Empire Of The Undead (2 page)

They landed with the tide early one morning. Before them stretched a crowded, stinking city, much larger than the one on Rhodes, but even this city was not Rome, though to Jotham, it seemed at least as big as Jerusalem. The slaves were collected from various ships and loaded into carts. He did not see where Sefu had gone.

Jotham’s cart was led by a smiling young man with two big oxen.  It was a hot day, and the prisoners were crowded together. The boy’s head was wedged beneath a man's stinking, oily armpit. The man’s armpit hairs brushed his face every time the cart hit a bump. There was no room to move, and he could see nothing but flesh and the wooden planks of the cart. They arrived in Rome some hours later.

Jotham had seen many strange things in his life, but the sight of the eternal city astounded him. It was so big, bigger than Jerusalem times ten. The roads outside were crowded with messengers, travelers, and free men reveling in the autumn sunshine. We thought we could hold off the armies forever, Jotham thought. They could have used ten more armies to capture us. A cold depression filled him as he began to realize just how unfair the world truly was.

They hadn’t yet entered the city gates when they were met by a city official. He was smiling and showed no sign of discomfort in the great heat. "Good, good," he said. "You have arrived just in time. The market is opening soon.”  He looked over the carts critically, and his smile died, replaced by a slight wince. “More Jews,” he said reproachfully, shaking his head. “And these ones are half-starved. Oh well, someone will surely buy them."

As their litter moved into the city and towards the slave market, all of the boys stared in amazement, astounded at the sight of the city. He could see some of the seven hills it was built on. Highest was the Palatine, where the Emperor and his family lived. The other hills had grand buildings and statues on them. It was almost too much to comprehend.

He thought of the slave market, and wondered how long he would have to live in Rome before he could go home.

****

Jotham followed the large man down the unfamiliar street. He was enormously fat, with his huge belly and breasts larger than most women’s were. His skin was olive-toned and he had no hair on his face.

“Come along, little Felix,” Hyacinthus said, "there is always something new from Africa," he added, mostly to himself.

"It’s Jotham, and I won’t be a servus for long.”

The fat man laughed. “Such fierceness. When you reach the ripe age of thirty, you can buy yourself a liberty cap, assuming your master agrees, of course. They are very stylish—red, floppy, and cone-shaped. You'll look great in them. Until then, the only escape is death.”

“Thirty!” cried Jotham. “Half my life will be over.”

“Being a servus, you have to suffer many injustices. It’s a hard burden to bear,” Hyacinthus intoned dramatically. “Now come, because you still have to meet your master and learn your new duties.”

“Why did I sell for so little?" Jotham asked, struggling to keep up. For all his size, the big man could walk quickly. The street they were walking on was like a street anywhere in the world. Jotham was surprised how much it reminded him of Jerusalem. The same wine shops, food stalls, and old houses made up the neighborhoods, and the same cracked stone path meandered through them.

"Why?" The fat man repeated. “I paid 400 denari for you.”

"Yes, why?  My friend Sefu sold for much more."  He had seen Sefu at the market. The gangly boy had been bought by a high-ranking noble after a heated auction. By contrast, the fat man had been Jotham’s only bidder.

"He may have had some skill. You have none--too small to fight, too ugly for loving, and you can't read or write.”

“I’m not ugly. My mother said—” he stopped there. He hadn’t thought of her for days now, it seemed.

“My mother said I’d grow up to be King of Greece. Mothers lie, little Felix, it’s what they do best, and you are ugly, too. Just as I am fat. Even when you grow, you will never be handsome. Your nose is too big and your hair too oily. And your butt is scrawny—men want something to grab onto.”

"I can read and write," Jotham said. He suspected it was wiser to change the subject.  "My tongue and yours."

"Latin isn't my tongue, boy," Hyacinthus said, "but this is surprising. If true, I have done well this day."  He stopped walking. Next to him was a cracked wall of an abandoned building. He dug in the ground and emerged with a burnt torch. "Chalk is the pen for fools, and walls their paper. But you have much growth to reach the humble status of fool."

