Rome 4: The Art of War (48 page)

‘Pantera.’ I caught his arm. ‘If there is any chance of our being captured, I want your word that you will do for us what you did for Amoricus.’

He didn’t know that I knew what he had done. His eyes swam with hurt. ‘Lady, I can’t—’

‘You can. I order it. As your future …’

‘As my empress,’ he said, though we both knew I could never be that.

I said, ‘I will not be used as a weapon against him. I would rather be dead. Is that clear?’

By way of answer, he slid his arm into his sleeve and brought out a small, wicked-looking knife, sharp on both edges of the blade and fining down to a narrow point.

‘Take it.’ He held it out, flat on his palm. ‘For use in the last resort, if Trabo, Borros and I cannot help you.’

If we are already dead
.

I had turned one of these down once, and regretted it. I took it. The hilt fitted perfectly into my hand. I prayed, briefly, to the gods whose temple we were leaving, that I would have the courage to use it at the right time.

As if in answer, a shout went up from behind the temple gates. A great ball of flame lobbed out, arcing up and over the wall, to fall down amongst the Guards. It was a barrel of pitch and it exploded as it hit the ground, sending hot tar over the nearest men. The noise, then, of screaming, shouting, weeping and cursing was like a wall of sound, crashing over us.

I barely heard Pantera’s single word, ‘Go’, but I felt his hand in the small of my back and in my mind I repeated over and over,
Walk, don’t run. Walk fast, don’t run. Keep looking away. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t
—

I was there, up the steps and in through the doorway. The whole walk
had been in shadow. The priest’s house was a charred ruin, still smoking, still hot. I stepped in through a doorway that was little more than a pair of leaning doorposts with no lintel. Inside, the light of the blazing pitch barrel cast awkward shadows across the debris.

Domitian reached me, his face pinched and scared. He stared at me, hard, at the knife in my hand. ‘Do you need to carry that?’

‘For now, I do.’ I had nowhere to put it, but even if Pantera had given me his little sleeve scabbard and strapped it on for me, I would have kept the naked blade in my hand. It was my touchstone for safety, my promise to myself.

Matthias came up on my right. His mouth moved in silent prayer. I realized I had no idea to whom he prayed.

Pantera joined us, then Trabo and Borros, together. ‘This way.’

He led through the atrium into a small back room with a window that looked west, out over the cliff and down towards the city below where Saturnalia lights flared and flickered, tiny sulphur perforations in a sheet of night.

‘Here.’ Pantera knelt in the middle of the floor. The charred remains of a trap door stood upright on its hinges and below was a mellow light, as of a dozen wall lamps.

We descended down a ladder that had not been touched by the fire into a small room, half the size of my atrium, painted blood red on walls, floor and ceiling, with a statue on the northern wall of a young man killing a bull.

Two people were there ahead of us.

‘Jocasta!’ Trabo skidded down the last two rungs of the ladder and leapt towards her, his arms wide.

‘Horus! I thought we’d lost you.’ Domitian didn’t run to the painted youth in the lilac gown, or embrace him, but I know that look, have felt it and given it, and his voice … I had never heard him sound mellow; always the opposite. Just then, he
was mellow. And he didn’t so much as glance at Jocasta, which in itself spoke more than words could have done.

And so, and so … The trap door closed, softly. I glanced up and caught Pantera’s eye and he gave a strange, quirked shrug that was at once apology and explanation. He knew and he hadn’t told me. Very likely, he hadn’t known what to say.

But he had sent these two ahead with orders to test the route, or on some other pretext, so that we were whole, and our hearts unbroken.

I said, ‘What now?’

‘We wait,’ Pantera said. ‘The force here are a diversion. The main attack is coming across from the tops of the tenements. They’ll either open the gates and call these in, or call them back down the hill. We can hear them well from here. When they leave, we’ll go out and down into the city. There are people there who will hide us.’

He was right, we could hear everything, there in the little Mithraeum.

