Roman Games (22 page)

“You little prig!” She was on her feet, her small fists clenched. “Don’t talk to me of nobility. My family was noble when yours was still hoeing turnips. You have the soul of a subordinate, you will always have a master, if not Domitian, then someone even worse. You were the emperor’s praetor three years ago, weren’t you, when the philosophers were purged. On your watch, good men like Rusticus and Senecio and their noble wives were executed or deported to prison islands. These men were your friends, your mentors. Was one word heard from you?”

He looked away. He remembered that Scortilla, on the day of the funeral, had called him an informer. Then it had merely exasperated him. But coming from this brave woman, the words cut like a knife. “I loved them, I admired their courage. Secretly, I wept for them.”

“Secretly,” she sneered.

“Dammit, they went too far. They would have plunged us into civil war!”

“For the last time,” she demanded, “what will you do? There is no more room for excuses. Are you going straight to denounce me? If you don’t then you are one of us.”

The room seemed to contract around him. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. How easy it would be to do nothing…But no. His duty was clear. Not even for Amatia—and his heart ached for her—could he allow this reckless attempt to go forward.

“Zosimus,” he called out, “come here.”

The young man appeared in the doorway. “Patrone?”

“You will prevent the Lady Amatia from leaving until I return. I’m going to the palace. I’ll knock Parthenius down if I have to, but I’ll get to the emperor’s ear.”

“So he can reward you yet again?” Her lip curled. “And just what will you tell your precious Lord and God? That Verpa raped me and I killed him? Go ahead then. But I’ll deny everything else. I don’t fear torture or death. And you have no proof, no evidence of any conspiracy.”

“Oh, but there is evidence, madam. The horoscope and Domitilla’s letter, naming all of you. Where are they?”

“I told you I couldn’t find them. The night Verpa died, I searched the
tablinum
in vain. So did Lucius—I nearly collided with him in the dark. The next morning men from the Prefecture came and carted everything away.”

“But the prefect couldn’t find them either. I suspect they never were in the
tablinum
. Come now, you haven’t told me quite the whole story of that night in Verpa’s bedroom, have you? What did you do during those long hours alone with his corpse. Merely tremble? No. You noticed his bedside table with its locked drawer, the only place in the house where neither you, nor Lucius, nor the prefect’s men had looked. You had the dagger that Ganymede dropped and you had plenty of time. You pried open the drawer—we’ve seen the gouges in the wood—you found those dangerous papers there and you took them out with you. When I brought you here you wouldn’t have left them behind and, since you haven’t left my house since you came here you have them still. I ask you again, where are they?”

“And I tell you again, I don’t have them!”

“I don’t believe you. They’re here and I will find them. Zosimus, keep an eye on her.”

The room he had given Amatia for her bed chamber was small and uncluttered. It had hardly a place to hide anything. She had brought with her a bag containing some belongings. Pliny dumped it out on the bed. There wasn’t much—combs, a few pieces of jewelry, some coins, an amulet. He tossed them on the floor and ripped off the bedclothes. He shook the sheets and coverlet, tore open her pillow. Nothing. He flung it away from him. He got on his knees and looked under the bed, he peered into her chamber pot, felt along the top of the doorjamb. His eyes darted everywhere. Where had the damned woman put them? He felt no pity at all for her now. Anger had driven pity out.

He ran back to where he had left her. “Give them to me!”

Young Zosimus blinked, he had never seen his master in a rage before. But Amatia did not flinch and, after a moment, Pliny sank into his chair, baffled, not knowing what to do next. He had been so sure. Just then a slave appeared in the doorway. “Master, that doctor, the one you just chased away—he’s back. He begs to see you.”

“Send him away, I’ve no time for him.”

“Yes, master.”

But Soranus pushed past the slave. Pliny glowered at him.

“Look, sir, I am sorry. You’re quite right to be angry with me.” He avoided looking at Amatia. “I wouldn’t trouble you further but for this.” He held out a small roll of papyrus, tied with a string. “When I loosened the lady’s girdle, it fell from her underclothes.”

Amatia drew a sharp breath. Her hand went to her waist.

“I tucked it in my belt,” he explained, “meaning to give it back to her later. But then you, ah, requested me to leave your house. On my way home, I realized I still had it. Allow me to return it to her now together with my apologies.”

