OUT ON THE lake of the Golden House there were boats filled with musicians and singers, and they played Greek songs to the guests on the banks. The evening was warm and soft, scented with herbs and flowers. It was a bright evening, with stars pricking through the last touch of daylight. A small herd of tame deer wandered among the guests, who offered them fruits that slaves had given them for that purpose. Nero himself walked along the banks of the lake, strumming his lyre and singing bits of new songs he had learned while he had been competing in the Olympic and other Games.
"Yes, the Greeks are far ahead of us in matters of art," Nero interrupted a bit of Ariadne on Naxos to remark to the men beside him. "Their halls are alive with song, their statues make ours look stiff and paltry, their conversation is elegant and philosophical. Until you've spent time among them, you can have no idea how profound their culture is."
"You may bring it to us, Caesar," Cornelius Justus Silius said with a nod to the other three men accompanying the Emperor. "You've had an opportunity that is given to few."
"But the burdens of my rank," Nero sighed and plucked at the big lyre. "There are times I envy the meanest shepherd in Greece, who has time to watch the wind and explore the full extent of his thoughts."
"You express your genius in other ways," Nymphidius Sabinus assured him. "This great Golden House with grounds that would make me think I was deep in the country if I had not seen for myself that we are in the heart of the mightiest city of the world."
The third man, Constantinus Modestinus Datus, was newly arrived from Gallia Belgica, and was still somewhat stunned to find himself in such exalted company. "Indeed, Caesar, I had heard of the Golden House, but nothing, nothing had prepared me for its...grandeur."
Nero smiled broadly. "It is my tribute to the empire," he said, and struck a deep chord on his lyre.
Modestinus nodded rather grimly. "It requires a wealthy empire to create such a lavish palace."
"What of my statue?" Nero asked eagerly. "Have you seen it yet? Doesn't it impress you? A few critics have compared it with statues of Apollo." He chuckled to show that he did not agree with this extravagant praise. "It flatters me particularly because Apollo is the god of music, which has always been my first love."
"And no one can question the depth of your devotion," Justus said quickly. "You have made yourself the first acolyte at the altar of art."
Nero regarded the fourth man in the group, who walked a little apart from them. "And you, Saint-Germain. Would you agree with the Senator?"
"Your dedication is rare for an Emperor," Saint-Germain said evenly. "It does you a great deal of credit. But if you were a singer and not the Emperor, you would have to be twenty times more devoted to your art to excel to the fullest." It was a calculated risk to speak so to Nero, but Saint-Germain thought it might be worthwhile.
"There, good companions, is an honest man," Nero cried in delight. "My prizes say that you are too severe, but I believe you are not dissembling."
"Prizes," Justus said at his most ponderous, "are not given for art alone, but for skill in presentation and in the quality of majesty of the singers. You have such an impact on those who see you, Caesar, that no one could deny the merit of your prizes."
Saint-Germain refused to be drawn into such an argument. He lifted his shoulders negligently. "I did not hear Caesar in competition, and therefore have no judgment to offer on his prizes."
Justus gave him an angry look, then turned his attention to Nero once more. "The statue is a wonder, and everyone who sees it is struck with its beauty and richness. There is gold enough there to supply three or four kings with an ample treasury."
Or, Saint-Germain thought to himself, several thousand slaves and freedmen with food for five years. He directed his next comment to Modestinus. "In Gallia, what have you got for entertainment? I have heard you have several excellent arenae, and a few theatres, but I'm not sure where these are."
"It's not on the scale, of course," Modestinus said, glad for the deft change of subject. "There are a few arenae, nothing so large as you have in Rome, and not so many. We have a theatre a day's ride from the garrison, and there are times I've gone there, but the actors are not usually the best, and many of the plays are not very well-performed. We did have some jugglers and acrobats come through a few years ago, and they were marvelous. It doesn't sound like much to someone living in Rome, but in Gallia Belgica, it means a great deal to us, I can assure you."
"I think," Nero said, overriding the conversation once again, "that at the end of next year, I will visit Gallia and see how the garrisons live there. I may even perform for them. I remember how well the legions there liked the song I wrote for them."
"They still sing it, Caesar," Modestinus said with real sincerity.
