Empress of the Seven Hills (52 page)

“Antiochenes and pretty boys,” I muttered. “I’d better take him with me on campaign this year.”

“Won’t that just make things worse? Roman soldiers are even worse than Antiochenes!” My wife’s mouth firmed. “Vix, I know what goes on between men in your camps, and I know you take an easy view of it. But that doesn’t make it right.”

“Not when it involves my nine-year-old son, it’s not right.” I dropped a kiss on the part in her hair. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep him safe.”

“You’ll have to do it yourself, I’m afraid, because I’m staying in Antioch this year. Hard enough following the legion with one baby, let alone two. We’ll stay cozy in the city, thank you.”

“Just not in a ground-floor apartment,” I made her promise. I missed having Mirah beside me on campaign that year, but there was enough army business in Antioch that I could manage visits often enough. I’d come through the door calling Mirah’s name, Antinous at my heels; Dinah would toddle over to cling to my boot and I’d set my helmet down on her head and laugh when she took it off and began chewing on the feathered crest. And Antinous would pry Dinah off my boot and toss her in the air, and Mirah would come in with Chaya on her hip, wiping her hands on her apron and scolding me for not letting her
know we were coming; she would have bought a goose if she’d known she’d be feeding five, or more like seven considering how much it took to fill my bottomless hole of a stomach…

“This war has been good to us,” I said, and held out my arm as Mirah closed the door of our bedchamber. Her hair gleamed red in the last flare of light as she blew out the lamp, and I could hear the uneven pad of her feet as she came to bed and slid in beside me. She limped a little now at the end of the day, when she was tired. The ankle she’d broken in the earthquake had healed well but stiff.

“I know the war’s been good to us.” Mirah plaited her fingers together with mine under the blankets. “But surely that’s a sin of some kind, rejoicing in the benefits of war? It doesn’t feel right.”

“It isn’t a sin to be among the winners.”

“Even when the winners rape and loot their way across the world?”

“My men don’t.” I didn’t allow it, and Trajan discouraged it too. “I want a province capable of paying decent taxes at the end of all this,” was the way he put it when he told his legates to keep their soldiers under control.

“I got a letter from Uncle Simon today,” Mirah was saying, drawing a circle on my bare chest with her finger. “He got his grant of land in Judaea—he says he’s moving his family there by the end of the year.”

“Bad time for it,” I said. There had been a Jewish revolt in Cyrene, or maybe it was Cyrenaica. Trajan had dispatched my old commander Quietus and his cavalry back to Mesopotamia to keep order there, before the revolt spread.

“Judaea outlasts everything.” Her head twisted on my shoulder as she looked at me through the dark. “Maybe we should settle there.”

“What?” I laughed.

“You’re not a common soldier anymore, tied to the Tenth. Centurions are always being transferred between legions. Maybe when your term as First Spear is done, and the invasion is over”—I could almost hear her little nose wrinkling—“you could angle for a posting in Judaea. Settle among our own people.”

“My people are in Britannia,” I pointed out. “About as far from Judaea as it’s possible to get.”

“Judaea is the real home of every Jew.” Firmly. “Us too. I’d like the girls to see it. It’s all very well to haul them around in reed baskets behind an army when they’re babies, but they should grow up somewhere proper and settled.”

“Later.” I closed my eyes, yawning. “When we finish with Parthia. I go back to Ctesiphon tomorrow…”

Did I really want to finish with Parthia, though? Did my Emperor? I remember something Trajan said to me one fine summer evening on the deck of a boat, shortly after the capture of Ctesiphon. I’d made a report to him on the rumored Jewish unrest in Cyprus, standing in my armor before his desk. It was supposed to be a simple pleasure cruise down the Tigris, a few days of sunlit leisure for the man who had conquered three new provinces, but Trajan was already bored with leisure. He’d dragged his desk out onto the deck and sat surrounded by scrolls and jotting notes on a slate. “We’ll need to raise the ferry charges across the Tigris for camels and horses,” he said absently when I paused. “Do you have a report from Quietus about the Jews in Cyprus?”

“Rumors of a revolt, Caesar. Roman citizens murdered, the usual whispers.”

“What whispers?”

“That the Jews eat their victims, make belts out of their guts, and tan their skins to wear for cloaks.”