“I will take charge of it, doctor. Thank you for your trouble. I was too hasty with you. Good night.”

Pliny undid the string and spread the two sheets out on his knees. The horoscope, the letter. He felt Amatia’s eyes on him as he read. Then he let the papers fall and buried his face in his hands. Amatia retrieved them.

“Does this change anything for you, Gaius Plinius?” Her voice was almost gentle; there was no mockery in it, and no triumph. “You know these names, don’t you? The empress, the senators, your friend Corellius Rufus—I’ve heard you mention him. Will you send them all to their deaths? You can’t do it, can you?” When he made no reply, she stood beside him and touched his arm. “I was wrong to hide this from you. I should have shown it to you straightaway. I should have trusted you. In a little less than three hours the deed will be done. You only need to wait…”

Her words were cut short by a commotion outside. Then the front door opened with a crash and the atrium filled with armed men. At their head was the Praetorian commandant. “Purissima, you’re coming with us to Corellius’ house!” Petronius shouted. “And him, kill him!” Rough hands seized Pliny, twisting his arms behind him. He felt a blade pressed against his throat. Felt it begin to cut.

Then, from somewhere a body hurtled toward him, grabbed his assailant by the throat and right arm and flung him away. Valens! Swords flashed out of scabbards, the clang of steel on steel filled the house. Years of hatred boiled up between these two forces. Here was a chance to even scores. Insults flew back and forth. “Cocksucker!” “Faggot!” The City Troopers formed a ring around Pliny. But they were outnumbered by the Praetorians and were no match for them in fighting skills. One went down, then another, while the house slaves and freedmen ran back and forth screaming. In a moment the polished floor was slick with blood. Valens, his cloak wrapped around his left arm, was doing his best to shield Pliny.

“How…?” Pliny managed to gasp.

“Your friend the—” Valens started to answer just as he received a sword thrust in the belly and went down.

It was over in minutes. “Go out and clear the street,” Petronius ordered his men.

Drawn by the sound of fighting, a crowd of passers-by had gathered at the front door. Blood-spattered Guardsmen ran out shouting and slashing at them. They fled, Martial among them.

“Purissima, are you ready?”

Pliny cowered on the floor. Petronius seized him by his hair and raised his sword to hack off his head…

Then came the piercing shriek of some tortured animal. But no, not an animal. Calpurnia was dragging herself along the floor toward her husband. Ashen-faced, clutching her abdomen, her shift soaked with blood.

Chapter Thirty

The fourteenth day before the Kalends of Domitianus.
Day fourteen of the Games. The fifth hour of the day.

Earinus, dressed in the red silk tunic that he always wore, stood in an alcove of the emperor’s bedroom, pouring a libation of wine to the household gods. It was one of his duties and he performed it proudly. The brain in his little head didn’t retain much, but he knew the ritual words by heart. Elsewhere in the room, slaves were dusting, polishing, changing the bedclothes, plumping the pillows. Usually, they chattered to each other while they worked. This morning they seemed unusually quiet.

Earinus ignored them and they him. They didn’t like him, he knew that; knew that they made fun of him behind his back. Let them laugh. Caesar loved him, told him how beautiful he was—especially his small, yellow-curled head. Like the head of a golden doll. Caesar loved to touch it for luck.

He had been the emperor’s favorite bedmate for three years, ever since he was brought to the palace at the age of ten as a newly cut eunuch. He had nearly forgotten the pain and terror of the operation. But now he would be a boy forever, they told him, and so Caesar would love him forever.

One of the slaves, with his back turned to the boy, busied himself with the big water clock that stood against one wall of the room. Water flowing into a silver cylinder raised a float that lifted the tiny figure of a man. The figure held an arrow in its hand with which it pointed to the hours that were inscribed on a column. As the day proceeded, the figure rose until the arrow pointed to the twelfth hour at the very top. Then it had to be reset. There were complicated gears at the base of the clock which rotated the column with imperceptible slowness throughout the year in order to make the hours longer or shorter depending upon the season. Earinus loved to watch this mechanism during the long hours when he had nothing better to do. When the slave moved out of the way, Earinus was surprised. Where had the time gone? Could it be the sixth hour already? Well, his mind did play tricks sometimes. Even Caesar, who loved him, called him a silly, slow-witted child.

