The Storm of Heaven (58 page)

"I understand," Galen said, leaning back in his chair. While they had been talking, the maids had quietly delivered wine, fresh fruit, steaming fresh bread and sliced meats glazed with honey to the table. Galen ignored the repast, turning his attention to Gregorius, who was smiling contentedly, his hands on his stomach. "Old friend, you've been badgering me for months, so I think I know why you're here."

Gregorius nodded, a half-smile on his face. "Is this a good time to discuss it? I have heard there is trouble in the East."

"There is trouble everywhere," Galen said in a peevish tone. "The matter of Egypt is only the most pressing. My whole business is finding trouble and putting it out. It is not a good time, but various and diverse persons have informed me that I
must
do something." The Emperor and the senator laughed at a secret, shared jest. Gaius did not see what it was, but kept his face bland and interested. He did not laugh with them.

"She is bored, then?" Gregorius' voice had a gentle needling quality.

"She is," the Emperor dryly answered. "And I know that I have been remiss in my sacred duty. Each day, you know, the Pontifex Maximus and the priests of the temples are in here, moaning and crying about the insult to the gods and the plague of ghosts in the countryside."

The Emperor suddenly turned to Gaius. "Did you see any ghosts, any
manes
, any
lamiae
when you were touring the road works in the south? Any foul, undead creatures?"

"No, Emperor," Gaius said with a straight face. "I did not. But I know that every citizen in the whole of Campania is beside himself with fear of them."

The Emperor made a
harrumph
sound and put his chin in his hand. Gaius fought hard to keep from laughing aloud. The money he had spent encouraging the temple priests had been an excellent investment. Without his prodding, the priests would have continued to loll about in their town houses and temples, idle and unthinking of their duty.

"There shall be games," the Emperor muttered, smoothing back lank, dark hair.

"Did you say something?" Gregorius, still possessed of a smug humor, leaned closer to the Emperor, his eyebrows raised.

"I did," Galen allowed, glaring at his old friend. "Do you want me to shout it from the rooftops?"

"The people," Gregorius said quietly, "would rejoice to hear it."

Galen sighed, accepting the rebuke, then sat up straight. He shuffled some of the papers around on the table and finally drew out one, a creamy-white sheet of parchment, carefully scribed in dark ink. Gaius Julius guessed, from the depth of the color, that it was the fruit of the Sabean octopus. One of the guilds maintained special farms in the shallows near Misenum to raise and harvest the gelatinous creatures. The Emperor, looking relieved, handed the paper to Gregorius, who settled back into his chair to read.

While he did so, Gaius found himself subjected to the Emperor's scrutiny.

"You have a familiar face," Galen said after a moment. "Yours is a cadet branch of the ancient Julians?"

"Yes," Gaius said, trying not to fidget. He made his hands lie still, gripping the leather carrycase. "Not the... famous line, of course."

"It would be difficult," Galen said, watching him closely, "for they are all long dead. Still, you have done well since coming to the city. I applaud you—too few men these days have your energy or stamina."

Gaius raised an eyebrow and inclined his head again. "Fulsome praise from you, Lord and God. You are well known for your long hours and dedication to the state."

"Perhaps," Galen said, smiling a little. He indicated the paper. "I wager if Gregorius accepts the duty represented by that paper, he will task you with its contents."

"I will," the senator said, looking up, the white storm cloud of his brows drawn down over keen eyes. He handed the paper to Gaius, who took it gratefully. This Emperor was too perceptive—the old Roman had not missed the comment about stamina. He would have to be more circumspect with his working hours in the future!

"I accept your trust, Lord and God. I vow we will not dishonor or embarrass you in its execution. Gaius is a hardworking man and honest, a boon to Rome. Between us, we should be able to provide what the Senate, the people, the gods and the Emperor desire."

"If," Galen laughed, "you can satisfy all those powers, then you will be gods yourselves!"

