Empire Of The Undead (6 page)

CHAPTER VI

Rome: 83 CE, Summer

The Emperor squeaked out a long fart, and though Rufus pretended not to hear it, the smell hit him almost instantly. It smelled of red wine and festering garlic. He ignored the stench as best he could while he watched Domitian lift an ornate cloth, a mappa, high in his hand. A vast silence of expectation encased the world.

The cloth fell. As soon as it left his hand, the great carceres sprung open and the charioteers sprang forward. This was a minor, early morning contest and there were but four racers, each in smaller, two-horse chariots called bigae. Later, in the more important races, experienced drivers would race in four-horse chariots with up to twelve teams racing at a time.

The track was in fact wide enough to hold a dozen four-horse chariots. It was split down the middle by the spina, a raised median decorated with statues of the gods. Domitian’s deceased brother, the Divine Titus, was honored with one of the newest statues on the spina. There were seven large metal dolphins, and one would dip as each lap finished. On either end of the spina was a meta, an ornate column which allowed the chariots to take turns without losing speed. It was there, at the turns that the most spectacular crashes occurred.

Rufus and Domitian watched the chariot races from the Emperor’s plush couch, or pulvinar, at the Circus Maximus, between the Aventine and the Palatine Hills. They had walked here straight from the palace through Imperial tunnels that Rufus had helped design and build. The Circus was, true to its name, a grand building. It could not hold so many people as the Flavian Amphitheater, but a hundred and fifty thousand would fit in with room to spare. For important matches, spectators would arrive the night before. The pleb seats were free, of course, but they had no shade and those in the seats risked frequent brawls and the occasional orgy. A better bet was the shaded seats for Senators. They entailed less brawling and more gambling. They were also the best place in Rome to pick up a randy aristocratic woman because the games incited their lust. Thinking of that soft flesh surrounding him, Rufus almost regretted his current position. On the other hand, his place here was a singular honor, elevating him above all other Senators in Rome.

Rufus was honored to be the only Senator in the pulvinar, but of course, they were not alone. His own aide, Plautius, was sitting at the back. The man was dependable and competent—a rare combination. Domitian's guards stood at the back with him; there were more at the sides of the Imperial box, and many more lined the tunnel between the palace and here. They were led by Cornelius Fuscus, prefect of the Praetorian Guards. Since his long-ago return to Rome in 71, Domitian had been close with the Praetorian Guard.

More pleasantly, there were several nude slaves, each from different parts of the Empire, who stood behind them. They were there to serve wine, food, or any other need that might arise. If he was sure it was not an insult to request their services before the Emperor himself had done so, Rufus would have tried to take them up on some of their more exotic functions.

He examined the Emperor more carefully. It had been a decade since Rufus had returned to Rome, and those ten years had not been kind to Domitian. He had gone from young man to heir to Emperor and it had cost him. Most of his hair was gone now, and his belly protruded largely from his otherwise thin frame. His eyes were bloodshot and a haunted look was etched permanently on his face. He looked twice his thirty-two years. Rufus couldn’t blame him. Watching what power had done to his once friend had been frightening.

The Empire was stretched. Roman legions warred in Gaul, in Caledonia, and along the Danube. They were running out of soldiers. Last year, Domitian had been forced to create an entire new legion. While popular amongst the people and especially the army, the Senators resented Domitian and repeatedly clashed with him. In addition to political and military concerns, Domitian’s only son had died two years before. Soon after the boy’s death, he’d been deified. There were posters of the god-child throughout Rome—recently, coins had started to bear the boy’s likeness. It must have been scarce consolation, as Domitian had lost his son and his heir. Until he had another child, the Flavian dynasty ended with him.

“I’ve finished your arch,” Rufus said. “It will be precisely one-third the size as that we erected for your brother.”  Two years ago, Rufus had built a triple arch honoring Titus at the east end of the circus.

There was a long pause. He could smell the perfume of the women behind him, and the faintest remainder of Domitian's gas. Below them, the racers sped through their laps. As they completed each lap, one of the metal dolphins on the spina lowered. When none were left raised, the race would be over.

“That is good. My brother,” Domitian said, “he knew what he wanted. It’s a pity he’s not here.”

Rufus thought carefully about what to say next. Titus had died less than two years into his reign, just after the inaugural games had finished. Many had suspected Domitian of having played a role in his brother’s demise. Rufus doubted that—Domitian seemed too regretful, too unwilling to embrace the Empire as his plaything. His first act as Emperor had been to deify his brother, but it made for uncomfortable conversation whenever Titus' name was mentioned.