As Earinus was puzzling about the clock, the big double-doors opened and in bustled Parthenius. His gaze swept the room. “Out,” he ordered the slaves, “Caesar is coming.” His eye lit on Earinus. “You too, little girl.”

Earinus didn’t like Parthenius, who always called him “freak” and “little girl” and sometimes pinched him when no one was looking. But he was not to be bullied. He stood his ground. After a moment the fat man shrugged. “Suit yourself, then.”

There was the scrape of many feet out in the corridor. The emperor approached, trailed by a retinue of courtiers and guards.

Earinus had seen his lord and master grow more haggard and ill day by day. He looked like an old man now, shuffling instead of striding as he used to do. Often at night he would pace the room for hours, or kill flies, or call him to his couch and fondle and kiss him until finally sinking into a labored sleep.

The emperor spoke wearily to the grand chamberlain. “I’ve spent all morning with Entellus trying to dictate letters but I can’t make my brain work any more. He finally ordered me to take some rest. Good man, Entellus. Cares for me.”

“Quite right, too, Caesar.” Parthenius pulled a sympathetic face.

Some of Domitian’s retinue were trying to follow him into the room, but the chamberlain blocked the doorway with his great bulk. “Please, gentlemen, Caesar wants to be alone.” He shut the double door in their faces.

To Earinus’ eye the grand chamberlain was sweating more than usual this morning and breathing heavily. The emperor noticed it too.

“What’s the matter with you, then,” he said irritably. “You’re too damned fat is what you are. I order you to go on a slimming diet.”

“Yes, Caesar.”

“What time is it now? It’s the fifth hour, isn’t it? The hour that soothsayer foretold for my death this day.”

But Parthenius only smiled and pointed to the clock. “You are mistaken, Caesar. Look, why it’s already the sixth hour. The fifth hour has come and gone, and nothing at all has happened, you see? He was lying, there is nothing to fear.”

“What do you say?” Domitian crossed the room in two strides, bent over the clock. When he turned back, his eyes were suddenly alive and a slow disbelieving smile uncovered his teeth—the smile of a wolf, if wolves smiled. “By thundering Jupiter, you’re right, Parthenius! The man lied! I’m all right then? The nightmare is over! Earinus, you hear that? The danger is past. Come here, boy, let me kiss you! By the gods, I feel like a new man. Bring me wine.” Earinus fetched the flagon and a goblet. Domitian tipped the flagon down his throat and drained it. He wiped his mouth, took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. The weariness seemed to drop away from he him. He did a little dance step and laughed like a boy. “Well that’s that. All this worry, all these precautions for nothing. For nothing! Do you delight at my good fortune, Parthenius?”

“Of course, Caesar. How should I not? Soon the whole world will delight at it. And I myself will build a temple to your good fortune at my own expense.”

Domitian held the chamberlain by his shoulders, pulled him close and kissed both his fat cheeks. “Thank you, my loyal friend, thank you. And now, by Jupiter, I’d like my bath!”

“Excellent idea, my lord. Shall I summon the guards to go with you?”

“Eh? No need for that today. I’m a free man!”

“As you say, lord.”

Domitian strode out followed by the chamberlain who, with a last malignant glance at Earinus, shut the doors behind him.

Alone in the room, Earinus went over to the clock and watched the water dripping from its pipe into the cylinder. Presently, it struck him that the gears which turned the column had not moved even a little in all the time he’d been staring at them. It was water from the outflow pipe that operated them. He looked more closely and saw that there was no water running from it. Someone had stuck a plug of wool into the pipe so that water couldn’t escape from the cylinder. The float and the little man with his pointer were rising too fast! Earinus scratched his small head and worked his small brain and wondered. What could it mean? He must tell his master.

As he stood pondering this discovery, he heard the sound of footsteps and whispered words outside the door. The door opened, admitting a dark-haired man with an injured arm. “Wait for him here,” he heard the sentry say. But it was more of a whisper than the sentry’s usual bark. Something about this made Earinus take fright and he ran to hide himself in the alcove before he was seen. From his hiding place he could not see the man directly but by looking up at one of the polished moonstone mirrors that were fixed near the ceiling in each corner of the room he saw his reflection.

