Roman Games(55)
As they left the theater late in the day, black clouds roiled across the sky, lightning quivered on the horizon, and the heavens opened. Rain pounded on the tile roofs, gushed from Gorgon-mouthed rainspouts, and ran in rivers down the gutters. Then a sudden lightning flash close at hand and a thunderclap made Pliny jump and set his heart pounding. Where had it struck? Somewhere over toward the Capitolium he thought. An omen? A sign of Jupiter’s wrath? It was said that the emperor Augustus used to cower under his bed in terror during thunderstorms. And even as rational a man as Pliny could not suppress a nervous shudder. Instinctively, he made a sign with his fingers to ward off evil—a thing which he had not done since childhood.
Ganymede, crouching by the open window, stared at the rain-swept street below and at the house fronts slowly materializing out of darkness. Water dripped steadily down between the charred roof beams of the fire-gutted flat, drumming with a hollow sound on the thin floorboards and striking with a higher, thinner sound the sodden corpse of the old woman who lay beside him.
She had haunted his dreams in the night, in those brief intervals when sleep overcame him. She had opened her eyes, crept upon him silently, he unable to move, and wrapped her bony fingers around his throat. Finally, out of desperation, he had dragged her to the window to push her out, but her arms and legs had stiffened at odd angles to her body and he couldn’t manage it. He knew he would turn stark mad if he stayed there much longer.
Through veils of rain he could make out the entrance to the Temple of Eros and above it the prick and balls that banged back and forth in the wind. Lucius would come there soon, looking for him. He would make an arrangement with the new proprietor, and then, as soon as things died down, he, Ganymede, could go home again, safe and protected forever. Lucius had promised him this, if he did his part right, and he had.
It had been so easy! He had plunged the dagger again and again into Verpa’s naked back, pouring out a lifetime of hate that surprised even him. The filthy old beast didn’t cry out, didn’t even grunt. And he had followed the rest of Lucius’ instructions exactly: drawing the picture, leaving the dagger. He’d even had the pleasure of strangling that wretched little Hylas in the confusion when the other slaves were killed. Still, somehow, that vice-prefect had come to suspect him. But no matter, Lucius was too clever for them; he knew what to do. Lucius would never abandon him. But what if Lucius didn’t come? No! Lucius loved him, hadn’t he said so? But if Lucius changed his mind, if he were angry with him?
Ganymede was soaked to the skin and shivering. He’d eaten nothing for hours. The old crone’s wine jug held only a few dregs at the bottom and if there had been any food in the cupboard, the rats had long since consumed it. Someone stirred in the apartment below. Only an inch thickness of floorboard between them! He froze, not daring to move a muscle, though his limbs ached with cold. He was trapped. If Lucius didn’t come soon he would surely die! He clutched his knees and wept silently.
Chapter Eighteen
The eighth hour of the night.
“Compliments of Centurion Valens,” said the breathless trooper, striding into the dining room. “We’ve got the pretty boy, sir! Though he ain’t so pretty anymore.”
Pliny was up from the table instantly, calling for his boots and cloak.
Under a dripping sky, his litter bearers set him down in front of a shabby tenement near the Laurentine Gate, where the walls were scrawled with graffiti, and the filth in the gutters was ankle-deep.
The trooper led the way up to the garret room, roughly shouldering aside curious tenants who crowded the landing. An exhalation of boiled cabbage and onions, of wood rot and stinking straw seeped from under every door. The heat was suffocating. Inside, Pliny found Martial and Valens, both looking pleased with themselves. On the puddled floor by the window lay the old woman and the boy, like two sodden rag dolls. The shards of a smashed wine jug lay between them, and one sharp-pointed fragment was in Ganymede’s lifeless hand. He had used it to rip open both wrists. A pinkish pool of blood diluted with rainwater spread out around him.
“Red rain drops come through our ceiling, Your Honor, drippin’ on our plates while we was eatin’. Me an’ the wife.” From the open doorway, an old man addressed himself to Pliny. “I come up to see what was the matter. He’s a runaway, ain’t he? I saw that writing on his collar but, not being a reader, you see, I didn’t know where to report him. I’ll wager there’s a reward for him though, ain’t there? You think I’ll get it? Mean a lot to us. I walked all the way to the Prefecture in this rain just to report him. Be a shame not to get a reward.”