Gaius Julius put the paper back on the table. He allowed himself a tiny smile. As he had hoped, the Emperor had bestowed a great honor on his old, dear family friend. Traditionally, the Emperor kept the right to produce games and plays of all kinds to himself. This had been an Imperial prerogative since the time of that whelp Octavian Augustus. However, that boy had also occasionally allowed his favorites, particularly the noble General Agrippa, to stage
munera
and
venationes
in the Emperor's name. Galen, no mean student of history himself, had borrowed some of Octavian's words for his own proclamation. Gaius Julius read it over again, frowning inside.
Why can't anyone write plainly? This reads like one of that fop Cicero's tracts!

The "elegant" Latin the Emperor favored recalled the opprobrium heaped on Gaius' own literary efforts by his political adversaries. Cicero had been an enemy for a long time. The old Roman looked up, his face filled with what he hoped was dedicated concern and responsibility. He could not afford to scowl! "Lord and God, has a date been set for the first of the games?"

Galen shook his head, saying, "No. I entrust this matter to your hands, Gregorious. The Treasury has set aside considerable funds to pay for the games, but I will not force a day and a time upon you. It is up to you to set the day. But even I feel the discontent in the city—so let it be soon! I will not trouble you with directives about what kind of shows or events or celebrations, but remind you of the great sacred games that the Divine Augustus endowed upon the city, after his victory at Actium. We honor the helpless dead of our sister cities, much as he honored the people for supporting him in the civil wars."

Gregorius nodded in agreement and Gaius Julius mentally discarded at least a quarter of his planning—all thrown aside for that damned brat Octavian's memory! Still, the idea had merit. Gaius had been envisioning something along the lines of the millennial games Emperor Phillip Arabicus had staged almost four hundred years before. The Divine Augustus' games, however, had been much simpler, more refined. If anything, they would be easier to emulate than Phillip's grandiose phantasmagoria.

"Of course," Gregorius answered, while Gaius was fuming, "we have made some few plans and preparations already—they can be easily adjusted to provide what you desire. Would you like to review the high points? Gaius has them here."

Galen laughed, a sharp bark of sound, and raised his hands in surrender. "Am I little more than a puppet? Is my every move watched? That case, I presume, has these small, even insignificant plans and schedules of yours? It seems weighty... I can guess the name of the spy. She
is
impatient!"

The Emperor shook his head
no
at Gaius when the old Roman moved to open the case.

"I know you're not wizards—so my desire to emulate the Divine Augustus will send your efforts awry. Take a few days to consider, to plan and to revise. Then come and see me again and show me what you'll present in my name. Go ahead, put those papers away!"

Galen turned to Gregorius and took the senator's wrinkled old hands in his own. "Old friend, you have always stood by me, offering unstinting aid and counsel. You are a true Roman, a pillar of the state. We have had some disputes, but I pray that they are in the past. A great test is upon the Empire. We will all have to strive, together, to mend the ills that afflict the state. Tell me, is there any enmity between us? Any hurt unrevealed? Is this task I set you too much?"

Gregorius shook his head, then raised one veined hand to his face, covering his eyes. "Lord and God, I am an old man and I have always striven to do right by the Senate and the people of Rome. But my days grow short. I can feel the weakness of my limbs and heart. It is enough, for me, to give what aid I can to the family, to the man, who has rescued our people from disaster."

Galen blushed, looking down. "Then things are well between us?"

"Yes," Gregorius said, and it seemed to Gaius the senator looked upon the past, unaware of the two men and the sunlit garden. The old man seemed very frail. "Perhaps this will be my last task before the Boatman comes for me."

"Do not say that!" Gaius Julius was half out of his chair before he could stop himself. Both he and the Emperor sat back down, sharing a sideways glance. They had echoed each other's words.

"Your heart is still young," Galen said, standing up and beckoning for his servants. "Come, this is enough for the day. I know that you walked from your house, as a patrician should, but I will send you back in a closed litter. You're noble enough to bear that burden too, I think."

Gregorius laughed and accepted Gaius' arm as they walked back into the palace. Galen accompanied them to the great serpentine stairwell at the heart of Tiberius' villa, where they were met by a phalanx of guardsmen, link boys, litter bearers and two bull-throated men who would clear a passage for them through the crowded streets of the city.