Nero was pleased. "Do they? How kind of them. It was a pleasure to write a song for soldiers."
"Sometimes the troops sing it while they march," Modestinus assured the Emperor, but did not mention that the soldiers had added many verses of their own, far less patriotic in tone than those Nero had written.
"Do they? Sing my song?" He flicked his fingers over the strings and began the first verse. "As far as any eagle flies, the might of Rome will go. / From out of steaming Africa to Hyperboric snow / Oh, hear the awesome marching beat / The steady tread of legions' feet / Advancing while the foes retreat; / Advancing on the foe!"
Modestinus had joined in the song, which pleased Nero so much that he offered to sing all fifteen verses. "I'm afraid my memory isn't as good as yours, Caesar," Modestinus said quickly with a little self-deprecating bow. "I've never been good at remembering the words to songs. It says a great deal that I can remember so much of this one."
Nero was too satisfied to be offended by this. "Well, it does me good to know that my efforts on behalf of the legions are appreciated." He turned to Saint-Germain. "I have wanted to speak to you since my return."
Saint-Germain's response was prompt. "Tishtry's not for sale."
"Excellent!" Nero laughed, his head thrown back, his dark blond hair in disarray around a silver wreath. "No, no, it is not about that fabulous charioteer of yours, though if she were for sale, I would be the first to make an offer for her."
"In which case, should I ever decide to part with her, I will give her to you, since no one would bid against you for her."
If Nero heard how sardonic the remark was, he gave no indication of it. "She would be a rare present, indeed. I will remember that, Saint-Germain, and remind you of it." He smiled at the other two men. "She is an amazing woman, this Armenian charioteer of his. Even in Greece, I saw nothing to equal her." Then he turned back to Saint-Germain. "I've had a project in mind for some months now, and it occurs to me that you are the very man to help me bring it to a full realization."
Saint-Germain felt a certain dread at that announcement, but kept his tone carefully even. "A great honor, Caesar. Though I admit I wonder why you should ask me, and not another Roman."
"Because of your skill with musical instruments and metal," Nero said, as if it were obvious. "I've noticed that the hydraulic organ in the Circus Maximus is in need of repair, and so long as the work is to be done anyway, the instrument might as well be replaced with a better one. You're gifted in such matters, and I would like you to help me with the design. I have already worked out what will be required, but I'm unsure of the actual limits of the metal in the instrument. I rely on you to help me there. I've studied the plans of the organ as it exists now, and I am certain that the sound can be improved. It's loud enough now, but it would be more appropriate for the pipes to ring like bells rather than bray like asses." This was a carefully turned phrase, and Nero waited for admiration.
Justus did not disappoint him. "You have much felicity in your speech, great Caesar. There are orators older than I who, in all their years, have not learned to speak as well as you do."
Nero made an expansive gesture. "It is a point of honor with me to use the language as elegantly as I can." Suddenly he flung out his arm and pointed to where slaves were carrying a tall crucifix to which a man was tied. "Ah! The Jews!"
"Jews?" Modestinus wondered aloud.
"Oh, I'm sure you've heard of them. They're the ones that are always starting a war with the garrison in Jerusalem. Stiff-necked and fractious as any in the empire. This group petitioned the Master of the Games to be spared the humility of dying with heretics-other Jews with a different point of view, is what they meant. They are condemned to be executed, and so, since the leader of this particular sect was crucified, I decided to let them emulate him." He watched excitedly as the slaves placed the unusually tall upright beam in a waiting, reinforced hole.
"But what is he wearing?" Modestinus asked, plainly becoming distressed.
"A tunica soaked in pitch," Nero explained delightedly. "There are several dozen of them about the gardens. The tunicae will be set on fire and then we, too, can see the light they claim to have seen. I have ordered them gagged so that their screams will not disturb us."
The furtive pleasure in Justus' eyes was worse than the greedy anticipation in Nero's. "Great Caesar, your genius extends everywhere, even to your wit."
