Empire - Saylor Steven (книги без сокращений TXT) 📗
Lucius looked at the water clock. Without a doubt, the clock indicated the sixth hour. The water clock was in error. Someone had changed its settings.
Stephanus extended the document to Domitian, who unrolled it and stared at it. He scowled. “What is this? All I see is a list of provincial magistrates. What has this to do-”
Quickly, deftly, Stephanus loosened the bandages around his left forearm and reached inside. He pulled out a dagger and lunged for the emperor. Because of Domitian’s elevated position on the dais, Stephanus fell short of stabbing the man’s heart. His blade struck Domitian’s groin.
Domitian bellowed in pain. He struck Stephanus across the face. The steward staggered back, clutching the bloody dagger. Domitian bolted forward. The throne tumbled backwards. The small-headed creature shrieked and scrambled out of the way. Domitian grappled with Stephanus.
“My knife!” Domitian cried. “The one I keep beneath my pillow – bring it to me!”
The creature scurried past Catullus, striking him with his elbow and knocking him farther onto the balcony, where he almost collided with Lucius before grabbing the parapet to steady himself. The creature ran into the bed chamber and a moment later emerged with a stricken look on his face. He held a scabbard in one hand and in the other a hilt that had no blade. Someone had substituted a false dagger for the one Domitian kept under his pillow.
Other courtiers entered the room. They swarmed over Domitian, who roared and put up a tremendous struggle, like a lion attacked by dogs.
“What’s happening?” cried Catullus. “Dominus, how can I help you?”
Suddenly, the blind man realized that Lucius was next to him. He snarled like an animal and lunged for him. The accuracy of the man’s aim and the ferocity of his attack took Lucius by surprise. While Domitian struggled with the courtiers, Lucius and Catullus wrestled on the balcony.
Catullus used his sharp fingernails to gouge at Lucius’s eyes and nose, and sank his teeth into Lucius’s arm. Lucius seized the man’s wrists and tried to immobilize him, but Catullus was too strong. The best Lucius could manage was to push the man to one side, towards the parapet. Almost before Lucius knew what was happening, Catullus went tumbling over. With a bloodcurdling scream, Catullus plummeted to the garden below.
Lucius heard a sickening sound of impact and looked over the parapet. Face-up, with his limbs outstretched, Catullus was impaled on the metal blade of the sundial. His body was broken nearly in two. His mouth gaped open and his eyes glittered. His limbs flailed horribly for a moment, then fell limp.
Lucius realized that the room behind him had fallen silent, except for the sound of men gasping for breath. The struggle was over. Stephanus stepped beside him, throwing back his head to exult in the sunshine on his face. His hair was dishevelled and his torn clothes were covered with blood.
The tattered remains of the bandage hung from his left forearm. The gash looked very real. Stephanus saw Lucius looking at it and grinned. “I inflicted the wound myself, using a boar’s tusk. There’s no substitute for authenticity.”
What had Flavia said about Stephanus? He’s a brave man, and not squeamish.
Blinking and bleary-eyed, Lucius looked over his shoulder. A bloody heap draped in imperial purple lay in the centre of the room. Courtiers with knives stood in a circle, gasping for breath and gazing numbly at their handiwork. Blood and gore were smeared all over the floor.
“Is he really…?”
“The tyrant is dead,” said Stephanus. He proudly held up the dagger in his right hand. Sunlight glinted on the blood. Then he showed Lucius his left hand, in which he clutched a chain with an amulet. “I think this belongs to you, Lucius Pinarius.”
Lucius took back the fascinum, covered with blood.
AD 99
The philosophers had returned to Roma.
Three years had passed since the death of Domitian. On a morning in early September – no longer called Germanicus – Lucius played host in his garden to two guests who had long been absent from Roma.
“It’s a shame that neither of you intends to move back to the city,” said Lucius, sipping a cup of water spiced with dried apple peel, cinnamon, and cloves. Wine had been poured for his guests, but Lucius, as always, abstained.
“There is no city like Roma,” said Epictetus, who had arrived the preceding night. “But my life now is the school I’ve founded in Nicopolis. The students are so bright and eager. They inspire me as much as I inspire them. And there’s something to be said for living in an environment where Greek is spoken from dawn to dusk, without a word of Latin being uttered. I feel more at home there than I’ve ever felt anywhere else.”
“And you, Dio? How can you leave Roma now that you’ve returned?” Looking at the sophist, Lucius was pointedly reminded of the passage of time. Dio was now in his sixties and looked much older than when Lucius had last seen him. Of course, Lucius, at fifty-two, probably looked much older to Dio.
“I was delighted when Nerva became emperor and lifted my banishment,” said Dio. “Roma I longed to see again, but I was even more pleased by the fact that I could at last return to Prusa. With so many changes afoot, I feel that my place is in my native land, looking after the interests of my fellow Bithynians. And it’s so lovely and quiet in Prusa. I think my long absence from Roma has cured me of it. I couldn’t ask for more comfortable accommodations than those you’ve provided, Lucius, but out there in the streets of Roma, how noisy it is, and how crowded!”
“And how smelly! Don’t forget the smells,” said Lucius’s third guest. It had occurred to Lucius that his visit from the two philosophers was the perfect opportunity to effect a reconciliation with Martial, though “reconciliation” was perhaps too strong a word. Lucius and the poet had never had a falling-out; they had simply grown distant in recent years. Determined to set aside any bitterness he felt about Martial’s relationship with Domitian, Lucius had invited the poet to gather with their mutual friends.
“Ah, but you have a good reason to live in Roma,” said Dio, “to enjoy all the accolades you’re receiving on the publication of your collected poems, which was long overdue. At last your genius is being recognized beyond the – how shall I say it? – the elite circles where it was previously enjoyed.”
“Fah!” said Martial. He, too, had aged considerably in recent years. Though he was a bit younger than Dio, he looked older, probably due to the over-indulgent style of living he had enjoyed at the court of Domitian. “Accolades? What do I care for accolades? Accolades will not pay my rent, which has just gone up, by the way. Why is it that every time there’s a change of emperor, the cost of living goes up? I’m leaving Roma as soon as I can settle my affairs. And why not? I’ve had all the boys in this city worth having, or at least all the ones in my price range. I’m retiring to Spain, the land of my birth, where both the rents and the boys are said to be very cheap.”
“Our new emperor was also born in Spain,” noted Lucius. “They say Trajan is the first emperor to be foreign-born.”
“And why not?” said Dio. “Having seen a great deal of the empire and the lands beyond in recent years, I think it will be a good thing for Roma to have a emperor who was born outside Italy. Though I must say I was greatly saddened by the death of Nerva. He was a good man, and a true lover of philosophy. How delighted I was when I heard that he took a vow to kill no senators. And I was even more delighted when I heard his declaration that Domitian’s so-called House of the Flavians would henceforth be known as the House of the People. That sort of thing sets a tone, if nothing else. To be sure, Nerva was old and frail, and the demands of his office were probably too much for him. We can only hope that his successor will be half as good a man.”