“What do you make of it?” Trajan squinted at a slate, then held it up closer. “Gods’ bones, my eyes are going—”

“My wife’s a Jew, Caesar.” I fingered a corner of the faded blue scarf I now wore wrapped around my arm under the greave, ever since the earthquake when I’d pulled Mirah out of the rubble. “She’s yet to make a belt out of my entrails, even when I track mud on her floors instead of wiping my feet.”

“Good man. I’m sending you to Cyprus; if you have a Jewish wife
you may have a lighter touch feeling them out. Take that fast-moving century of yours with you.”

“I’m having all the centuries trained for speed now, Caesar.” Now that I was First Spear, I could make the other centurions do it my way. They didn’t like it, but they still had to obey. Hell’s gates, but I loved being in charge.

“Take a few cohorts, then,” Trajan decided, “and go make me a report from Cyprus.”

“Yes, Caesar.”

He flung down his stylus and rose from the desk, stumping past me toward the railing of the boat. It was near sunset; the river was gold in the light and the banks purple. I looked overhead to the sail snapping in the breeze; it was embroidered with Trajan’s name and titles, all in gold. In the setting sun the name looked like it had been written in fire.

“Look at that boat there.” Trajan pointed, and I came to join him at the railing. His guards stood nearby, and couriers with message cases and secretaries waiting to take dictation and a few lounging members of the Imperial retinue, but he spoke only to me, the two of us leaning on the rail of a boat like any pair of soldiers enjoying an idle chat. “That barge with the red sail. She’ll be heading to Charax, and then to India. Imagine that. India!”

I couldn’t imagine it. Did the world extend so far? Surely if we went any farther east, we’d fall right off the edge of the horizon. “What’s India like, Caesar?”

“I don’t know.” He sounded wistful. “I’d like to find out—keep marching, keep conquering. That’s a life worth living. You want to go to India, Vercingetorix?”

“Not if we have to sail there,” I said. “I hate boats.”

He laughed. “March overland then. I’ll give you half my legions to march from the north; the other half will come with me and aim for the coast. We’ll meet in the middle. How does that sound?”

“Like a good plan, Caesar.”

“Maybe it is. Gods, I wish I were twenty-two instead of sixty-two.”

“Sixty-two or no, Caesar, I’m there behind you. Even if you make me go by boat.”

Trajan lifted an arm and waved at the red-sailed boat gliding past on her eastern journey. “Oh, get on with you. Go to Cyprus. Find out why in the name of all the gods the Jews are rebelling again.”

I saluted, took my leave, assembled my men, did a fast march back toward Antioch, and took ship for Cyprus.

When I landed—

That’s a day I don’t like to remember.

The dreams are bad enough.

PLOTINA

“My dear, what a vision you are.” Plotina kissed the tall blond column of a girl on both cheeks. “Senator Norbanus, I hear your Faustina is the toast of Rome. You’ve not arranged a marriage for her yet?”

“She’ll make her own choice, as long as the Emperor approves it.” Senator Norbanus had to tilt his head back to smile at his much-taller daughter. “I admit I’m quite selfishly glad she hasn’t chosen yet.”

“I’ve met none who measure up to my father.” Faustina kissed his cheek. “Oh, gods, here comes that tedious old prat Servianus. Father, do you mind if I hide?”

“I’d hide myself if I could.” Marcus waved her away, tolerant, and Faustina curtsied swiftly to Plotina and disappeared into the atrium full of guests to reappear at her mother’s side.
Nineteen years old
, Plotina thought,
and what a picture
. Beautiful but demure in her floating yards of pale yellow silk; vivacious but dignified with her greetings for each guest. A royal pedigree and a royal dowry to match; hips made for babies and manners made for a palace. Why,
why
hadn’t little Faustina been born the elder daughter? She’d have made a far better wife for Dear Publius than her globe-trotting harlot of a sister. Plotina closed
her eyes, thinking of the dinner party when That Dress had shocked so many of Dear Publius’s associates. Thank goodness the slut was off disporting herself in Ephesus or Syria or someplace—far enough away, at any rate, for her escapades to be filtered and muted by distance. Irritatingly, there was far more discussion in Rome about the hospital Sabina had founded in some Pannonian sinkhole, or the dowries she donated to poor freeborn girls in Campania, than there was gossip about her lovers! Plotina had to give the little whore credit; she was certainly clever enough to cover her misdoings with a cloak of good works.

