B007IIXYQY EBOK (149 page)

Their Centurion was Servilius, the loyalist. Servilius maintained his composure by evading Julianus’ gaze, taking refuge in the document he carried, which bore the imperial seal. He found his voice and settled into his proud, complacent drone—“Marcus Arrius Julianus, by the order of Domitianus Caesar you are hereby placed under arrest and are to be conducted at once to the Palace—”

At this, a baleful chorus rose up, forcing Servilius to silence. The whole of the household congregated behind Julianus; their lament was a thin, bleak, death-filled chorus. To Julianus’ right stood Diocles, looking like a nearsighted man blinking awake from an overlong sleep. Bitterly, soundlessly, Diocles began to sob.

Julianus felt like a commander of a fort under siege who has but an instant to devise a strategy to save his men.

For many, he knew he could do nothing. The household. His greater family. He thought with horror of his aged aunt Arria—would she be sent into exile? Her sons, surely, would be stripped of posts and honors.

Was the conspiracy unraveled?
He could not yet be certain. As he swiftly considered, he was alert to every look and gesture of the Praetorians who accompanied Servilius. Why were these five sent? These men were, strangely, all part of the plot. Had Petronius selected them to some purpose? If so, why did he send the fanatic loyalist with them? Perhaps to help silence any questions that might arise about the loyalty of the other five?

Or perhaps I suppose too much, and there is no plan or order here, and Petronius even now languishes in prison awaiting death. Curses on Charon, our final meeting was to have been tonight.

Julianus raised a hand for silence; after a time the maidservants stilled their cries, and Servilius read on.

“—to answer certain criminal charges,” Servilius intoned, then raised his eyes to meet Julianus’ gaze, for he did not want to miss the effect, “and to await your trial and execution—”

“My good man, you must be reading it wrong,” Julianus broke in, “for I’ve never heard such a frank admission from him.”

Servilius glared at him, close-set eyes glittering homicidally, thin lips pursed. Bad-tempered baboons look much like that, Julianus thought.

Servilius looked again at the document and saw with dismay that Julianus was correct—he
had
read it wrong.

“To await your
trial,”
he repeated with sarcasm, as if to say, have it your way, it makes no difference, “on charges of impiety, treasonable ingratitude, falseness to your Sovereign and Lord, refusal to do proper respect to his images, and failure to sacrifice to his Genius on his birthday last year.”

Julianus suppressed a smile of relief. That odd assortment of charges assured him the conspiracy had not
been uncovered; had it been, he would have been charged simply with high treason.

“Is that all?” Julianus asked mildly.

“Not enough for you? I can arrange to have ‘gross insolence to the servants
of our Lord and God’ appended.”

“Much appreciated, but I’ll decline. Have I time to settle my affairs?”

“You’ve no affairs to settle. The court has already begun taking charge of the dispensation of your property. We did not want to nettle you with troublesome details while you’re…indisposed.” Servilius grinned, an affable baboon now; he was finally at ease.

At Servilius’ last words the maidservants’ wails began afresh, rising to keening pitch. An hour ago they had the most leisurely and secure of existences. With the stroke of a pen they became confiscated property. Friends would be torn from each other, house-marriages broken apart, children lost to parents. Some would be given to abusive masters or set to onerous tasks. It was a misfortune inherent in their condition accepted by them as death was accepted, a ghastly scene enacted again and again whenever a great man fell. In this household, however, it had one difference—their master genuinely sorrowed for them. Marcus Julianus closed his eyes briefly and made a silent oath to Nemesis that if he emerged alive from this situation he would trace them, every one, and do for them whatever he could.

“Step along with us now,” Servilius said importantly. Diocles rushed up and seized Julianus’ arm, clamping on as singlemindedly as a crab fastened to a stick. Two Praetorians dragged Julianus forward; he in turn dragged Diocles. Finally Servilius cuffed the frail old man and Diocles sank to the floor. Julianus savagely fought his way round and bent to help him up.

“Leave him!” Servilius’ shout was an impotent jerk on a rein. Julianus met Servilius’ eyes with calm contempt, then turned his back on him, shouldered the men aside, and helped Diocles to rise.

Servilius seethed within, but was silent, a dog brought to heel; he was a man who, without acknowledging it to himself, was always grateful for a master—though far from ready to love the man who took up that role.

As the Praetorians conducted Julianus through the streets, they fought their way through crowds of celebrants bearing gifts to the ancient horn-bearing Temple of Diana on the Aventine Hill, for this was the day of the temple’s yearly rededication. It was a holiday for slaves as well, and it seemed the whole population idled, drank or diced in the streets. As Julianus’ plight was seen, the rejoicing faltered; it was as though the drums of a passing funeral procession set all hearts to a more somber beat. In the small party’s wake were troubled looks and exclamations of alarm, though none dared show grief too openly.

Julianus struggled with a wild sadness of his own that seemed ready to rend him in two. With his arrest he had lost all chance of rescuing Auriane from Aristos’ murderous blade.

The gods grant that there be an otherworld so I may find you in it. I once was certain there was a transcendent reason for suffering. Just now I cannot remember what I thought it was.

To Domitian there will be no appeal. I will survive only if my date of execution is set after the hour of the assassination. Given the near certainty of both our deaths, it seems safe to say, Auriane, we’ll soon be together.

But whatever becomes of me, the plot must come to its
conclusion. Domitian must die. Who betrayed me?
“Falseness to your Lord”
was one of the charges. Lying.
Perhaps he learned I lied about Auriane. Who would reveal such a thing, or care? Junilla, possibly. Junilla, probably. All could be well if Domitian knows no more than this.