"Yes," Nero responded automatically. "I considered letting them run free in the garden, but there was no saying whether or not one of them might seize a Roman and carry both down in flames. This is more appropriate, somehow." Nero gave an exasperated sigh. "If they would stop attacking the garrison, none of this would happen. I've told their representatives time after time that they can worship their gods in any way they like, in their country and in Rome, and they respond by saying that there is only one god"-Nero almost laughed-"and that all others must be destroyed. They see the presence of our garrison as a religious matter. What can anyone do with such a people? I wish to be a just and merciful man, yet they make it impossible to pardon them. I have tried to be reasonable, but they won't accept my offers, and they continue to rebel."
Over the centuries Saint-Germain had seen such barbarity, and acts much more atrocious, but they always gave him the same cold horror ever since he had found himself alone on a battlefield with a sea of corpses around him. "Don't you think that this will only spur them to further rebellion?" he suggested gently.
"I hope it will spur them to sense and moderation," Nero snapped.
"They will think you monstrous for such an act." There was no threat, only certainty in Saint-Germain's voice.
"Monstrous?" Nero repeated, testing the word. "But how else will they know how powerful I am?"
"There are those who respect the limitation of power," Saint-Germain said carefully, knowing that he was treading on dangerous ground. "The Jews could be like that."
Nero looked askance. "But how can I limit myself when I have yet to discover the extent of my power? Perhaps it would be possible for me to destroy all of Jerusalem with one order, and if that is the case, then this is moderate. Isn't it?" The question was almost innocent in tone.
"With the might of Rome at your command," Justus said quickly, "you are most restrained with that difficult nation. It is a worthwhile plan to make an example of a few of the people, and then once again offer your terms to their leaders."
Modestinus regarded Justus with disgust. "If this is the good counsel that Caesar receives, it is a wonder that there is a rebel left alive."
"Don't provoke him, you hothead," Saint-Germain murmured to Modestinus, and said aloud, "History is full of tales of great feats of conquest, but the more honored are those who sued for peace and goodwill. Greece gave homage to the warlike and brave Spartans, but it is the Athenians who are revered, they who ruled by statesmanship and moderation." It was not entirely true, he recalled, but it was what Nero believed and might respect.
The Emperor's face took on a mulish cast. "If it weren't for the Spartans at Thermopylae, Darius would have slept in Athens."
Saint-Germain had difficulty picturing the forces of Rome as the beleaguered Spartans, and the handful of rebellious Jews as the entire military might of Persia, but he did not point this out. "Unlike the Greeks, then, you still have time to settle the matter with the Jews. You need not be drawn into a war with them."
"But they're the ones who are rebelling, and if they are allowed to go unpunished, then others will do it as well. Judging from the report on the legions who want Galba to be Caesar, I have been too lenient already. And the Jews are near our weakest border. If we are lax there, then the Parthians will be upon us in force and we'll have a much worse war going on, and the Jews will think that dealing with the Roman garrison was a feast by comparison." He was genuinely irritated. "You don't understand this, Saint-Germain. You haven't been in Rome very long, and you don't know our traditions and how much we have done to secure the empire."
"Perhaps you are right," Saint-Germain allowed, doubting it. "But I will sue for peace whenever possible." Then he gave a dismissing shrug. "What I tell you isn't important, after all. I am a foreigner, as you say, and your problems are not mine."
"It is a credit to you that you ask," Nero said, willing to be generous now that Saint-Germain had turned away from the matter.
Modestinus scowled first at Saint-Germain and then at Nero. "If these men are the enemies of the state, then they deserve to die, but you do not leave them much dignity, Caesar."
"Dignity?" Justus said. "What dignity do they deserve? They have continued to fight against us, and in so doing, have relinquished any claim they might have had to dignity."
One of Nero's slaves approached him, waiting silently to get the Emperor's attention.
"Yes?" Nero demanded. "What is it?"
"You are required, great Caesar. We cannot begin...the...torches...without your order."
Nero clicked his tongue impatiently. "I'm afraid I must see to this," he said to the three men with him. "Perhaps we can continue the discussion after the meal."
"You have planned a meal, too?" Modestinus asked.
"Yes, of course. There are tables set about the gardens, and there are gongs to summon slaves when you want to eat." Nero chuckled. "I've moved out of doors for many reasons, but the most demanding one is to demonstrate that all is well with me. The last banquet I gave indoors, there was a storm and lightning struck my dining table. If any of the gods are minded to do it again, this provides them a splendid opportunity, though, of course, the night is clear." He nodded to the men, then turned to go with the slave.
