Anno Mortis

by Rebecca Levene

  Boda moved forward to kneel at his feet. "You're not. We're told you treated Narcissus kindly. That you cared for him. Is that true?"

  Claudius's eyes narrowed as he studied her, and suddenly he didn't look like such a fool. "I love him like a s-s-son. And you've come with bad news. I can see it in your faces."

  "Narcissus is being crucified," Vali said.

  Claudius flinched and so did Petronius. These barbarians had no tact. But Claudius only rested his head in his hands for moment. "Thank you for t-t-telling me," he said when he looked up.

  "But listen." Vali grasped Claudius's arm. "He's not dead yet. He could last a day or more - there's time to save him."

  "From my nephew's cruelty?" Claudius shook his head. "There's no stopping it. I'm sorry - m-m-more sorry than you can know."

  "There is a way," Boda said. "Or are you simply afraid of what Caligula might do to you too?"

  For the first time, something like anger twisted the old man's face. His cheek twitched, pulling his mouth to the side and widening the stream of saliva seeping from it. "Of c-c-course I'm afraid of him. I've s-s-seen what he's capable of. I know it b-b-better than any man alive."

  Vali didn't release his arm. "But will you risk his wrath for Narcissus's sake?"

  This was the question and Petronius tensed as Claudius considered it. He didn't care about Narcissus, of course. He barely knew him. But he found that he cared about Boda's good opinion. He cared about it far too much, and he suspected that if the Greek slave died he'd lose it for ever.

  Finally, Claudius bowed his head. "I've lived too long already, and s-s-seen too much. Yes, I'll do what I can for my b-b-boy. But how do you think I can help him?"

  This was where Petronius came in. He'd been considering it carefully on the walk over. "It's all about the Cult of Isis," he told Claudius.

  Claudius nodded. "There have been rumours about them for a long time. And they've grown very strong this last year."

  "Yes, that's because they're..." Petronius remembered how Caligula had reacted to hearing the same story. "Well, they're up to no good, and that's what Narcissus was investigating. All of us were. The trouble is, when Caligula found us we had no proof. But I think I know where we can get it."

  "You do?" Boda frowned sceptically at him.

  He gave her a triumphant smile. "Seneca's something big in the Cult - its high priest, it seemed, judging by that ceremony. He's bound to have more information about them. And the last we saw him, he was trapped in the catacombs being chased around by -" He caught Claudius's puzzled expression "- something he couldn't escape from in a hurry. And that enormous slave of his was at the ceremony too. While they're down there, his house stands empty."

  "While they're down there," Boda said. "We found a way out - why shouldn't they?"

  "No reason at all," Petronius said. "But that's the only idea I've got. Do you have a better one?"

  It was clear from her face that she didn't.

  Caligula had stopped enjoying himself about half an hour ago. He always forgot how long it took people to die of crucifixion. That was part of the fun, of course, but a warm bed and the terrified son of one of his enemies in the Senate were waiting for him, and as dawn approached the air was chilling unpleasantly.

  He thought about his sister Drusilla, who loved this time of day. She used to say that beginnings were better than endings. Caligula had always taken exception to that. He'd liked the end of things, which made them complete and whole. But then she'd died and he'd thought that maybe he'd been wrong all along. There were some things that should never end.

  He looked up at Narcissus on the cross. He was writhing, lifting himself up on his toes to take the strain off his arms, then falling back down when his strength failed him until the pulled-down position of his chest stopped his breath and he had to try to stand upright once again. Caligula sighed. There was clearly plenty of life in the boy yet.

  He turned to Marcus. "I'm bored. This is failing to entertain me."

  "Should I bring him down then? Has the punishment sufficed?"

  "Don't be absurd!" Caligula snapped. "He disobeyed me. He needs to die. I just want him to get on with it. Isn't there something we can do to speed the process along?"

  Marcus bowed his head. Caligula suspected that he liked the slave and didn't approve of what Caligula was doing to him. That was a shame. Caligula had always thought highly of the guard captain, and he didn't particularly relish the thought of killing him. Still, disloyalty couldn't be tolerated. Bad enough when he was just a man, but now that he was a god, it amounted to blasphemy, didn't it?