“We have in addition completed the new gladiator barracks near the Flavian amphitheater, and next to the bathhouses built by your divine brother,” Rufus said, wincing. Titus seemed constantly to come up. “I have diverted and built new aqueducts and there will be plenty of water for the men. The connecting tunnels are complete and one can enter the fighting grounds directly from the training grounds.”

“Well done,” Domitian said.

Rufus smiled to himself, hiding the bitterness he felt. The Emperor had become a tight-lipped man. He found himself missing the energetic, gangly youth who had appeared in his chambers all those years ago.

Around them, the plebs roared their approval. They were cheering not for a particular racer, but for an accident. Furor circensis, their mad fury was called, and it was just getting started. The stands were not even full for the early morning ientaculum matches. Rufus glanced to the racers below. Domitian's pulvinar naturally had the best view possible. It looked right over the track, though of course,  both a wire screen and a canal as long as two men separated the racers from the spectators.

The front two racers, red and blue, were going around the meta. They all had the reins wrapped around their waist, to keep them in their baskets. The white racer leaned toward the green. Metal glinted in his hand. The racers carried curved knives called falx. Nominally, they were to be used to cut themselves free from their reins when they crashed. Far more often, however, they drew close enough to their opponent to slash at him. The green racer was ready for the slow slash, and his chariot swung wide.

The white racer was momentarily overextended, but he was able to right himself. He would have, rather, had that moment not been precisely when an eager fan hurled a curse tablet at him. The curse tablets were a way for the fans to get involved, and it was well known that the driver with the fewest curse tablets often won. To make sure, however, the amulets were often studded with nails or shrapnel.

The tablet hit the white driver right on the head. He wore a helmet, but the force of it, coupled with his off-balance footing, caused him to stumble and fall out the back of his chariot. Many of the crowd roared their appreciation for this move. For those close enough, the prone body of the racer made for a tempting target, and a barrage of curse tablets hit the stunned driver before he could rise. Finally, he stumbled away, hopping for a side door.

A different part of the crowd cheered as the racers entered the sixth lap, of seven.  A young Blue racer was ahead, but the Red was fast. His chariot was clearly going faster than the one before him. Behind them, the Green driver was trying hard to catch up, but it did not look hopeful. With every second, the Red racer was closing in on the Blue.

“Have you placed money on this match?” Domitian asked suddenly. Rufus saw that the man’s cheeks had turned red with excitement.

“No, Caesar. I only returned this morning.”

“I'm told the Blue driver is the favorite.”

“The red driver looks to catch up quickly,” Rufus said.

“Would you care to wager on red?” Domitian asked.

“With you?  Of course, and the stakes…” Rufus asked. Domitian said nothing, only turned back to watch the final quarter lap.

It was disappointing in the end. The Blue racer took the turn very tightly and sped away, and the Red could not catch him, though he leaned so close to his horse that he seemed to disappear. The winner cruised over the finish line leisurely. Men and women wearing blue scarves were overjoyed, hugging strangers and screaming themselves hoarse. Those wearing red, green, or white, were obviously less jubilant.

That race would have enriched some of the people, Rufus thought. Slaves would buy their freedom. Men could clear long-owed debts. Conversely, some would have been broken by that result. One race could lead to a lifetime of servitude. Rufus tried to imagine the level of desperation necessary to risk it all. Had he been that desperate during his exile?  He imagined not.

“You have won, Caesar. The blue racer was as good as you said,” Rufus stated.

“He will lose at the Greek Kalends!  Never!  He wasn’t threatened by these children. Though blue is not a noble color. I should like to see new colors. Purple perhaps. Or Gold.  Those would make for finer colors, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so,” Rufus answered.

“As to our wager,” the Emperor said, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“I am, as always, your servant. I can gift you one of my wines. Perhaps a Falnerian.”

“Exile,” Domitian said.

Rufus felt his heart cease beating. Realization dawned belatedly. He’d displeased the Emperor, and this race was the way for him to show his disapproval.

Domitian watched his reaction carefully. “You’ve turned white. Was exile so bad?” he asked.

“It was not unbearable, though I confess I am not eager to revisit it,” Rufus said. “If I have displeased—”

“I am exiling Domitia,” the Emperor said. “You have lost our wager, and I want to send her to Gyaros. You did much to increase its beauty, and it will comfort her.”

Rufus was shocked. When their son had been deified, Domitia had been honored with the title Augusta. She should have been above reproach.