He watched as the man sat down on a nearby chair and felt along his bandaged left arm with the fingertips of his right hand. Earinus held his breath.

Minutes passed and then again the door opened. And this time it was the emperor, wearing a loose bathing robe and sandals, dripping water on the marble floor.

“What is this about?” he demanded. “Why have I been dragged from my bath?”

The man with the injured arm jumped to his feet. “Caesar, I have an urgent message for you. The Praetorian commandant has uncovered a new conspiracy against your sacred person. Read this.” He held out a pair of wax tablets.

The emperor tried to laugh. “Another conspiracy? There can’t be another one. I’ve escaped my fate, don’t you see.” He looked the messenger up and down. “Who are you? Haven’t I seen you around here before?”

“Yes, Caesar,” the man replied. “I am called Stephanus. I make myself useful here in small ways.”

“I see. What’s wrong with that arm of yours? It’s been bandaged for some time, hasn’t it?”

“An infection, sir. It’s healing slowly.”

“Well, have it looked at by a competent man. You can’t be too careful with those things.”

“I will, Caesar. Thank you.”

Earinus crept from his hiding place. He pulled at the emperor’s sleeve. “Master?”

“What, you still here?”

“Master, the water…broken…”

“Can’t you see I’m busy? Get away with you now.”

The boy was desperate, his throat constricted. Why couldn’t he make his words come out?

Stephanus put the tablet in Domitian’s hands. “Please, Caesar, there’s no time to lose!

Again Earinus tugged at the emperor’s sleeve but he cuffed him on the side of the head and sent him sprawling. “Later, I said. Stupid boy!”

Earinus watched in silence as the emperor unwound the cord that bound the two leaves of the tablet together and lowered his eyes to read. Then, in a movement so fast that the boy couldn’t follow it, there was a dagger in the messenger’s hand. The blade flashed upward, piercing the emperor in the groin. Domitian groaned and doubled over. The blade came out followed by a gush of blood from between his legs. Stephanus stepped back but Domitian, crouching, flung himself at him with a scream of rage, grappling him around the knees and throwing him down. Stephanus’ arm was tangled in his sling and he couldn’t free it. He struck the emperor a glancing blow in the side but then Domitian was on top of him holding his right wrist. Earinus, petrified but desperate for his master, ran from his hiding place. “Boy!” Domitian gasped, “my sword under the pillow!” Earinus ran to the bed while the two men, both smeared with blood, thrashed and grunted on the floor. He reached for the sword and pulled out—a hilt with no blade!

The two men, rolled over and over, Domitian gripping the dagger blade with bloody fingers, while with the other hand he clawed at his assassin’s eyes. Even mortally wounded, he was stronger than his attacker. Stephanus shouted for help and now the sentry was running in followed by one of the imperial gladiators with their swords drawn. They dragged Domitian off and stabbed him again and again until he stopped moving. A moment later Parthenius and two of his assistants appeared. Stephanus struggled to his feet, breathing heavily, and for a brief moment the vision of rich rewards from his grateful compatriots danced before his eyes. But only for a moment. The gladiator ran him through, as he had been instructed to do by Parthenius. One less mouth to tell the tale. The steward had never been one of their kind anyway.

“Send for the empress,” Parthenius ordered and one of his men dashed off.

Domitia Longina Augusta looked down at her husband’s corpse. Her lips twisted in contempt. “All those polished mirrors, all the guards and watchmen. Useless.” She spat on him.

No one paid any attention to the small-headed boy who lay in the corner sobbing, his red tunic pulled up over his eyes to keep out the horror.

* * *

The eighth hour of the day.

The streets were filled with Praetorians in full battle gear. The City Battalions had been disarmed, and their prefect, Aurelius Fulvus, arrested. At a hastily convened session in the Senate House with as many senators and magistrates as could be rounded up, Pliny not among them, Marcus Cocceius Nerva was unanimously voted the collection of titles and powers which gave a gloss of civil legality to his usurpation. A noisy delegation marched to his house to hail him. Unfortunately, he was too indisposed to welcome them. He had spent the whole morning throwing up.