Outside the hunting dogs howled.
Iunia prayed it would not wake him.
He stirred, but his eyes remained shut.
When he was with the army on the Steppe, she had prayed to all the gods to let a barbarian arrow find him. Not in the heart or head, death was too quick. Let the barbed steel tear into his guts, let the poison seep into his blood, locking his jaws, leaving him to linger for days in wordless agony. Or let him be captured. The Sarmatian women were said to stake their victims out, castrate them, prise their mouths open, and force their genitals down their throats. Then they flayed the skin from their living bodies, sliver by sliver.
The gods had not heeded her prayers. Gordian was right, they were far away, and had no care for humanity. They were right to keep their distance. Anything in contact with Maximus was tainted.
He was snoring.
Now. Gods, give her the courage. Now.
Even if Eunomia had gathered the necessary potions before she died, it would have done no good. Every morning now, Maximus took a draught of Mithridatium, the compound of every noxious thing known to man. It made him feel sick, but gave immunity to all poisons.
Now. There would never be a better opportunity. Give her the heart of a man.
Slowly, she slid off the bed, went to the chest. The well oiled hinges did not squeak. She took out the knife.
Of course she would be caught. In the morning they would find her drenched in his blood, like an actor in a tragedy. Hers would be a terrible death, as bad as any Christian. In the arena, torn apart by wild beasts, or strapped to a metal frame, roasted and burnt. Maximinus had become inventive in his executions. She had passed one at the city gates a few days before. The condemned man had been sewn alive into the carcass of a slaughtered animal. Maximus had said the maggots fed on the living flesh and the dead. The man had been conscious, but, thank the gods, beyond speech.
She could commit suicide, use the blade on herself after Maximus. She put the thought aside. Killing Maximus, that was all that mattered. Nothing else mattered. He had to die.
With terrified caution, she climbed onto the bed. As the mattress gave, Maximus shifted slightly. He still lay naked on his back, his penis on one side, like a small, sleeping rat. If she were Sarmatian, she would hack it off, stuff it down his throat.
Gods, give her the heart of a man, the heart of Clytemnestra. She put the tip of the blade to his throat. If he woke now, she would have to go through with it. As the razor-sharp steel pricked his flesh, he grunted, moved slightly. Let him wake. She wanted to see his terror and pain, wanted her hand forced.
A bright red bead of blood. The skin so white, so delicate. Now, push home the knife, become Clytemnestra. Make a sacrifice of him.
She did not want to die. She wanted him dead, but not to die herself. She wanted to live. She was no Sarmatian barbarian, no Clytemnestra.
Defeated, more frightened than before if he woke now! she crept off the bed, moused across the floor, and returned the knife to the chest. Silently, she slipped out through the door.
Restuta, her favourite maid, was waiting in the next room with towels, unguents, a bowl of warm water. Restuta said nothing, knowing from experience that words of sympathy can break the strongest self-control. She held her shoulders as Iunia squatted over the bowl, washed herself. Iunia looked at a lamp, tried to sneeze. Restuta patted her dry.
Sleep in my room, Restuta said.
It will be the worse for me if I am not there when he wakes.
Let me put ointments on the marks.
No, he likes to see his handiwork.
Restuta passed her the jar with the white lead, cedar resin and honey in old oil. Iunia pushed the mixture inside herself. No child would be born in the purple. The imperial household was full of spies. But she had to trust Restuta. The wife of Caesar could not buy such things in the market.
Back in the bedroom, Iunia lay beside her husband. She had failed. She could not kill him. Patient endurance would gain her nothing. The revolt of Gordian would fail. That gentle, kind man would die. Nothing could stand against Maximinus and the northern armies. She must escape. But where would she find refuge? A sanctuary might offer asylum to any criminal, no matter how awful his crime, to the lowest runaway slave, but not to the wife of Caesar.
She thought of her journey to the North, of the high Alps, of the horseman who had given her the brooch. People said Corvinus was nothing but a brigand, a law unto himself. But would a bandit chief dare to defy an Emperor? She remembered his words. My Lady, accept my hospitality, these wild mountains are mine.
There was Dalmatia, not far to the south. It was governed by Claudius Julianus. He was Gordians friend. Would compassion and friendship outweigh advantage? He commanded no legions to stand against Maximinus. Yet he was a man of honour.
Her mind drifted. Cleopatra had fled Caesar. She had ridden east. Alone among men, the King of Kings might shelter the enemy of Caesar. But the Egyptian Queen had been overtaken. Destined for a Roman Triumph, she had put the asp to her breast. Persia was beyond reach, as distant as the Isles of the Blessed.
