ But she felt her heart still bobbing rapidly against her thinning bones, under the solid weight of pearl and amethyst.
Drusus looked around at his generals in the Strategy Room and said, ‘Well, let’s rest a little. We’ll talk more of this later.’
The fury and panic faded almost too quickly, soaking away into the maps of the world that covered the walls. Had he really just had a conversation in which the future of a billion lives had been shaped? He was left fretfully stranded between excitement and a feeling of puzzled doubt that anything was really happening, that he was truly Emperor, that the little dots on the maps meant something true.
He looked at the outline of the coast of Greece, where Siphnos was an invisible speck, Makaria already fixed there, definite. But the world’s slippery surface stretched away, without even a ripple to show where Sulien and Una and Varius had hidden themselves.
It would have been foolish to completely ignore the risk that existed as long as Varius was alive, but Drusus felt only a patient, businesslike level of concern on his account. But that Una and Sulien had escaped with him, despite how swiftly Drusus had moved, that felt like something worse than bad luck: another uncanny sign of what they were, what they were meant for. Ruin, the Sibyl had warned him, and he repeated to himself the borrowed names that had allowed him to understand, names that wound tight around his own: Noviana, Novianus.
Walking meditatively through the Palace, he found he was heading towards Noriko’s quarters. Why not, he thought, turned up the shallow flight of stairs towards her door and had the guards unlock it.
He had let her keep the apartments Marcus had used when he stayed in the Palace, which were extensive and beautiful. She had everything she could reasonably want. She was not trapped indoors, for there was a wide balcony looking over the gardens. So he did not think she could have suffered much from having to stay there.
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