Lady of the Eternal City (19 page)

Wise
, Sabina thought. She saw the way Hadrian’s eyes flicked to her brother-in-law over the rim of his wine cup—what could be more thoroughly harmless to a suspicious emperor’s eyes than a man surrounded by children?

Or perhaps Titus is merely the kindest father in Rome.
Annia and her cousin were both gazing up at him like he drove the sun. It made Sabina’s heart squeeze beneath her Imperial purple
stola
, not in envy, but in love. She might not have chosen well when it came to the father who had sired Annia—there were those who might call a bloody-handed ex-legionary a decidedly questionable choice—but she had at least chosen well in the father she
gave
her daughter afterward.

“Mother!” Annia came whirling up, dragging her cousin. “Marcus is a
traitor
. He won’t cheer for the Reds!”

“Rank treachery!” Faustina forced a little lightness into her tone, smoothing Annia’s flyaway hair. Annia looked puzzled, as if she felt the anxiety in her mother’s touch.
My observant girl
, Sabina thought.
Nothing gets past you, does it?

Trumpets sounded. Sabina took a last look to measure just how much Annia had grown—seven years old, and so tall!—and took her place at Hadrian’s side as he raised his arm to begin the festivities. Cheering rose below in a dutiful swell, redoubling as the slow parade of chariots began with their prancing horses and preening charioteers. A star charioteer would always get a bigger ovation than an emperor in the Eternal City, Sabina thought with some amusement.

“Does Caesar wish to dispense the prizes?” Titus approached the Emperor with a bow and the customary basket of painted wooden balls, every one of which would be lobbed into the crowd and redeemed by some lucky pleb for a prize: a slave, a bullock, a side of ham. “Young Pedanius Fuscus has volunteered to throw them—”

Whatever Hadrian said was lost then, because Titus got the greatest roar of all from the crowd below. The plebs of Rome had put their hands together for their Emperor; they had surged to their feet for their charioteers—but when Sabina’s brother-in-law came to the fore, they stamped and clapped and shrieked.

“
Titus Antoninus Pius!
” someone shouted, and other voices took up the shout.
“Pi-us! Pi-us! Pi-us!”

“‘Pius’?” Sabina whispered to Faustina. “When did that nickname start?”

“For his piety in helping restore the Pantheon?” Faustina shrugged. “For those massive consignments of oil and grain he gave from our personal stores after the winter shortages? Or maybe for the way he used to offer our father his arm whenever they walked out—you know how people love a show of filial piety.”

“But it isn’t a
show
. Titus does everything so quietly; he doesn’t court approval.”

“Which is why they give it to him.” Fierce pride flashed like a vein of gold through Faustina’s voice. “Servianus might call himself the most virtuous man in Rome, but
Rome
knows that title truly belongs to my husband.”

Sabina looked at her oldest friend, standing at the rail of the Imperial box, pristine toga fluttering, head gleaming, hand half-raised to quiet the crowd. But they wouldn’t quiet, not until he had lifted an arm in salute, and smiled at the answering roar.

That was when Hadrian’s gaze turned to ice. And so did Sabina’s heart.

“Look how they cheer for the prizes,” she said brightly, whisking the basket from Titus. “How the plebs do love getting something without cost! Let Pedanius throw the balls out, Caesar, it will be the only thing to quiet them—”

Young Pedanius strutted up, flexing his arm for the first throw, and Sabina managed to flatter everyone back to their seats, Titus sliding at once to the rear of the box. But Hadrian did not smile once, even when the first race finally began in a storm of hooves and sand. Everyone else was leaning forward, calling encouragement to their favorite teams, but the Emperor sat back in his wrought-silver chair, one foot rubbing along the back of the dog at his feet . . . and when he crooked a finger at Titus to approach, the Imperial eyes were full of blank, cold speculation.

Like he was thinking which piece went on which spear
, Faustina’s words whispered, and Sabina repressed a shudder.

Annia saw that look, too, and her small hand shot into her father’s as he rose. “Let go, little monkey”—but Annia just gripped tighter. Titus at last gave a chuckle and let her follow as he took the chair beside Sabina, and Annia scrambled up to perch on his knee. Hadrian looked irked, and Annia gave him an expression of doe-eyed innocence that would have made Sabina laugh had she not been so vibrantly afraid.