The Emperor watched the litter leave from an upper window in the library. "Are you quite pleased with yourself?"

"Perhaps. Maybe. I shall have to think about it." Helena was sitting on a curving window seat. The louvers were angled out, letting afternoon sun fall into the room. There was an untidy pile of scrolls around her. A wax tablet lay on the windowsill, along with an ivory stylus. "Why were you so hesitant? The circuses and the gladiators are part of the daily routine of the city. It's not like you to fly in the face of tradition."

Galen paced across Persian carpets that had come out of the sack of Ctesiphon. "I have never loved the games! They
are
traditional, they are part of the business of being Emperor, they are part of Rome—but that does not mean that I enjoy them. But the people love them, you love them. I see their place in showing the power and the generosity of the state. I just..."

He paused, searching for the right words. Helena looked up at him, dark hair lying smooth and sleek on her shoulders. She waited, smiling, letting him grope and fumble in his heart.

At last he said, "I think the games are wasteful. They burn gold and lives and even animals in enormous numbers—I have reports, love, on my desk from the
praetors
of Africa and Numidia; they report that the ibex and the gazelle and the elephant and the tiger are gone, hunted out, impossible to find. For what? I sum the ledgers showing the vast sums invested in these entertainments, and I see granaries and bridges and dredged harbors and aqueducts and baths. I see the lives of the people made better, rather than titillated by the antics of the pantomimes and the deadly heroics of the gladiators."

Helena shook her head and rose, the silk train of her dress sliding from the window seat like snakeskin. She looked up at her husband and took his head in her hands. She was frowning, giving him a look which said she was perplexed and amused at the same time.

"Dear husband, you are a fine emperor, but you do not understand the people at all. All the classes of the city, the patricians, the workers, the craftsmen—they don't care about these bridges and aqueducts. They are dull! Oh, surely they must have them, they must exist—grain must move, trade be conducted, rivers flow within their banks—but the man who mills the bread or hauls a bale of goods, he is concerned with three things. Three things only."

Galen raised an eyebrow, then took her hands in his. "What three things?" He was wary of her sharp tongue.

"These three things." Helena smiled gently. "First, that he and his family have bread to eat."

"Surely," the Emperor said, "which weighs heavy on my mind! This Egyptian business—"

"Shush!" Helena put a slim finger to his lips. "Listen. Second, that his family is safe, that he may live in peace and undertake his trade undisturbed. And yes, you have done this. But third, oh, third! You must not forget the third thing—there was a poor, lonely emperor who once lost a great deal for his miserliness!—the People
must know
that their emperor loves them and is one of them. That he is not a god. Here, husband, is your failing."

Galen tried to turn away, his face sour, but Helena held him close, looking up at him with extremely serious gray eyes. "Will you be Tiberius, dying alone and friendless on some corrupt island?"

"No!" Galen shook his hands free. "I will not be Prince Caligula or Commodus either and live within the confines of the circus!"

"No one asks you to!" Helena's voice was sharp. "But if you become distant from the people, if you deny them the due that has been theirs for many centuries, their hearts will turn away. They must
see
you and know that you
love
them. They must take bounty from
your
hand and not from another. Even a great man like Gregorius will not suffice. If you do not partake in this, it will make your troubles worse, not better."

"Fine," Galen snapped, eyes narrowing. "Let the people have their circuses. Bread is the true test of their loyalty. I will not stint them."

Then he stalked out of the library, shoulders set in anger. Behind him, Helena threw up her hands and let out a breath in a long, slow hiss. She was angry too, but someone needed to tell the pig-headed, self-centered, ignorant clerk of a man the truth. "Hah! We are such enlightened sorts ourselves."

Helena laughed to herself, then bent to pick up the stylus and the tablet. She was collecting ancient gossip from the early chapters of Suetonius'
De Vita Caesarum
. One of her correspondents, Artemesia, had begun tweaking her about ancient follies. Helena did not intend to take the worst of such an exchange. She tucked the stylus behind one ear and wondered if the long-dead historian's invective against Tiberius and Caligula and Nero was affecting her judgment. "Men! Live or dead, they trouble me."