But there are matters I must settle with Petronius tonight.

Servilius walked behind him, to better watch him. To his left strode Arruntius, who answered directly to Petronius and knew of both Praetorian Guards Prefects’ involvement in the plot. Julianus considered a tactic, rejected it, then considered it again.

I must try. What choice have I? If I tread carefully, the worst that can happen is that I’ll convince Arruntius that I’ve gone mad.

Julianus caught Arruntius’ slitted eyes
for the barest moment, a quick gesture whose significance only Arruntius perceived. And Julianus believed he saw a look of expectation.

Encouraged by this, he began to talk, hoping that to Servilius his words would sound like the typical desperate bargaining tactics of the accused.

“This is but a…a sorry misunderstanding, my friends,” Julianus said with a hopeful smile. He spoke directly to Arruntius; Servilius could hear, but not every word. “If you let me return for but a moment, I can straighten out this silliness at once—”

Servilius cleared his throat threateningly and spat on the ground. Julianus ignored him. “I have
letters,
”
he said to Arruntius, “three letters that prove my innocence—”

Arruntius concealed a start of excitement.

Petronius had cautioned him to be alert to any way that Julianus might try to communicate with him. He must mean Caenis’ letters, which must be read before the Senate.

“They are in Apollo’s keeping,” Julianus went on. “I beg you, consider…”

What is that? Arruntius thought. If I can’t puzzle it out, maybe someone else can. The Apollo Library, perhaps? No, he must mean the library of his own house. We’ll have to send our men in there when they go to seal up that house.

Arruntius said loudly for Servilius’ benefit, “I’m innocent, you’re innocent, we’re all innocent when caught. I’m afraid you’re beyond the help of evidence, my friend. Now step up the pace.”

“I can make it well worth your while. The library has two million rolls, so you must ask the librarian, a one-eyed man. Pity the innocent, that the gods will one day turn round and pity you—”

“Silence,
you!” came Servilius’ sulky shout from behind them.

Arruntius tramped on, thinking frantically. He has not yet given us the name of the fifth man. It must be concealed in those last words. Which word has meaning? A librarian?
No. A
one-eyed man.
He’s telling me the Cyclops is ready to come with us. The two million must be what he’s costing us. The gods be praised! All is set in place. But two million! No one has that anymore. The richest Senators have either been murdered, exiled, or bled dry. Nerva’s wealth is all in land. Where will they get it now that this man is gone?

Arruntius gave Julianus a nearly imperceptible nod to let him know the message would be passed on.

Junilla heard of Marcus Julianus’ arrest when her chief steward brought her a tied wax tablet from Veiento, along with a gift. In the tablet he had written—
I salute you. The elephant and the fox could learn from you.
The elephant, patience, and the fox, laudable cunning. I remain at your service.

With it came a tame fox. The elephant, she surmised, presented too much of a problem.

She sent the fox back to him, along with a letter of her own.

You always were too quick with your gifts
.
Save them until after I receive justice. As long as that man is capable of speech, he’s a menace.

CHAPTER LV

A
T NIGHTFALL WHEN
S
UNIA WAS LET
into the cell she found Auriane examining the rune-sticks. The only light came from the moon. Sunia counted this night evil; surely the disturbances she had heard all day in the streets had flushed out night-riding spirits from all the dark nether places of this city. The acrid smell of burning hung in the air, along with the shouts of rioters, near and far.

“Auriane,” Sunia said, not coming too close, standing fearfully in the sallow light of that poison moon. “You
know,
do you not?” She assumed Auriane sought to learn from the oracle whether she would live or die.

“I get riddling replies.”

“Curses on you.
Tell me
.”

“I’m given the sign for death and rebirth, three times.”

“There’s no riddle there,” Sunia said wearily. “The spirits of forest and grove concur with what common sense tells a simpleton. Death is death.” Though her voice was full of wretchedness, there was comfort in her step as she approached Auriane and knelt beside her.

Auriane met Sunia’s gaze, considering whether she should reveal a thing at once too wonderful, too fragile, too odd. “Or it might signify something else,” she ventured finally. “Sunia, a change comes to me, as difficult to trap with words as a taste or a smell…. It’s as if, sometimes, all things show me their hidden god-spirit…and this change might also
be called death and rebirth. More and more often I’ve an odd, sure gathering of a sense of the hidden goodness of all fates, and it lifts like a powerful wind…. It is what I felt so long ago, when I pried the stone from the hoof of Ramis’ mare. Sometimes I feel there is—you will think me mad—no distance
between things and beings…. Sometimes I feel I stand next to everyone I have known, alive or dead. I think that what a people knows as the truth of life is like some boundary line—a man or woman claimed it and drew it at the first,
but it can be redrawn.
It also brings a simple certainty that everyone, even strange tribes,
are kinsmen.”

Sunia frowned in a token effort of comprehension, then shrugged. “Ramis herself would not count these Roman wolves kinsmen. I tire of them parading you before their people as some joke.”

Auriane sadly abandoned all attempts to explain—Sunia lived comfortably among what she could touch and see and had no more use for the spirit world than had a cat for a cloak.

“Novelty
is the word Erato uses, Sunia, not joke.”

“No matter. When you meet Aristos, the novelty is going to be on them.”

“That’s not rightly said, Sunia. It’s another of their words we’ve no word for—” A succession of sharp shouts from the street silenced her.

“Free him!”
came scattered cries. Bottles and bricks cracked against the school’s monolithic wall. Auriane moved to the narrow window.

“All day I’ve listened to that baying and yelping,” Sunia said with a shrug. “By Fria’s necklace, these are a noisy and fretful people. They must have arrested someone important.”