Roman Games(87)

Her words were cut short by a commotion outside. Then the front door opened with a crash and the atrium filled with armed men. At their head was the Praetorian commandant. “Purissima, you’re coming with us to Corellius’ house!” Petronius shouted. “And him, kill him!” Rough hands seized Pliny, twisting his arms behind him. He felt a blade pressed against his throat. Felt it begin to cut.

Then, from somewhere a body hurtled toward him, grabbed his assailant by the throat and right arm and flung him away. Valens! Swords flashed out of scabbards, the clang of steel on steel filled the house. Years of hatred boiled up between these two forces. Here was a chance to even scores. Insults flew back and forth. “Cocksucker!” “Faggot!” The City Troopers formed a ring around Pliny. But they were outnumbered by the Praetorians and were no match for them in fighting skills. One went down, then another, while the house slaves and freedmen ran back and forth screaming. In a moment the polished floor was slick with blood. Valens, his cloak wrapped around his left arm, was doing his best to shield Pliny.

“How…?” Pliny managed to gasp.



“Your friend the—” Valens started to answer just as he received a sword thrust in the belly and went down.



It was over in minutes. “Go out and clear the street,” Petronius ordered his men.



Drawn by the sound of fighting, a crowd of passers-by had gathered at the front door. Blood-spattered Guardsmen ran out shouting and slashing at them. They fled, Martial among them.

“Purissima, are you ready?”

Pliny cowered on the floor. Petronius seized him by his hair and raised his sword to hack off his head…

Then came the piercing shriek of some tortured animal. But no, not an animal. Calpurnia was dragging herself along the floor toward her husband. Ashen-faced, clutching her abdomen, her shift soaked with blood.





Chapter Thirty



The fourteenth day before the Kalends of Domitianus.

Day fourteen of the Games. The fifth hour of the day.



Earinus, dressed in the red silk tunic that he always wore, stood in an alcove of the emperor’s bedroom, pouring a libation of wine to the household gods. It was one of his duties and he performed it proudly. The brain in his little head didn’t retain much, but he knew the ritual words by heart. Elsewhere in the room, slaves were dusting, polishing, changing the bedclothes, plumping the pillows. Usually, they chattered to each other while they worked. This morning they seemed unusually quiet.

Earinus ignored them and they him. They didn’t like him, he knew that; knew that they made fun of him behind his back. Let them laugh. Caesar loved him, told him how beautiful he was—especially his small, yellow-curled head. Like the head of a golden doll. Caesar loved to touch it for luck.

He had been the emperor’s favorite bedmate for three years, ever since he was brought to the palace at the age of ten as a newly cut eunuch. He had nearly forgotten the pain and terror of the operation. But now he would be a boy forever, they told him, and so Caesar would love him forever.

One of the slaves, with his back turned to the boy, busied himself with the big water clock that stood against one wall of the room. Water flowing into a silver cylinder raised a float that lifted the tiny figure of a man. The figure held an arrow in its hand with which it pointed to the hours that were inscribed on a column. As the day proceeded, the figure rose until the arrow pointed to the twelfth hour at the very top. Then it had to be reset. There were complicated gears at the base of the clock which rotated the column with imperceptible slowness throughout the year in order to make the hours longer or shorter depending upon the season. Earinus loved to watch this mechanism during the long hours when he had nothing better to do. When the slave moved out of the way, Earinus was surprised. Where had the time gone? Could it be the sixth hour already? Well, his mind did play tricks sometimes. Even Caesar, who loved him, called him a silly, slow-witted child.

As Earinus was puzzling about the clock, the big double-doors opened and in bustled Parthenius. His gaze swept the room. “Out,” he ordered the slaves, “Caesar is coming.” His eye lit on Earinus. “You too, little girl.”

Earinus didn’t like Parthenius, who always called him “freak” and “little girl” and sometimes pinched him when no one was looking. But he was not to be bullied. He stood his ground. After a moment the fat man shrugged. “Suit yourself, then.”

There was the scrape of many feet out in the corridor. The emperor approached, trailed by a retinue of courtiers and guards.

Earinus had seen his lord and master grow more haggard and ill day by day. He looked like an old man now, shuffling instead of striding as he used to do. Often at night he would pace the room for hours, or kill flies, or call him to his couch and fondle and kiss him until finally sinking into a labored sleep.