“Caesar,” he said, his throat feeling dry. Something unpleasant had just occurred to him. “I have of course left stewards to maintain the property. It looks the same as ever, I have no doubt, but it’s no place for the Augusta. It’s a simple, humble place.”  In truth, it was a horrible barren place devoid of humanity. “Send her to Kythnos instead. It is nearby, but not as dire a home.”

A silence longer than any stretched before them. Rufus followed the Emperor’s glance down as the next race set up. Teams of two would race with quadrigae, or four horse chariots. The setup bored him. From the corner of his eye, he could see a slave woman’s naked breasts. They were overly big, with small pink nipples.

“That is exactly what the Augusta needs,” Domitian said. “I have struggled with this idea for a long time. It is the right thing to do. It is what … my father would have done.”

“There will be talk,” Rufus said. “I am loathe to broach such unpleasant slanders, but … there are rumors…concerning Julia Flavia.”

“Julia?” Domitian asked. “My niece. What do the rumors speak of?”

“They say, I think I’ve heard them say … that,” Rufus stammered. His normal bluntness was not appropriate here.

“That I’m fucking my niece?  I do have an informant network, Rufus. I know what they say.”

“I thought as much,” Rufus said, regaining some composure. It felt like he was talking to his old friend again. “With ears as big as yours, I’d hope you could hear rumors that oft-repeated.”

Domitian stared at him. Rufus regretted his quip, but the Emperor started laughing.

“Gratias, Rufus,” the Emperor said.

“Why?”

“You have no idea how refreshing it is to speak to someone who’s not constantly trying to curry favor. Now, try to remember everything you can about exile. I want you to talk to Domitia into leaving. As soon as possible.”  He rose, and Rufus followed suit.

On their way back to the palace, Rufus realized Domitian had never answered the question about his niece.

CHAPTER VII

Dacia: 83 CE, Autumn

"Go," she said, kissing him on the lips, "go and kill them all."  Her voice sounded flat to her, as though the vast roiling emotions in her were too profound to be expressed by something as mundane as her voice.

He winked at her, gratitude lifting the corners of his lips into a smile. "They'll never even catch us," he said, "those clumsy turtle-fuckers. By Zalmoxis, we will kill so many of them that they will never come back."  His voice was solid, dependable, a platform of bravery she could cling to, and yet she could not drown her fear.

Somehow sensing her worry, he had grasped her hand then, his fingers warm and reassuring. “Rowanna, I'll come back for you, and for Dapyx.”

Her lips moved together in an attempt at a smile. “I know you will.”

He was three steps out the door when she saw it.

“Brasus,” she called after him. Plucking the great hard-wood shaft from the wall, she chased after him.

“My spear,” he said, smiling in admonishment of his own forgetfulness, “what would my father have said?”

“He would have cuffed you on the head for trying to fight the Romans without the spear of his father, and his father before him,” Rowanna said. The weapon was as much heirloom as tool of war, and it had a lineage greater than either of them.

“I have to go,” Brasus said, hefting the spear in gratitude. “Give my love to the boy.” 

Rowanna watched him go, watched the space he had been in long after he'd departed. Most of the village was leaving. Leaving to face another Roman excursion into their land. Roman fools. They would die as their forefathers had died. The wolf people knew no masters, gave no quarter. This she knew, with all of her being. And yet. And yet, she feared.

It was bright outside, but she sat in the cool darkness of her home. She drifted to a place between wakefulness and sleep, and only when Dapyx appeared to clutch at her knees with grubby hands did she emerge from her reverie.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “And where are the apples?”

“I was playing,” Dapyx said. “And I think I lost them.”  She knew where the scamp had lost them. His knees were dirty and his arms scratched and bloody. It was impossible to keep the boy from climbing trees.

“Brasus is gone,” she told him, “he went to fight the Romans.”

“Oh,” Dapyx said, “well, you’d better make me a spear. I need to go too.”

“Not yet,” she said, hugging him close to her. His blue eyes burned into her. “But not long from now, either. When you're ten, you can learn the spear and the sword. Now tell me, what's new in Sarmizegetusa?”  She had explicitly told him not to go to the nearby capital.

“There's a storyteller from Gaul who--” Dapyx stopped in sudden alarm as he realized the trap.

“I thought so,” she said, swatting him on the backside.

“I am sorry,” he said. “But my friends wanted to go, and I couldn’t let them down. Everyone goes to Sarmizegetusa.” 