  When Marcus looked up, though, his expression was blank. "A spear in the side would hasten things, Caesar. Or if you broke his legs he'd be unlikely to last out the hour."

  Caligula squinted up at Narcissus. The young man was looking down at him, eyes wide in his pale, innocent face. It looked like he'd heard. Would he beg for his life - or for death?

  "Well?" Caligula asked him. "Which would you prefer? I imagine a spear in the side would be quicker. Though stomach wounds can be awfully painful, I'm told."

  Narcissus opened his mouth, but only a rasping croak emerged. His lips were chapped and bleeding. He moistened them with a swollen tongue, then spoke again. "Whatever you wish, dominus. I live to please you." He let out a dry rattle that might have been a laugh.

  Caligula almost spared him for that. Except was the slave actually mocking him? It seemed hard to credit, but Caligula thought he probably was. A slow death, then. "Break his legs," he told Marcus. "One at a time."

  Marcus nodded, then signalled a legionary to bring over his shield. He'd use the edge of it to shatter the bone. Narcissus turned his face away as Marcus drew the shield back.

  "Stop," a voice shouted. "S-s-stop this, nephew."

  Marcus dropped the shield, looking almost as glad of the reprieve as Narcissus.

  Caligula scowled at Claudius and the small group of people behind him. The same three who'd been with Narcissus in that bar.

  Claudius was shaking and twitching. He always twitched when he was nervous. But he raised his head defiantly when Caligula approached. "You h-h-have to listen," he said. "This isn't a game any m-m-more."

  Caligula looked him up and down, his frail, twisted body and thinning hair. Was his uncle really defying him? And over a slave? "You think this is a game? He ran away! He shamed you!"

  "That's not what happened," Claudius said. "Nephew, if you've ever t-t-trusted me, t-t-trust me now. We're facing a terrible threat. Only you have the p-p-power to stop it." His face was drawn and serious and Caligula suddenly realised, with a strange jolt, that it wasn't him his uncle was afraid of.

  He swallowed. "A threat? From where?"

  Claudius gestured at one of the three behind him, the red-haired barbarian, and he stepped forward to hold out a stack of documents. "The Cult of Isis," he said. "Caesar, we bring evidence that they mean to do an unspeakable thing."

  "To me?" Caligula said, voice high with fear.

  The barbarian shook his head. "To your Empire."

  "Oh, that." Caligula frowned.

  "And through it, to y-y-you, nephew," Claudius said quickly. "If you don't p-p-prevent it, it's the end of all of us."

  Caligula looked in his eyes. Usually so watery and weak, they were hard and determined. He couldn't see the shadow of dishonesty in them. He fell to his knees, cradling his head in his hands as he rocked back and forward. "Oh, Jupiter. Mighty Jupiter, save me. Save me, I beg you."

  Claudius knelt beside him, resting a warm hand on his shoulder. "Don't fear, n-n-nephew. There's time to s-s-stop this. A full month."

  Caligula's paralysis lifted as quickly as it had descended. He was Caesar. He was a god! He could deal with this, as he'd dealt with all threats to his rule and person - ruthlessly. He leapt to his feet. "Then we'd better get started. Oh, and take your slave off that cross. He might be useful."

  The sun was rising when Seneca finally emerged from the catacombs, S
opdet beside him. The shattered remains of the marble crocodiles lay in the darkness behind them. She'd found the spells to destroy them eventually, but not before several cultists had been killed and the whole ceremony ruined. Seneca had never felt so weary - or so furious.

  Sopdet caught his expression and rested a finger on his arm to draw him to a stop. Her own round face was smooth and calm but he sensed that she was angry too. Everything had been leading up to the sacrifice tonight. Everything!

  "That boy..." he said. "When I next see him, I'll kill him. I don't care how rich his father is."

  "It wasn't the boy who ruined it," she pointed out. "It was those two men, who came through the gateway from the other world."

  "Who were they?" Seneca asked. "The younger one I've seen before, I think. A slave at the palace. But the red-haired barbarian..."