And then, exploring, Domitian found a niche in the far wall from which arose a chimney that was not for fire, but for light. The priests of this place, perhaps fearing discovery – for what priest of Jupiter wishes it to be known that he secretly follows Mithras of the east? – had created an ingenious system of silvered discs set at angles that allowed us to see at least a measure of what was happening outside. Domitian said that Pythagoras had created such a thing, or perhaps it was Aristotle, he wasn’t certain, but he knew how to angle the lowermost disc so that, by putting our eye to the gap and staring at the disc, we could see the feet and legs of the men who gathered in front of the row of priests’ houses.

The rest of us found limited interest in the naked knees of Guardsmen, but Domitian stayed there, entranced by the mirrors and
the ways they worked together, until his hoarse whisper filled the room. ‘Fire! The temple’s on fire!’

We all came to look then, and he was right, the temple was a great blazing beacon, shooting flame and sparks high into the night sky.

‘Sabinus!’ I wanted to go out, to shout at the Guard to let out the people trapped in the temple compound, but Pantera held me tight and would not let me go and after an age of desperate waiting Domitian said, ‘They’re coming out. Uncle Sabinus is with them. And the Guard, Juvens. Sabinus has surrendered to him in order that the people might be saved.’

We were proud of him then, you must understand that, even if it meant we were trapped. For of course we couldn’t go out when a thousand people stood just outside the door, surrounded by the increasingly raucous Guards.

Rome, 19 December
AD
69

NOBODY KNOWS HOW
the fire started in the temple on the Capitol hill. At least, nobody who speaks to me now, or who brought me messages at the time. It was the sacred heart of Rome; none of us wanted to live through what must happen to the empire if it burned to the ground.

Juvens’ men say it was ablaze when they got there, that they organized bucket gangs to try to douse the flames. Those of Sabinus’ contingent to whom I have spoken say that one barrel of fired pitch they threw out as a diversion was thrown back at them, and the temple, being old and dry and wrought of ancient wood, caught light like a tinder stack and the flames were unquenchable.

Reports from Juvens say he was on top of the tenements when he saw it, and knew what was needed. But it was eighteen storeys down to the nearest well and there was no way his own men were going to be able to stop the blaze.

It did mean, though, that he could abandon his earlier secrecy. He spun
to face his men, with the wild fire growing bolder behind him.

‘Follow me! Find Sabinus and Domitian! Find the consul! Bring me anyone of consequence you can find. Don’t let a single one escape or you’ll answer to me!’

The flames had caught the temple, but the courtyard was still untouched. It was the work of moments for Halotus to throw their stolen door across from the third tenement to the wall and for Juvens to swarm across –
don’t look down!
– and then on to the wall and down from it into the temple precinct. He was expecting a fight, and, indeed, Sabinus had marshalled the men inside and planned ways by which they might hold every entrance until morning.

The fire, though, had changed everything. As the temple blazed behind them, the assembled masses in the courtyard wanted nothing more than to open the gates and get out. They had nowhere to go, though, until Juvens arrived; Priscus’ men held the Hundred Steps gate on the north side and the front gate had wood piled against it, leaving nowhere safe as an exit.

Juvens came over the wall to find silent, soot-speckled men and women waiting for him, standing in lines. One stepped forward; an elderly man, stooped a little, his hair dusted with ash.

‘In the name of the emperor Vespasian,’ he said, ‘know that you are committing a crime against the state and will be punished for it.’

Juvens choked on a laugh. ‘And you are?’

‘I am his brother, Sabinus. And this is the consul, Quinctillius Atticus …’ Sabinus signalled behind him. Any one of three or four men clustered at the crowd’s head might have been the consul; he was certainly making no effort to be conspicuous.

Sabinus went on, ‘We hold the rule of Rome until my brother’s arrival, or that of his commander, Antonius Primus. You have fired
the Capitol, sacred heart of Rome, and for that you will answer. In the meantime, you have a duty to the people of Rome. We commend ourselves to your care.’

Juvens sucked in a breath. There was a protocol to be followed amongst men of noble blood. He said, ‘Do you personally, Titus Flavius Sabinus, prefect of Rome, give yourself into my care?’

‘I do.’