He handed the torch to Jotham. "Here, Felix, write something. Not your name, but something else."

Without thinking about it, he began writing something he had seen on the walls of Jerusalem and Masada. Romani Ite Domum. The fat Greek was laughing before he had finished.

"Romans go home. I like this. But they are already home, boy, already home."

CHAPTER II

Otia: 73 CE, Summer

He knew he was home when he could smell the stink of shit in the air. There were other smells too. Piss, sweat, blood, and the fishy ocean breeze that threatened to dominate it all. But the best scent for Gaius Sulpicius Rufus was the odor of feces, the odor of civilization. He inhaled deeply, with exaggerated relish, and long savored the scent before exhaling. "That," he said to his aide Calvinus Plautius, "is a smell I thought I’d never be treated to again. Amazing what a few years away can do to a man." The port town was bursting with activity. “I am home,” he said. The three slaves behind him stood meekly, awaiting orders.

Gaius Rufus was a portly man of middling height.  His features weren’t sharp enough to be considered handsome, and his nose was too small truly to be called noble. His hair was curly and unkempt, which contrasted with his clothing. He wore a new toga, one of expensive cloth with exotic dyes woven into the hem. His Senator’s badge was stark and distinct on the cloth. Rufus stood up straight, surveying the scene before him.

Soldiers laden with coins and loot hurried through the streets. They’d be going to the best brothels tonight, and for as long as their plunder lasted. Only when it ran out, in a week or two, would their regular whores and wives see them. Several slave ships had arrived with prisoners from Arabia, and hundreds of carts were assembled, ready to bear away the scrawny, sunburned slaves. One rolled past, close to Rufus. It splashed mud and shit onto his tunic, below his knees. Without his having to say a word, one of his slaves dropped to the ground and cleaned the excrement off.

The slave finished and Rufus breathed again, deeply, and then laughed. “I return to Italy and am covered in its shit within moments. A good sign, I think,” he said. Plautius nodded, but said nothing. That was one of the things Rufus treasured most about him. Plautius knew how to remain silent.

"But let us not stop for long,” Rufus said. “I can still taste the salt and the sea, and it tastes like captivity. I shall not rest until I can smell the shit of Rome herself, safely away from the sea,” he said.

A litter waited for him, attached to four sickly mules. Many litters were carried by slaves, but for the fourteen mile trek into Rome, he’d need something stronger. The slaves came with the litter, one to guide the mules, and two to go before it to clear a path.

It was the first time he had set foot in Italy for far too long. He had spent the last five years on Gyaros—a dreadfully small island, and was weary of the sea, of the gulls, of the sand and shells, and emptiness everywhere. Never again will I face that void, he had told himself when at last he had been recalled.

Gaius Rufus had the misfortune to be exiled by Galba, during his brief reign as Emperor. Rufus’ only crime had been supporting Nero, and when Nero's friend, Otho, had replaced Galba, Rufus was freed from exile. Scarcely had this news reached him, when Otho too was dead, and his exile clamped back upon him. Vespasian, a war leader, had won the war of the Four Emperors. It had taken the following four years filled with gifts, apologies, and a good deal of money, but Vespasian had removed his exile at last. Rufus was back in the land of his birth.

He was needed. The Emperor’s letters had been vague, but Vespasian was confronted by many conspiracies and he needed friends. Nero had been very popular, and by recalling one known to have supported him, Vespasian was shoring up support.  He knew why Vespasian wanted him. Vespasian needed a trustworthy friend of Caesar, an amici caesaris. Every man had skills, and Rufus knew he could organize better than any man living could. In addition to keeping him alive from conspirators, and winning his wars in foreign lands, the Emperor had started many vast building projects. Rufus settled back in his litter, restless and satisfied at the same time. Organization was his greatest strength, but he had been gone for far too long. He had no friends in court and would have to work hard to regain any power.