  She frowned. He'd known her for twenty years, since he'd lived in Egypt as a youth. The Cult had been nothing then, a mere social club for bored Romans in a foreign land. He'd seen her lead it from obscurity to unrivalled power at the heart of the Empire. And in all that time, he'd never seen her age a day, and he'd never known her look as uncertain as she did now.

  "Did you recognise him?" he asked.

  "I thought perhaps I did, but it was too dark to be sure..." She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. They stopped us once; we won't let it happen again. That fool Publia will need to persuade her husband to part with a new slave. The gladiator's body was damaged but there's time to mummify another. We can ask Quintus to provide us one by midday. A terrible accident in training, or some such."

  Seneca felt a rising excitement banishing his tiredness. "So we can do it again? The ceremony can be completed?"

  She smiled. "Yes. The dark of the moon lasts three nights. We've missed the first, but tonight another sacrifice will honour the goddess. And nothing will prevent us from opening the gate."

  CHAPTER TEN

  Narcissus was burning up with fever. The wounds in his wrists had festered where the nails had driven dirt deep into his flesh. He knew that he was being supported as he walked, Boda under his left arm and Vali under his right, but he felt as if he were floating. Sometimes he thought he was walking beside the bank of that dark river once again. Sometimes he wondered if it was all a fever dream, and in reality he was still dying on the cross.

  The city was painted in shades of grey. A dark hole loomed in front of him and he flinched back from it. The pressure on his arms increased, forcing him through, and when he blinked against the new light he realised that it was just the gateway to the Imperial Palace. He was home.

  He was laid on a bed, and something cool was placed against his forehead. Liquid dripped into his eyes and down his cheek and he tried to catch it on his tongue. His throat felt like it was coated with sand. Someone seemed to sense what he wanted, because he felt an earthenware cup pressed against his lips and gulped the water down greedily.

  He realised that it was Claudius ministering to him. His face swam in and out of focus, sometimes looking so old he seemed seconds away from death, other times like the anxious young man he must once have been.

  "Dominus," Narcissus said. "You saved me."

  Claudius smiled, but even in his delirium, Narcissus could see that there was something a little false about it. He was still dying, then. Oh well. "You tried," he said. "You faced Caesar for me."

  Claudius swept a strand of sweaty hair away from Narcissus's forehead. Even the light touch of his fingers was painful against burning skin, but Narcissus didn't flinch away. He was grateful for any contact.

  "It was a very brave thing you did," Claudius said. "Stowing away on that boat."

  When Narcissus smiled, his lips cracked and bled. "It wasn't deliberate. I was just hiding."

  Claudius's hand kept stroking his hair. "You've saved Rome, all the same. You've paid for your freedom a thousand times over. I always meant to free you, you know. I only kept you as a slave because I thought you'd be safer that way. Protected from Caligula's malice by your insignificance." His voice drifted into silence and Narcissus's mind floated away with it, somewhere dark and filled with a terror that lingered when he startled awake and opened his eyes. He must have made some noise, because Claudius was leaning over him again. Or maybe he'd never left.

  "Don't be afraid," Claudius said. "They tell me this is the crisis. When it's over, the wounds will heal and you'll be well."

  Narcissus wondered why his master was speaking so clearly, without the trace of a stutter. But the thought faltered, burning up in the blazing heat of his fever, and he didn't ask the question.

  "I'm sorry," Narcissus said. He meant to tell Claudius that he regretted allowing Caligula to laugh at him after the games in the Arena. That if he'd stood his ground then, and defended his master, none of this would have happened. But his memories were all jumbled, the short years of his life merging together. "I lied," he said in a childish voice. "I told you that Nerva stole the honey, but he didn't. It was me."

  "I know," Claudius said in a strangely tight voice. "That's why I didn't whip him for it. You were always a terrible liar, even when you were only seven."

  Tears were trickling down Claudius's face, and Narcissus didn't know why. Why was he sad? It was a beautiful sunny day and tomorrow they'd be travelling to the villa in the country with the swing he loved to play on. Dominus had promised him. "What's the matter?" Narcissus asked. "Why are you crying?"