“Tell me,
Pius
.” Hadrian’s eyes looked like lamps gleaming from a hidden niche. “Why are you alive?”

Sabina’s fingers clenched about her wine cup, and she saw Annia’s eyes narrow. But Titus looked calm as ever.

“I could speak theologically, Caesar, and say that I am alive because the Fates spun a thread with all six of my names on it, and thus I came squalling into the world. Or I could speak for my wife, who says that I was born for the purpose of making her happy, which I seem to do even though I drive her mad by leaving my togas unwound all over the
tablinum
. Or I could speak with strict truth”—a half bow from his seat—“and say that I am alive by Caesar’s gracious mercy.”

“Are you being flippant with me?” Hadrian asked.

“Not at all,” Titus said sincerely. “I’m being pedantic. I always get pedantic when I’m nervous.”

Sabina wanted to jump in again, anything to divert this conversation, but part of Hadrian’s keen attention was focused on her, and so she continued to sit like his vision of a perfect Empress: serene and silent, her gaze fixed on the race below, never interfering. Her husband had at last begun including her again in his travels, in his decisions—but he’d banish her back to the palace to rot if she interfered at the wrong moment.
Wait.

Hadrian took a bunch of grapes from the silver bowl at his side, tossing one to the dog panting happily at his feet. “You’re sweating, Titus Aurelius.”

Annia sat stiff as a doll on her father’s knee, not fidgeting or bouncing as she normally did, but she must have made some movement because Titus looped an arm about her and gave a squeeze. “Naturally I’m sweating,” he said. “I’m terrified.”

“Seven years ago”—the Emperor popped a grape into his mouth—“I decided a demonstration of mercy was called for, and spared your life. But I may decide to change my mind. Do not think some small degree of popularity among the plebs renders you immune from my displeasure. Crowds are fickle.”

“They are, Caesar. I am only cheered because I am known to loan money at four percent interest instead of twelve.”

“Twelve percent at market rate? That seems high. The reports I see indicate six percent. Do make a note, Suetonius.” Hadrian lifted a finger at his secretary, but his eyes never shifted from Titus, and Sabina’s pulse continued to pound. Everyone else in the box was oblivious to the small drama unfolding between their three chairs; only Faustina had strained eyes, watching the conversation she could not hear. Annia’s blue-gray eyes were fixed on the Emperor in cool distrust, and Sabina had time for a small, absurd prick of pride. Her daughter might be just a child, but she knew perfectly well that behind all these bland phrases, her father was being threatened.

“If I may ask what I have done to draw Caesar’s ire?” Titus still sounded equable, as though he were talking about chalk for his togas or slates for his
tablinum
. “I am a thoroughly undistinguished sort of fellow, after all. I was born to an old name, and my family has been rather fortunate in its investments, but in myself I am nothing. Low-interest loans and a few famine-relief consignments to the city are hardly original acts; a dozen other men in the Senate House do the same.”

“Agreed,” the Emperor said, spitting out another pip. “But they are not cheered as you just were. It makes me wonder if the crowd looks at you and remembers that Trajan had some notion of appointing you heir.”

“I doubt anyone outside this box knows that. And would it be any use telling you I don’t want the purple?”

Hadrian’s idle tone dropped at once. “Spare me the obligatory protestations.”

“You think I have any desire to be where you are, Caesar?” Sabina heard her brother-in-law’s voice resound, that clarion ring of authority that came so unexpectedly from a man otherwise so mild. “To be Emperor of Rome is to be worked to death in this mausoleum of a palace, or forever moving between provincial wastelands. Never alone and forever worrying—that is not a life I wish.”

“The next race is being called, Caesar,” Sabina murmured. But Hadrian’s gaze remained locked on Titus, and Titus never broke the stare.

“Believe me, Caesar,” Sabina’s brother-in-law went on. “I have no wish to change the life I have. I consider myself a lucky man. I have funds enough to invest in Caesar’s building programs, I have the most beautiful wife in Rome—begging the Empress’s pardon”—a nod to Sabina—“and I have a daughter whom I hold so dear that I’m happy to keep her in expensive playthings as fast as she can break them.”

Sabina saw Annia’s fingers curl tight through a fold of Titus’s toga. The small knuckles were white, and she was glaring at the Emperor like a little Medusa.