How could she escape? Rich women often travelled; to visit relatives, attend festivals, inspect their estates. But they were accompanied by many guards, attendants and slaves. Iunia had no one but Restuta. Could she entrust her life to Restuta?
Poor women walked to market, to the next village. Only entertainers actresses, flute girls, whores or beggars journeyed further. They went slowly. Iunia would have to move like the wind.
Those with access to the cursus publicus moved fast. Requisitioning carriages and fresh horses at every Post House, they flew free as migrating birds, a hundred and fifty or more miles a day. Diplomata were issued to women. She was the wife of Caesar. Unless her husband was with her, nowhere in the imperial court was debarred to her. Go to the chancery, surreptitiously get her hands on an official pass, write in whatever name she would use, take to the road.
Coming up from Rome, somewhere in the marshes of the Adriatic coast, her carriage had shed a wheel. They had spent the night in a cheap inn. Those evicted to make room for her party had been ushered in to thank her for the leftovers of her meal and for being allowed to sleep in the stables. Among the hard-eyed, rough men was a family. The mother and daughter were frightened. Iunia had thought how hard it must be for a woman to travel alone.
If she had a man with her, things would be easier. Through no choice of his own, her cousin was constrained in the entourage of the Emperor. A sweet youth, Fadillus was no man of action. Most likely his nerve would fail. His presence become a hindrance. Better to go alone.
But, when her flight was discovered, what would become of him? She could not leave him to the cellars, the rack and claws.
Maximus grunted, levered himself up. His loathsome sword was half-erect.
Let your husband harrow that barren field so many men have ploughed. Time to perform again, bitch.
Chapter 27
Rome
The Milvian Bridge,
The Day after the Ides of March, AD238
Menophilus did not really think that he had shortened his life, let alone signed his own death warrant the previous day.
Out of the carriage, off to the left, could be seen the detritus of the feast: broken amphorae and cups, empty barrels and wine skins, tattered and collapsing shelters of boughs and reeds. An army of public slaves should have been working across that beaten ground, clearing everything away. It said much about the Res Publica that the only people in sight were a handful of rag-pickers.
The day before the Campus Martius had worn a very different aspect. The festival of Anna Perenna was always relaxed and popular. The plebs urbana had come from their tenements in their tens of thousands. Reclining on the grass, they drank, got up and danced lumbering measures, sang snatches of songs they had heard in the theatre, or traditional airs of startling obscenity. Supposedly innocent young virgins sang how the old goddess had nearly tricked Mars into ramming her aged quim with his erect spear. Many couples, under the limited privacy of a cloak, reached the end denied Anna Perenna. Above all they drank. Men and women, young and old, prayed that each cup they drained granted them another year of life. The barbarian hostages had enjoyed themselves enormously. Barbarians and plebs, there was little to choose between them. Blessed with huge capacity, Cniva and Abanchas had seemed to be aiming for near immortality. Crapulous, and with a great deal to do, Menophilus had taken just three cups, before he left. It was good that he was not superstitious.
There was more traffic on the Via Flaminia as they neared the Milvian Bridge. Their carriage slowed. Timesitheus carried on reading. At least, Menophilus thought, the Graeculus looked like being a quiet travelling companion. There were just the two of them in the carriage. Menophilus servant, and the gladiator who accompanied Timesitheus rode behind.
Yesterday afternoon, up on the Caelian and the Esquiline, the breezy hills where the rich lived, it had not taken long for Menophilus to ascertain that the majority of the plans of the Twenty were being implemented with no alacrity whatsoever. One or two things were in hand. Crispinus had already set out for Aquileia, and Egnatius Marinianus and Latronianus, the two envoys to the east, had sailed. Old Appius Claudius Julianus also was near ready to depart for the west. But everything else was bad.
In Rome Maecenas had vetoed Pupienus proposal to conscript the gladiators of the Ludus Magnus and other schools into the forces being raised to defend the city. It was not only against all philosophical precepts, but against the mos maiorum itself, Maecenas had claimed. The Senate and People of Rome should not entrust their defence to slaves and such scum. The militia must be the citizens in arms.
Rufinianus had insisted that Lucius Virius not leave to begin constructing fortifications on the roads across the Apennines until he was ready to accompany him. Likewise the mission to close the passes of the western Alps to any reinforcements destined for Maximinus had not left Rome, Cethegillus being detained by the inertia of Valerius Priscillianus.