They traveled on the Via Ostiensis, the road that led directly to Rome from the port city. The countryside passed him by. He stared at the vineyards and small farms, filled with an uneasy sense of the surreal. He knew these lands well, and before him, the same stony paths winding through the same dry autumn fields. The same men, former soldiers or fifth sons, oversaw the work in the fields, and the same slaves bled and sweat as they labored. However, there were a thousand small differences, each too small to notice individually, which collectively made Rufus uneasy. He had already known that he was returning to a different world than the one he’d left, but he was beginning to understand the implications of that fact. No man ever stepped into the same river twice, as the saying went.

Beside him, Plautius was silent, staring. He’d never been to Rome, had come to Rufus’ service from Iberia. His awe visibly increased as they drew closer to Rome itself. Rufus grimaced, as Plautius was embarrassing himself. The city was wicked, depraved, and ugly. It reminded Rufus of an overweight, middle-aged whore.  It had been glorious in youth, there was no contesting that, but it now drooped in places it shouldn’t have, and was far grander in its own estimation than any objective view would grant. For an ambitious man, however, removal from Rome was political death. Rome was where the heart of the Empire beat.

They passed into the heated, crowded city. He had forgotten the size of it. Aqueducts rose high overhead, blocking out the sun. Statues loomed everywhere, each rising higher than the last, and there were so many people. Some of them were obviously new to the city, and they were fatally slow at getting out of the way of the litters. Injuries and death were the only reward for not moving quickly enough out of the way. Many died, but there were always more people, and more of the penniless and destitute appeared every day in the city. A great city is a great solitude, as the proverb went.

The great fire had burned almost a decade before, but in this valley, nestled between several hills, the damage was still evident.  Rufus stopped the litter and climbed out. He was staring. The colossal statue of Nero himself, which had been built after the fire, was gone, and the beautiful swimming lake was drained and slowly being filled in. Nero’s Golden Palace, where Rufus had spent many a wild night, was half destroyed, by orderly crews deconstructing it floor by floor.

This isn’t even strangely similar. It’s just different. Entirely different. Rufus thought. That wasn’t entirely true though. Though everything before his eyes was different, the smell remained the same, and that valley floor ménage of olives, garlic, piss, and vinegar.

Dozens of men were working, knocking down buildings and removing the rubble. Crews of brawny slaves hauled in huge baskets of marble, tufa, and wood. He’d known for two years that Vespasian had started construction, but the size of it astounded him. Only recently, with the final collapse of the Jewish rebellion, would Vespasian have the necessary funds to complete a project of this size.

“This amphitheater of the Flavians,” he spoke slowly, “it will dwarf all others.”

“It’s big,” Plautius, beside him, agreed, “but to what point?  This is my first visit to the city, but even I know of the Circus Maximus, the Theater of Marcellus, and the Theater of Pompey. Do they not have games enough in Rome?”

“Ah, to be so naive,” Rufus said. “His family is new to Imperial power, and he wants to be another Augustus. This monument will speak to his glory for all time.”

And mine, he added mentally. There was no doubt that Vespasian would need him to oversee this construction. The job required a capable man, and there were none better at building than Rufus. Even better, his outsider status could aid him, as he stood outside the labyrinth of alliances affecting the Senators who had long been in the city. Rufus got back into his coach, his mind spinning at the ways he could turn this to his advantage.

****

He stared at the Emperor in shock, in disbelief at what he had just heard. A close look at the man before him revealed that Vespasian had aged, though his hawk-like features were as intense as ever. Rufus was still weary from the voyage, but the Emperor had wanted to meet with him immediately, and the former soldier was not one hung up on formality.

Rufus had quickly washed and changed. They were in a small room, with only a few servants and his son, Domitian. The younger man was wearing his consular cape. So, Rufus thought, he was one of the consuls this year, a clear sign of Vespasian’s favor. His brother, Titus, and Vespasian himself had been consuls the previous year. As a second son, Domitian held several honorary titles as well as several priesthoods, though he did very little in practice.

“Have you forgotten common courtesies during your time away from court, Gaius Rufus?  In Rome, we do not gape like gasping fish,” the Emperor said. His eyes were nearly as sharp as his nose.

“To the war front?  Past the Rhine and Main?  Emperor, I must confess I was somewhat looking forward to the comforts of Rome.”

