“Yes, Caesar,” the man replied. “I am called Stephanus. I make myself useful here in small ways.”
“I see. What’s wrong with that arm of yours? It’s been bandaged for some time, hasn’t it?”
“An infection, sir. It’s healing slowly.”
“Well, have it looked at by a competent man. You can’t be too careful with those things.”
“I will, Caesar. Thank you.”
Earinus crept from his hiding place. He pulled at the emperor’s sleeve. “Master?”
“What, you still here?”
“Master, the water…broken…”
“Can’t you see I’m busy? Get away with you now.”
The boy was desperate, his throat constricted. Why couldn’t he make his words come out?
Stephanus put the tablet in Domitian’s hands. “Please, Caesar, there’s no time to lose!
Again Earinus tugged at the emperor’s sleeve but he cuffed him on the side of the head and sent him sprawling. “Later, I said. Stupid boy!”
Earinus watched in silence as the emperor unwound the cord that bound the two leaves of the tablet together and lowered his eyes to read. Then, in a movement so fast that the boy couldn’t follow it, there was a dagger in the messenger’s hand. The blade flashed upward, piercing the emperor in the groin. Domitian groaned and doubled over. The blade came out followed by a gush of blood from between his legs. Stephanus stepped back but Domitian, crouching, flung himself at him with a scream of rage, grappling him around the knees and throwing him down. Stephanus’ arm was tangled in his sling and he couldn’t free it. He struck the emperor a glancing blow in the side but then Domitian was on top of him holding his right wrist. Earinus, petrified but desperate for his master, ran from his hiding place. “Boy!” Domitian gasped, “my sword under the pillow!” Earinus ran to the bed while the two men, both smeared with blood, thrashed and grunted on the floor. He reached for the sword and pulled out—a hilt with no blade!
The two men, rolled over and over, Domitian gripping the dagger blade with bloody fingers, while with the other hand he clawed at his assassin’s eyes. Even mortally wounded, he was stronger than his attacker. Stephanus shouted for help and now the sentry was running in followed by one of the imperial gladiators with their swords drawn. They dragged Domitian off and stabbed him again and again until he stopped moving. A moment later Parthenius and two of his assistants appeared. Stephanus struggled to his feet, breathing heavily, and for a brief moment the vision of rich rewards from his grateful compatriots danced before his eyes. But only for a moment. The gladiator ran him through, as he had been instructed to do by Parthenius. One less mouth to tell the tale. The steward had never been one of their kind anyway.
“Send for the empress,” Parthenius ordered and one of his men dashed off.
Domitia Longina Augusta looked down at her husband’s corpse. Her lips twisted in contempt. “All those polished mirrors, all the guards and watchmen. Useless.” She spat on him.
No one paid any attention to the small-headed boy who lay in the corner sobbing, his red tunic pulled up over his eyes to keep out the horror.
The eighth hour of the day.
The streets were filled with Praetorians in full battle gear. The City Battalions had been disarmed, and their prefect, Aurelius Fulvus, arrested. At a hastily convened session in the Senate House with as many senators and magistrates as could be rounded up, Pliny not among them, Marcus Cocceius Nerva was unanimously voted the collection of titles and powers which gave a gloss of civil legality to his usurpation. A noisy delegation marched to his house to hail him. Unfortunately, he was too indisposed to welcome them. He had spent the whole morning throwing up.
Chapter Thirty-one
That evening.
The tumult outside penetrated even to the innermost rooms of the house. Romans marching, dancing and singing in the streets—still celebrating the overthrow of the tyrant. On every corner, his gilded statues were being pulled down with ropes amid the cheers of the populace and the shrilling of flutes.
Pliny sat by his wife’s bed, holding her bone-white hand while she slept, watching the slight rise and fall of her breast. The floor was still littered with bloody cloths.
“I’ll be going then,” the midwife said. “Have your people change the poultice every hour regular and feed her only a little broth. Make a vow to Aesculapius. I can’t do more. Goodbye, sir. And I’m truly sorry.”
He barely nodded as the woman left.
Zosimus tapped on the door and came in. “You must come away and sleep, Patrone. I’ll keep watch. And…Patrone, I want to beg your forgiveness.”