"I had not realized that Nero was...the kind of man he is." Modestinus turned to look across the lake. "These gardens are truly beautiful, and the Golden House is remarkable." There was a doubtful tone to this and he looked to Saint-Germain for help. "I have nothing against the punishment of prisoners and the just condemnation of rebels, but..."
"You've been away too long," Justus told him. "That's the trouble. You live in Gallia or Syria or Egypt and you forget what Rome demands of its citizens. The Emperor has more responsibility than you or I can imagine, and it is to Nero's credit that he works so devotedly for our good."
"Your brothers-in-law didn't think so," Modestinus said. "I had occasion to speak with Virginius before he was condemned, and he did not share your opinion." He looked up at the figure tied to the crucifix. "Rebel or not, he doesn't deserve this."
"Would you rather see him torn to pieces by wild beasts in the arena?" Saint-Germain asked, and did not wait for an answer. They had come to a fork in the path, and with a parting nod to the two Romans, he turned down the narrower one toward an artificial spring. The last he heard of the conversation was Justus telling Modestinus that foreigners were not to be trusted in situations such as these, for they were not truly interested in the protection of Rome. Saint-Germain smiled ruefully, knowing that by the end of the evening his character would be painted as black as his clothing through Justus' skillful insinuations. He wondered if Modestinus would believe the Senator.
The pleasant murmur of water over rock grew louder as the path neared the little stream that led from the ingeniously constructed spring in a pleasant grotto. The builders of the garden had tapped into the Virgo Aqueduct for the water here, running their pipes six handbreadths underground for several hundred paces. The rocks of the grotto were mostly quartz and they still glowed in the waning light. Saint-Germain stepped off the trail into the shelter of a small grove of laurel trees.
A sudden flare of light from a distant point of the huge gardens told him that the first of the human torches had been set alight. He closed his eyes, hating the brightness. As he opened them, another torch began to burn.
The sound of footsteps on the path drove him deeper into the shadow of the laurels, where he crouched down, watching.
Attracted by the gently falling water, a doe stepped into the clearing and looked about, delicate head poised on her graceful neck, ears pricked forward in curiosity. She turned to the spring with dainty, fussy steps and lowered her head to drink. Then a vagrant breeze brought the stench of burning pitch and flesh to the doe and her head came up in alarm. A moment later she had crashed away through the low shrubs.
The approaching footsteps had stopped, and when they resumed, their progress was more uncertain. Saint-Germain kept to his place, his dark eyes intent on the clearing.
When Olivia finally neared the spring, she sighed heavily. Her face was pale except for the livid bruise on her jaw. She had grown thinner of late and her hair had lost much of its shine. Choosing a low-lying boulder, she sank down upon it and buried her head in her hands.
Saint-Germain moved swiftly, coming up beside her as silent as a shadow.
At the last instant she turned, eyes frightened, shrinking back from his light touch. One outward-turned palm protected her face, and her body quivered with sudden tension.
"Olivia?" Saint-Germain hesitated, distressed by what he saw.
Relief swept through her, and she opened her arms. "You. You did come."
He lifted her as he caught her in his arms, holding her close, happy as she returned his embrace. "I've missed you, Olivia," he said softly as he bent to kiss her. Their lips met briefly, but with overwhelming intensity, then Saint-Germain drew her toward the laurel grove, and the darkness.
"I was afraid you wouldn't come. I saw you talking to Justus and I thought he might have found out...." She spoke in fast, whispered spurts of words.
"He would learn nothing from me," Saint-Germain told her, and led her to the spot where the trees grew most thickly. "This will do for now. We're not likely to be disturbed for a little while. Everyone is watching the torches."
"They're not torches, they're men!" she said, trying to keep her voice low. "It sickens me."
"But you go to the Games," he said without criticism. "Why is this any different?"
"I can't tell you why, but it is." She leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling that splendid peace he gave her.
"Yes, it is different." He kissed her brow. "What has he done to you now, Olivia? Why the bruises?" It was an effort to keep the fury he felt out of his voice.