“True happiness is to understand our duties toward God and man, and to enjoy the present, without anxious dependence on the future. Not to amuse ourselves with either hopes or fears, but to rest satisfied with what we have, which is abundantly sufficient,” Vespasian said. He was quoting Seneca, a man Rufus had known quite well.

“I know that, of course, and I can sympathize with Seneca.” Like Rufus, Seneca had been exiled for years on a small island. “But my skills would be wasted on the war front. I’m no warrior. You’ve heard of my island sculptures, my statues, and of course, you've seen what I have built here in Rome. I thought I might better serve the Eternal City in that capacity.”  This was unfortunately unsubtle, but the pace of events had shattered his normal equanimity.

“Your talents for organization are also useful in war. I’ve long wanted to restore order to our defenses on the Danube. It’s not glamorous, but you’re suited to it. You’ll be far from the sea, as long as you perform ably, of course,” Vespasian said. “And my son will be capable of leading the building.”  Rufus glanced to Domitian. The man seemed as uncomfortable as Rufus, but he said nothing.

“Gratias, Emperor,” Rufus said.  There was nothing else to say. He felt numb. It was exile of a different nature. This one might be dressed in prettier cloth, but the package was one he understood all too well. “I live to serve.”

****

“What do you think of this place?” Rufus asked Plautius. The lanky man had accompanied the Senator to his chambers. Rufus sent away for a slave woman and turned to face his aid.

“It’s large,” Plautius said simply.

“Yes it is,” Rufus said, laughing a bit at the other man’s taciturnity. “Yes it is. It’s a pity you cannot see it for long.”

Plautius had not been in attendance with Vespasian, but Rufus had already told him about what had happened.

“Yes,” Plautius said, “though the war presents some glory.”

“No it doesn’t, and make no mistake about it,” Rufus said, “there is no glory in that kind of war—only endless campaigning, sleeping in mud, freezing your testes off. No, that post is not a treat. Not to mention that it’s inherently unfeasible. No man alive could defend that long a border against a nomadic people. No, Plautius, this is political suicide.”

“What will you do?” his aid asked.

“Do?” asked the Senator. “I’ll do whatever the Emperor tells me, and I’ll do it happily. It’s not all gloom—I’ll be far away from the sea, for one.”

“You don’t have a plan?” Plautius asked.

“For once, no. If I had a month or two to plan, I could perhaps exert some influence. However, whether it could reach Vespasian or not is any fool’s guess, but it’s a moot point—my amicitia¸ my allies, are all dead or retired. It would take time I don’t have to change that.”

“I see,” Plautius said.

At that moment, the slave woman arrived. She was an attractive Celt, with long ringlets of hair and fine features. She smiled, somehow managing to look both vulnerable and lewd.

Rufus looked pointedly at his aid, and the lanky man took the hint. Seconds after he was gone, Rufus dropped his toga and began kissing the woman. He couldn't smell the sea anywhere. It was good to be back in Rome, no matter how shortly-lived it was to be.

****

In his dreams, he was still on the ship, still on the island, still captured by the past. Waves tossed him, whilst he was jostled by the harsh stones found on the road between Otia and Rome. Behind it all, the vast amphitheater grew until it blotted out the very sky.

He awoke with a start, still in his court clothes, and realized a servant was before him.

“You have a visitor, Senator,” the servant said.

Rufus yawned largely, and stretched like a lion. The curly-haired Celtic woman slept soundly next to him. He frowned. She should have left while he slept. Too late now. She would have to be disciplined. “Send him in,” he said. For the servant to have woken him, it would be someone important. Then again, he had an Empire of important people to speak with. He dressed quickly, knowing that he looked more disheveled than he would like.

A very tired Domitian entered. Rufus looked at him more closely. The Emperor’s youngest son had become a man during his absence. He was tall, and his head reached a good hand higher than Rufus. His eyes were large and intelligent but he squinted a little in the dim light. Even at two-and-twenty, his hair was beginning to recede. Like his father, he’d be hairless before he turned thirty. Also like his father, he was very direct.