‘Then if you wish to live, I would strongly advise you not to mention your brother’s name or that of his generals in the presence of my men: too many of them remember the shame of Narnia.’ He turned to his nearest officer. ‘Halotus, put this man in chains. Find out which of those craven idiots is the consul and bring him too.’

‘Where are we taking them?’ Halotus was loyal, but not especially bright.

‘To the emperor.’ And then, because there was an unforgivable flicker of confusion in the man’s eyes – don’t you
dare
ask which emperor! – ‘To Vitellius. And you …’ He rounded on a passing Guard. ‘Find Domitian.’

‘He isn’t here,’ Sabinus said.

‘Not here in the temple? Or not here in Rome?’

‘He has never been in the temple,’ Sabinus said. ‘And now he has left Rome.’

As Halotus led the older man off, the only certainty in Juvens’ mind was that Sabinus had just lied to him. Which was why he was still with the mass of refugees he had herded out on to the Asylum, working his way personally through the sorry band of would-be rebels, hunting for the son of the usurper, when the catastrophe happened near the mint on the Arx.

He didn’t see it, but he heard a cheer go up, of exactly the timbre and bloody enthusiasm of those in the circus when the beasts came out, or the gladiators fought to the death.

‘
Hades, no!’

He blasted away from the prisoners and sprinted down the slope and up the other side to the Arx, but he was too late to stop the frenzied stabbing, too late to stop Guards turned feral monsters from stripping the body of the man who had given himself freely into Juvens’ care, too late to stop his desecrated corpse being flung to the foot of the Gemonian steps, the customary fate of convicted thieves and bandits.

He was in time to arrest the four men he had put in charge of the prisoner, but he didn’t do it; there was no point, and he needed them: Halotus was the ringleader and the other three were amongst the bravest he had.

They hadn’t killed Quinctillius Atticus, the consul, and so they were ordered to take him forthwith to the emperor, on the understanding that if he died they would watch the sun rise from the heights of a cross, and Juvens returned to the systematic search of the refugees, to be sure that Sabinus had not hidden his nephew amongst them.

He didn’t find the boy before the heat of the burning temple forced him to bring the people away lest he roast them all. The courtyard acted as a kind of fire break, but in the temple itself the fire had become a monster, eating rock and wood and the bronze statues and laws and legacies beyond price. It destroyed centuries of Roman jurisprudence and the sanctity of Roman decency.

In the morning, he and I might hope to contemplate what it would take to rebuild it, but then, in the night, Rome was left to watch the biggest hill beacon in the history of her empire burn high into the sky.

That’s when the war became real, I think, for the rest of Rome. They couldn’t keep on pretending it wasn’t going to touch them after something like that.

Rome, 19–20 December
AD
69

AFTER THE FIRE-STORM
, the calm.

We huddled in that hidden underground shrine all night, with Domitian giving us a running commentary on what was happening outside.

We knew early on that they had killed Sabinus. We heard the animal shout – that light-tube brought sound to us too – but we didn’t know what it was for until Juvens arrived at a flat-out run and began screaming abuse at his men.

Caenis took it particularly badly. She felt responsible, obviously, although there was nothing she could have done. Juvens should have controlled his men better; if anyone was to blame, it was him.

So we sat through the night and pretty much all we learned was that Pantera was virtually unbeatable at any game that involved bluffing, but he could be beaten at dice as long as it was only a straight roll and everything down to chance.

At a certain point, we nominated one corner to be a latrine, and all
looked away as the ladies used it. The stink was vile. Being a slave, I was more used to it, but even so, three months of freedom had made me soft.

We thought we’d have to stay there through the whole of the next day while the temple on the hill burned out and probably we would have done, had not Juvens come back with about a thousand more Guardsmen and begun to forge a sense of order out of the chaos on the hill. Soon, the refugees had been herded down into the city until the place was empty.

We left after that, crawling out of our stinking hole, and scuttling the few dozen paces to the fifth house along, which had an exit in its back wall that gave on to a goat-path which led down the hill with a sheer drop on one side and the back walls of the houses on the other.