"Justus, of course. I fought the Cappadocian soldier he hired, and it angered him. Particularly when the Cappadocian refused to assault me at my husband's order." She bit her lower lip. "It was a victory of sorts. Justus took no pleasure with me that night."
"He beat you." How he would have liked to number Justus among the tortured figures on the crucifixes!
"He's done that before." She was so tired. It would be easy, she thought, to stay here with Saint-Germain, ignoring the danger of their meeting. "I want to divorce him. I have grounds. If my mother and my sisters weren't alive, I would." She twisted a stray lock of hair around her finger. "He still has them to threaten me with. He lost my father and brothers when he betrayed them, but he still has them."
Saint-Germain was very still. "He betrayed your father and brothers? You're certain?"
"My mother believes it, and I don't think she's a foolish woman." She put her hands on his shoulders. "Let's not talk about it. I have that with me always, but you, I have you in precious little moments." She pulled his head down and kissed him, letting him feel her need in her eager mouth.
"I want you with me, Olivia. I want you away from Justus and safe with me." He could feel her desire rising, and his hands moved gently over her body. He looked quickly into the grotto, and saw that it was still empty. It would be foolish to stay with her longer, knowing they might be discovered. There was no room to lie down; the trees rose up around them and hemmed them in. "Lean back on the trunk," he said softly, and as she did, he loosened the clasp of the fibula that held her palla, spreading the soft garment behind her. Her only other garment was a flowing dalmatica of thin cotton caught at the waist with a narrow jeweled girdle. This he untied, then slid the dalmatica off her shoulders.
She made one soft moan, half of anticipation, half of protest, then leaned back to receive his love, pulling him to her tightly when she felt she could endure no more of the rapture he gave her.
As he pressed against her, he felt the tremors of her fulfillment shake her. He was held by the depth of her passion much more than by her arms. He forgot the danger around them, the risk of discovery, as his lips brushed her face, her breast, her neck. Then the urgency of his need joined with hers as the laurel shook above them.
By the artificial lake, the last terrible torch flared alight.
A LETTER TO THE OFFICE OF FOOD DISTRIBUTION IN ROME, FROM STATILIUS DRACO, CAPTAIN OF A SUPPLY SHIP OPERATING BETWEEN OSTIA AND ALEXANDER.
To the officer in charge of wheat for the Food Distribution Ministry, greetings:
I have taken it upon myself to address you in a matter that has caused me a great deal of concern, in the hope that you will be able to remedy the situation promptly.
My ship, the Reliable, should be known to your office, for it has been used to bring Egyptian grain to Rome many times in the past. It is a small, worthy ship, with a single bank of oars and a large cargo hold. Although it is not a very speedy craft, it has earned its name many times over.
When last I loaded in Alexandria, where it has been the custom to take on grain, there was no wheat for us, but only a large load of white sand for the Circus Maximus. We have carried sand before, but never a cargo of it exclusively. We were told that this was ordered by the governor-prefect himself, T. Flavius Vespasianus, and with this official sanction, we thought nothing more of the consignment, but loaded as we were instructed and brought the sand to Ostia.
Soon after we landed, I came to Rome to see the cargo properly delivered. I was amazed to discover, upon my arrival in the city, that there was a serious grain shortage and that the dole had been short for more than three weeks. Had I known that in Alexandria, I would have pursued the matter more completely and attempted then to find out why we were not given grain to carry, as well as sand.
I have considered the matter and decided that the only course I could follow was to inform you of what transpired in Egypt. It would seem that there is some lack of understanding between your office and the prefecture of Egypt. Surely no official would deny the citizens of Rome the grain they have been guaranteed for so many years. If Vespasianus was aware of how desperate matters are in Rome, he would undoubtedly take swift steps to remedy the situation.
Two days ago I witnessed a riot on the part of those waiting for their dole, and I am told that this is not the first. Certainly this is a dangerous state of affairs. Because of this emergency, since it is no less than that, I am offering my ship and crew to you at once. We will return to Egypt without waiting for a new cargo and load up with wheat if you will only give us the authorization to present to the officials there. It is a national disgrace to see starving faces on the citizens of the most powerful city on earth.
We are at your disposal and eagerly await your mandate.
Statilius Draco
Captain and owner The Reliable,
docked at Ostia on the second day of May
in the 820th Year of the City