She stared at him.

“Everyone,” he repeated uncomfortably. “I want to go back today and hear the end of the story.”

“Forget it,” she said. “You do not get to go back today, but if you go get the apples, maybe tomorrow I'll bring you there to hear the rest of the story.”

Her son scampered off as the sun set. Where was Brasus now?  Would they march in the dark, or set up camps in the forests?  She would miss his warm body against hers. Rowanna sighed, wishing that she, too, could have fought for her land and her child.

****

“Hannibal,” the storyteller intoned dramatically, “crossed the Alps with thirty-seven war elephants. He fought the Romans again and again, killing them at every battle. By the end, he was an old man, with only one eye. His men were old too, or dead, or they betrayed him for Roman riches.”  The dark-haired man paused for emphasis. “Many years had passed and almost everyone who had crossed the mountains with him was dead. Can anyone guess how many elephants he had at the end?”

Dapyx looked to her in askance. She had heard of Hannibal before, but never in such detail. The Gaulish storyteller was clever, telling of Roman defeats at a time like this.

“I don't know,” she whispered. A few people, not all children, shouted out guesses. The storyteller held his hand up for silence.

“One,” the storyteller said. “A single beast, a mean old Syrian named Saurus from the deserts. He was an ornery bastard, and had only one tusk. The other was lost in battle, and some say it broke off in the walls of Rome itself, one misty morning.”

Despite herself, Rowanna felt captivated by the story. She could see the fog and walls looming up behind them. Before them, angry elephants snorted and tossed their heads impatiently. The dark warriors of Hannibal waited for their chance to remove the Romans from the world. If only they’d succeeded!

“Saurus wore a red cloth and carried a red shield, because all who saw him knew that he was Hannibal's own mount. He lasted longer than his master, old Saurus did.  In fact,” the storyteller's voice lowered until he was speaking in a stage-whisper, “some say he's still out there, looking for Romans to kill.”

Someone blew a trumpet loudly from behind them. Dapyx jumped, which was fortunate since he didn't notice that his mother was equally startled.

“Can we go see the elephants?” her son asked, when the laughter had died down and the storyteller's assistant was passing through the crowd looking for tips.  Rowanna had a coin in her hand and laughter on her lips when she saw them.

The horn had been blown not as part of the story, but by a returning war band. It was unusual for them to be back so soon. Had something gone wrong?  Rowanna rushed to them, and screamed.

Brasus had returned. What was left of him, anyway. One of his hands and both his feet were gone, and he was burned across his body. He lay on a wicker stretcher, carried by two of her neighbors. They were on the street, some distance away from the crowd gathered around the storyteller.

“Come to me,” she said to Dapyx. “Come and see what they have done to us.”

As her son walked to her, she became convinced this was a dream. She turned to her husband. Though he could barely breathe, he gripped her hand with his one remaining limb. There was no strength left in his body. His mouth moved, forming words, but there was no air to aid him. Within moments, his body fell still forever. Beside him lay the spear of his father. “He wanted you to have it,” the man next to her said as he saw her looking at it.

“What happened?” she said. Dapyx was beside her, staring in shock at the corpse of his father. Behind her, the people were laughing at more of the storyteller's antics.

“The damn legion surprised us. They got past the forts and ambushed us. We should have had more men in the passes. We had not even set up camp when we ran into them. They rolled burning balls of fire through the forest, right into our ranks. Brasus was near the front, as always. He never even saw it coming.”

“You live.” It was not quite an accusation.

“We killed them, killed them all, but we lost some good men. Brasus meant a lot to us all, that's why Diurpaneus let us bring him back. He's chasing them out of the country already. He wasn’t ready for them, but we know the sly dog. He’ll get them.”  He trailed off as the look on Rowanna's face struck him. “We'll kill them all. We'll get vengeance on them for you.”

She wasn't listening. She grabbed Dapyx's hand so hard that he squealed in pain, and pulled him to see the remnants of his father. She did not know what her son would do, but his little face set into a hard expression. “Let me go with them,” he said, “let me avenge my father.”

“Not yet,” Rowanna said, “the time is coming, but you are not ready yet.”

“When will I be?” he asked.

“When you no longer have to ask your mother for permission first.”

The trumpet behind them blew once more, and Rowanna found herself wondering how a Roman legion would fare against elephants. What she wouldn’t give to find old Saurus and ride him into battle like the mighty Hannibal himself. For now, though, she had her son to think about. He did not know it yet, but his childhood had ended today.