The incest rumors gave him a certain cachet among certain parties-and made it easy for everybody else to hate him. But there were plenty of real reasons, without inventing the same old bedtime stories about him and his niece. His eunuch he kept around for appearances. The simple truth was that Domitian didn’t like sex. What was more, he didn’t trust anyone who did. No wonder he saw conspiracies around every corner.
I grinned, thinking about Saturninus. He’d always nursed a soft spot for the Empress Domitia. Maybe because he knew where to find hers, if half the stories were true. But the soldier in him despised her husband, and never more so than now, with Domitian calling himself “Germanicus” after roughing up some little tribe on the Rhenus. The triumph cost the Emperor more than he made for the treasury. And he left a weakened Ninth legion for Agricola, who fortunately could do more with less than any other general in the Empire.
And now Domitian wanted to recall his most successful legatus. And I’d have to explain to the general-my friend, my patron, a man I’d known for years, who’d known my adopted father, Classicianus, and was one of the few on the ex-governor’s staff not to deride him, a man whom I respected and admired and sometimes disagreed with, whose wounds I staunched and whose illnesses I treated-I’d have to explain to this man what the hell a naked Syrian was doing on top of his temple. It was going to be another long night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When I reached the house, Draco was standing guard, looking grim. He’d watched over Bilicho carefully, and now the patient was sleeping the sleep of the innocent. I checked on him. His head felt cool, not warm, and his breath eased out in rough, tranquil snores. He’d be fine.
I put on a new mantle, and padded into the kitchen. When I’d washed off Maecenas, I told Draco to wait up for me, and to look after Bilicho. Everyone else was asleep. Someday I’d sleep again, too.
The walk to the palace was short and cold. I was a little early, and decided to take the long way, to the street-side, formal entrance rather than the riverfront. Most of the byways and alleys in Londinium were gravel or hard dirt, but the riverfront, along the quays, was paved for carts, and the streets around the major Roman arteries-the palace, the forum, the bath, the fort, a couple of temples-were hard cobblestone. It was the first firm ground I’d stood on in awhile. And there it was. The only sign of activity was a double-helping of guards at the gate-and they were unusually alert.
This entrance was about as restrained as Nero’s Golden House. Even compared with the river side, the formal entryway made you want to piss in your pants.
I gazed at the multicolored marble thoughtfully. The standing stone still bothered me. Agricola had brought up a monolith from a native shrine outside London, and used it to decorate the entrance courtyard. It was more tasteful than the Colossus in Rome, but so were the Egyptian pyramids. Placing the stone there would only remind people of what they’d lost, and no one needed any reminders. It wasn’t the first time or the last time I disagreed with the governor.
The palace, like most things official and Roman, was huge. It housed Agricola, his family, his staff, guests, friends, visitors, messengers, all the business of the Empire except for that of the procurator, who enjoyed his own, slightly more livable, slightly less ornamental palatial home directly to the east. It was really three palaces in one-formal meeting rooms on the first terrace, state rooms, business rooms, and garden rooms on the middle terrace, and all the mundaneness of real life on the third level, closest to the river.
The guards at the gate expected me. One nodded, and led me through rooms with gold, rooms with silver, rooms with garden paintings, until we reached the massive garden courtyard on the second level. Even in December, violets made a lush, perfumed carpet against the brushy yellow gorse. There were fish swimming in the big pool, despite the river next door. Romans always figured they could improve nature, given enough time and money. They’d piped in 50,000 amphorae of fresh water, just to prove it.
More guards were waiting, and a sandy-haired one detached himself from the rest. He led me into the smaller, more human section. We wound our way through the smoky, yellow-lit halls. I could feel the warmth of the floor through my shoes.
The singular finally came to a broad door I recognized as the entrance to the governor’s study. It was here he liked to compose his letters, play a few games of dice or latrunculi, and maybe even relax, preferably with a cup of good wine. I enjoyed a good game of latrunculi myself.
The soldier knocked, and a gruff voice answered. I stepped into the room. None of us were here to play tonight.
“Salve, Arcturus. Come in.” He was leaning back in a basket chair, looking like the proverbial farmer his father had named him for. Agricola did what he could to recall the Cincinnatus ideal of the plain, simple man of the earth who serves his country-and his Emperor. Cincinnatus never had to deal with one of those.
“Salvete yourselves, gentlemen.” I was early but apparently the last to arrive. Saturninus was perched on a folding chair, about as comfortable as an elephant on a footstool, Avitus was hovering near Agricola, and Meditor was trying to thaw out his brain in front of the fire. I wished him luck.
I understood why Agricola had insisted on forming a vigiles detachment. It was unusual-most provincial capitals lived happily enough without one, but he was campaigning far from home, and wanted the natives to get used to Roman bureaucracy. He encouraged them to turn to the vigiles instead of their own system of justice, and since he’d tried to eradicate that system along with Mona, he needed to replace it with something.
The tribal council was there, of course, but for the frequent tavern brawls and occasional homicides, the vigiles were handy in an emergency. Londinium was too wet to worry about fires, so they mostly just nosed around looking for trouble, and made some up if they were running short.
For reasons known only to him, he chose as their praefectus the one man in town less imaginative than Serenus. Publius Junius Meditor had a few ideas in his head, none of them nice, and once they got in they enjoyed the room so much they decided to stay indefinitely. He was plodding, deliberate, and as suspicious as a rich woman with a cough. He hated me, and I was glad to return the favor. Sometimes I think Agricola kept him on just to annoy me.
Meditor was standing in front of the fire with his legs apart. He was about as impressive as a bald, bow-legged idiot could be. I ignored him and addressed the governor.
“How is your son?”
Agricola’s boy was always a worry-he’d been born two weeks too early.
“Well, thank you, Arcturus. Domitia is feeding him that tonic you prescribed, and he’s been stronger of late.”
I nodded, pleased. Domitia didn’t always appreciate my advice.
Saturninus shifted his bulky frame. “We’re all here, so let’s get on with it,” he growled. “I for one have a warm bed waiting for me.”
“Whose?” I asked, innocently.
Saturninus grinned, his wolfish teeth showing through his beard. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Arcturus.”
Agricola moved a little finger. There was an immediate silence.
“Gentlemen, you know why you’re here. Two of you-Meditor and Arcturus-are not members of the temple, and I ask you both not to divulge any information about our worship. We must assess this threat, for threat, I fear, it is.”