The guests were taking their places now in the triclinium, where the dining couches had been banished for long rows of chairs. A public reading of Senator Norbanus’s latest treatise—he might have retired from the Senate this year, but his pen flowed on unchecked. Plotina frowned, taking her own place of honor at the head of the guests. Really, what a relief it would be when the good senator was finally taken to the afterlife, or at least stopped meddling in politics. His opinion still carried far too much weight for her taste, and he had never been more than politely supportive of Dear Publius. Still, the occasion offered certain opportunities.

“Legate Urbicus! Might I have a word? Former consul Hadrian wrote to me so glowingly of your exploits in Germania… you are acquainted with him, of course? He is seeking support on one or two small matters I might draw to your attention… I understand you are looking for a wife. Perhaps I might draw your eye to Senator Norbanus’s daughter Faustina? Such a beauty, and the dowry… yes, I have some influence with the girl’s family. I could ensure her choice; perhaps you should speak with Hadrian soon. He would welcome your support…”

The speaker rose to begin the reading, and Legate Urbicus hastened off to his seat, quite puffed up with promises. Plotina smoothed the folds of her dark-green gown over her lap, pleased. It wasn’t just funds that kept Dear Publius climbing the ladder, oh no. Supporters, allies,
friends in high places—far more important, and such men would rear back like offended snakes to be offered
money
. Other things, though, proved more welcome.

“Magistrate, perhaps you will sit by me? We might have a word or two for one another.” Plotina dropped her voice to a murmur, inaudible below the orator’s. Senator Norbanus had declared himself too old for public oration and had invited young Titus Aurelius to perform the reading for him. The senator had never invited Dear Publius to read one of his treatises, and Dear Publius was his own son-in-law! No doubt the good senator, just like everyone else in Rome, was falling all over Titus Aurelius simply because his grandfather had left him such a fortune. Plotina frowned as the young man took his place, rolling off the first words of the treatise in a confident measured baritone, and turned back to the magistrate still waiting at her side. “I heard about the death of your wife, magistrate—so sad. I understand you are looking to marry again soon… a mother for your children, yes, very sensible. Might I suggest Senator Norbanus’s daughter Faustina? That’s her in the front row, in the yellow. A beauty, isn’t she? I assure you I have some standing with her family and can easily influence her choice. Perhaps I might talk to you about one or two judicial matters that have arisen recently? Matters very dear to the heart of former consul Hadrian…”

Plotina sat back, fanning herself. Young Titus made a joke to end the first portion of the reading, and she laughed along with the rest of the audience, not listening. Young Faustina jumped up to congratulate him during the brief interval, and Plotina watched her benignly. She’d make a fine wife—to the legate or the magistrate, whoever proved more useful.
I’ll invite the girl to the palace to assist with the weaving
, Plotina decided.
She’ll be honored, and I can give her a hint what choice to make.

Though it really was a pity the girl couldn’t just marry Dear Publius.

VIX

“… Vix?”

“What?” I bashed the stopper off a new jug of wine, sloshed a cup brim-f, and drank it off without water. It burned all the way down.

“You’ve hardly said a word since you came back.” Mirah eyed me cautiously, Chaya balanced on her hip and Dinah clinging to her skirts. “Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?”

I grunted, refilling my cup. Two days since the ship had brought my men and me back from Cyprus. Mirah and the children had run to the door to greet me, beaming, but I’d brushed right past my wife in her new red dress and the girls in their rose smocks, straight to the wine, and started drinking. Two days later, and I still wasn’t nearly as drunk as I wanted to be.

“
Vix
.” Mirah was starting to sound exasperated now. “Won’t you talk to me?”

“No,” I said, and drank off another cup. Little Dinah retreated behind her mother, hearing the harshness in my voice, and Antinous gave me a long troubled look from the corner where he sat practicing his letters. He hadn’t been with me in Cyprus, thank God, but he’d tagged along on enough campaigns by now to know the look on my face after a bad fight. He’d taken one glance at me when I returned from Cyprus, and retreated to the very back of the house.

“How long are you going to sit there getting soused and staring at the wall?” Mirah’s voice rose. “You go back to the legion in two more days, Vix, and you’re not in any condition to ride.”