  Claudius took his hand and kissed the palm. "Because I love you. I love you and I don't want to let you go."

  Narcissus nodded and closed his eyes, trusting his master absolutely. A darkness was waiting for him, deep and restful, and he let himself sink into it.

  Petronius had been drinking since dawn, huddled alone in a corner of the same dingy tavern where Caligula had found them. He caught his reflection in a silver platter and saw that his lips were stained dark red with wine. There was a lot more of it inside him. His head was spinning in a way which he knew would remain pleasant for another hour or so, then swiftly become unbearably nauseating, before finally triggering a relentless, pounding headache. As his father had often complained, he had extensive experience with inebriation.

  His father. He, of course, was the reason that Petronius had been drinking so long and so hard. Because Petronius had realised, some time during the euphoria of convincing Caligula that they were actually telling the truth, that he'd completely destroyed any possibility of going back to Seneca's. That left him really only one option: being welcomed back into the bosom of his family.

  He didn't anticipate an effusive welcome. For one mad moment he'd contemplated asking Caligula to vouch for him. To explain that, just this once, he really had been acting entirely selflessly. However, one look in the Emperor's over-bright, half-crazed eyes had convinced him that would be a bad idea. He'd wanted Boda with him, too, to provide moral support - or, if necessary, muscle. But did he really want her to know how little his family thought of him? No. So he'd left her being questioned by Caligula with her barbarian clansman and headed off alone. He'd only stopped for a quick drink to fortify his nerves.

  That had been half a day ago, when the sun was just rising. It was setting now. If he didn't go soon, the doors of his home would be bolted against everyone. He sighed and heaved himself to his feet. The room staggered, or maybe he did, and he grabbed the edge of the table for support.

  It took him two tries to find the door, by which time he had a bloody nose from walking into the wall and a bruised arse from bouncing back onto it. That was good, he decided. If he looked like he'd been roughed up, his father might treat his stories of rogue cults and raised dead more seriously.

  "What do you think you're doing here?" his father said coldly, and Petronius blinked. Hadn't he just left the tavern a second ago? He swayed and put a hand out to steady himself, grabbing his father's toga rather than the doorframe by mistake. His father looked down at Petronius's hand as if it was a cockroach which had just landed on him.r />
  "I've come to..." Petronius trailed off, temporarily forgetting what it was he had come to do. "I've come to be welcomed back into the loving arms of my family!" he shouted, pleased to have remembered.

  His father brushed his hand away and stepped back. "You're no member of this family, boy. Seneca told me how you disgraced yourself."

  "He did?"

  "Caught in bed with Seneca's own niece - for shame! How can your mother and I show our faces in public after that?"

  Petronius frowned, confused. It certainly sounded like the kind of thing he would have done. But he was fairly sure he hadn't. "I don't think that's true," he said.

  His father made a disparaging noise.

  "I mean, I know that's not true! That's really, really, not even the tiniest, slightest bit true." Inspiration suddenly struck. "Think about it. Why on earth would I do something so stupid?"

  "Because you always do?" his father suggested.

  "Yes, but... But I didn't! I did nothing wrong there. It's Seneca who's the villain!"

  "Really."

  He realised that his father had started to swing the door shut and stuck out his foot to stop it. He yelped as it slammed into his toes. "No, honestly, you have to believe me. Seneca's running this Cult, you see. The Cult of Ishtar. No - the Cult of Isis! He's sacrificing virgins. I saw him do it. Well, try to do it. And he's raising the dead."

  Now his father looked disgusted. "That's the best you can do, is it? I'd hoped your time with Seneca might at least have improved your powers of invention."

  "I'm not lying!" Petronius said desperately. But his voice echoed too loudly in his own head, resonating against his skull and down into his stomach where it threatened to send his dinner back up. He swallowed with difficulty, feeling a cold sweat start on his face.

  "You've shamed me and you've disgraced your family," his father said. "But no more. From now on, you're no longer Petronius of the Octavii. You're Petronius the wastrel, the orphan - the man without family or name!" He kicked Petronius's foot aside, and slammed the door in his face.