“I have friends,” Titus went on, “I have health, and nobody has any interest in assassinating me. The most taxing decision I made all year was whether to buy my wife emeralds or sapphires for Lupercalia. So no,” he finished. “I don’t want to trade places with you, Caesar. Not ever.”

“Are you quite finished?” the Emperor asked Titus, and spit out another pip.

“Yes,” Titus sighed.

Trumpets blared again, but Sabina wouldn’t have been able to say if it was because the race was begun, won, lost, or because the arena had caught fire. She wished the arena
would
catch fire.
Distraction
, she thought frantically,
distraction
 . . .

And the Fates provided it—with a little help from Sabina’s daughter. At the same time as a man’s voice murmured from behind Sabina’s chair, “Forgive me for intruding, Lady—” Annia’s eyes widened and she flung herself off her father’s lap, upsetting the bowl of grapes and a frail glass goblet that went
smash
all over the tiles.

“Antinous!”

Sabina turned to see her favorite page in his flawless white tunic, just stepping into the Imperial box from the passage behind. “A message, Lady,” Antinous said, handing Sabina a scroll. His bow was impeccable even when he had a little girl clinging to his hip. “You asked to see the new list of candidates for your
alimenta
program, the girls petitioning for state dowries”—looking down at Annia with a smile. “You certainly don’t need a dowry, Annia Galeria Faustina!”

“Control your daughter, Titus Aurelius,” the Emperor snapped, frowning, and Titus beckoned Annia, and Antinous murmured, “Please forgive my interruption—”

But Annia clung like a limpet. “Where is Caesar, where is your
dog
?” she demanded as though determined to keep that thick threatening silence from falling again around her father, and Sabina jumped right in beside her.

“Titus, I know you were a patron of Antinous’s; you will be delighted to see he is with my household . . .” Social niceties, she kept them flowing and ignored Hadrian’s frown because hadn’t he made it clear that social niceties were an empress’s business?

“
Patronus
,” Antinous was saying with another bow for Titus, and an utterly infectious grin. “How very pleasant to see you again. I will never forget your kindness to me while I was in the
paedogogium.
”

“Nonsense, Antinous.” Titus offered his own smile, despite the strain still visible about his eyes. “I am glad to see travel agreed with you.”

“Very much,
patronus
.”

That was all. Antinous would never put himself forward; he was already backing away with a parting ruffle for Annia’s hair. But Hadrian was looking on with a frown—a thoughtful frown, not that icy glare that could freeze men in their tracks.

“You act as patron for my pages, Titus Aurelius?”

Titus looked puzzled. “I knew Antinous as a child, Caesar.”

“Then perhaps your young protégé will be the first to congratulate you.” Hadrian tossed the rest of his grapes to the dog, his frown turning into a smile of such benign approval that Titus’s brows shot up. “Since I have decided to appoint you as one of next year’s consuls. Judging from the crowd’s reaction to the mere sight of you, it will be a popular choice.”

And after keeping his composure through so many veiled threats,
that
was when Titus looked flummoxed.

There was bowing and thanking and all kinds of politeness—Hadrian looking gracious; Antinous beaming from his place against the wall; Annia looking at the Emperor as though she didn’t trust his smiles
or
his gifts.
I do not blame you, little one
, Sabina thought, because behind her flurry of congratulations she was as puzzled as Titus.

What had this all been, this Imperial flexing of claws? Another of Hadrian’s elaborate games, threats presented and then replaced on a whim with rewards? Or had he simply decided Titus’s popularity would be better harnessed than squashed?

Faustina was claiming Titus’s arm with relief all over her beautiful face, curtsying her own thanks, and the rest of the box was beginning to notice the fuss. Sabina stepped away, allowing Servianus to stump in and demand the news, and went to join the tight knot of children at the corner of the Imperial box. Young Pedanius Fuscus was whooping over the rail—the Whites charioteer had crashed spectacularly on the turn below, Sabina saw vaguely, and was being dragged behind his runaway horses. Pedanius might be cheering, but Annia was ignoring the arena, her small body as tense as Sabina’s as she stood beside her serious-looking cousin Marcus.

“Tell me something, Annia.” Sabina looked down at her daughter’s face. “You ran over to Antinous just to distract the Emperor, didn’t you?”