Empress of the Seven Hills

  Why? Titus couldn’t help wondering. Public matters like judicial cases and lists of public appointments were hardly within Plotina’s purview. Why would the Empress of Rome need to keep her own record? “What did you find?”

  “Nothing.” Faustina shoved aside a stack of scrolls so she could lean against his desk. “That was the odd part. The Empress doesn’t buy a yard of linen without recording the cost from her personal accounts—and suddenly huge sums are coming in, but there isn’t one word to say where they come from. I couldn’t take anything away with me, but I copied down these entries—”

  “Hardly indicative,” Titus pointed out as she produced a handful of jotted scraps.

  “I know. Which is why I spent another week poking among the Empress’s freedmen, and finally I found Bassus. One of Plotina’s undersecretaries, and when I asked him about these entries he went white as the moon. He refused to say a word about it to me, but I finally persuaded him to come have a talk with you.”

  “How did you pull that off?”

  “Because no one can say no to me,” Faustina said candidly. “And because I may have pointed out that you’re one of the richest men in Rome and can pay a lot for the information.”

  “So you’ve promised gods know how much money out of my purse for gods know what kind of testimony?”

  “That’s about the long and short of it.” Faustina dimpled up at him: fresh and rosy in her airy pink silks, looking as innocent as a newborn lamb. Her dark eyes danced.

  Titus closed his own eyes. “Tempted into crime by a slip of a girl,” he murmured. “Well, I’m in deep now. Let’s hear what your freedman has to say.”

  Bassus was sweating openly when Faustina led him over. “I don’t want trouble, sir,” he mumbled. “I just want out. Back to Athens where I can get a post copying lectures. I tell you what I know, and I have to be gone afterward. You understand, sir?”

  “A ship to Athens and a purse to keep you there a full year,” Titus said. It still astounded him that he could snap his fingers and dispense such sums without even blinking—that he could simply throw money at a problem until it was solved. “What do you have to tell me, Bassus?”

  The freedman’s eyes slid sideways. Faustina squeezed his arm, giving the kind of smile that had probably served Helen of Troy well when persuading a decade’s worth of Trojans to march to their death on her behalf. Bassus gulped.

  “The things I’ve seen,” he blurted. “It’s not just your bathhouse fund, though that’s certainly been milked for all it’s worth. Money comes in from a hundred different places, sir, and it goes right back out. Bribes, gifts, loans under the table. Posts being promised or traded or outright sold. People being blackmailed, and there’s more than one been banished outright. Lady Faustina’s notes; I can show you—”

  “Who?” Titus cut in. “Who is doing this? The stealing, the bribing, the blackmailing?”

  “Haven’t you figured that out, sir?” Bassus looked blank. “Empress Plotina.”

  VIX

  Hatra was a hellhole. I cursed the minute I laid eyes on it. A dusty citadel squatting on the eastern road toward Babylon; nothing but sand and buffeting winds stretching around for miles. The men were bitching about the flies before they even had their tents unfolded, a hot and furious summer rain poured down amid cracks of thunder just long enough to get all the kindling wet, and the legionaries I saw in their camps looked like desiccated mummies with their parched lips and the scarves they’d wrapped around their noses to keep out the blowing sand.

  “The legate’ll be glad for the extra men,” the First Spear told me when I made my report. “But I hope they brought their own water. Hardly a drop to drink anywhere in this pile of sand.” He squinted at me—one of Trajan’s brand of officers, I could tell. The kind who still looked fit in a breastplate, and spoke Latin no more refined than mine. “You’re Vercingetorix the Red, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Heard that name. Lusius Quietus says you aren’t completely useless in a fight.”

  “He mention I saved his life a few times?”

  “Berbers, they need saving. They’re all crazy. Go make your report to the Emperor; he’ll want the updates about Seleucia directly. He’s out watching the latest cavalry attack fail miserably.” The First Spear let out a short bark of laughter. “Welcome to Hades. I’ll wager you didn’t think it would be this hot.”

  I hadn’t seen my Emperor in some months, and I had to control my expression when he turned on his horse in his cluster of Praetorians and staff officers and greeted me. Trajan had deep new lines about his mouth, his eyes seemed sunken, and one corner of his mouth dragged downward in a permanent small frown. I remembered hearing a rumor that the Emperor had suffered a collapse a few months before and had been kept to his bed for a week, fuming all the while. I’d brushed it off as idle gossip. Trajan, ill? The man who could still walk a full day’s route march and then drink an entire legion under the table? Impossible. He looks ill now, I couldn’t help thinking as I got off my horse and saluted him. But his grin as he waved me up was as warm as ever.

  “Vercingetorix! Just the man to join us on our little siege. What do you think—easier than Old Sarm?”

  I squinted at the walls, which seemed to be rising out of a haze of dust. Roman cavalry were making a halfhearted attack on the gates, and I heard the distant thrum of arrows. “I’d say harder, Caesar.”

  “Me too,” the Emperor said. “No pipes to break this time. That was easy.”

  “That was my idea, Caesar,” I volunteered. “Breaking the pipes? I had Titus present it for me.”

  “Did you, by Jove? Good fellow, young Titus Aurelius. One of the few honest men in Rome, if I’m not mistaken. Doesn’t hurt that he’s now one of the richest either.”

  “He’s a good sort,” I agreed. “I didn’t mind he got the credit for my pipes.”

  “Hadrian tried to claim it,” Trajan snorted. “Now, tell me about Seleucia.”

  “Shouldn’t we retire, Caesar?” I heard another thump of an arrow. “We’re within range, one lucky shot—” And the Imperial idiot wasn’t wearing his helmet. His bare head gleamed under the harsh sun like a burnished silver coin.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” The Emperor waved my fears away. “Seleucia! Tell me.”

  Trajan wore armor like a common soldier on campaign, but someone else on the walls of Hatra must have recognized that magnificent gray head. Halfway through my report on the sacked city of Seleucia, I heard the thrum of an arrow much closer. A hoarse gurgle sounded, and the cavalry officer on the horse beside Trajan’s, who had been fanning himself with one sweaty hand and complaining about the flies, was trying to talk around the shaft in his throat. He pitched over, and I saw blood drip down on the sand.

  No time to yell. I lunged forward, grabbed Trajan’s arm, and in one ferocious yank tugged the Emperor of Rome out of his saddle. A streak of fire shot through my shoulder, but I paid it no heed as Trajan came tumbling down on the ground. I hurled him flat and flung myself over him, and then I could hear shouts and stamping hooves as Praetorians rallied around us. Someone pulled me up, three guards surrounded their Emperor with protectively drawn swords and hastened him back toward the lines, and in the middle of it all, Trajan was laughing. I took a step after him and felt a bolt of pain in my right shoulder. Looking down, I saw that I had an arrow in my shoulder just at the edge of my breastplate. “Wonderful,” I snarled. Three and a half years in Parthia, in and out of the hottest fighting in the region with never a wound, and now I’d been winged on my first day in Hatra. I gritted my teeth and yanked the arrow out. Blood began to spurt down my arm. Shield practice was going to be great fun tomorrow.

  “Vercingetorix!” I heard someone call, and looked up to see my Emperor. No more deep lines around his mouth; he was grinning like a boy. “That was a well-timed tackle of yours, I must thank you—”

  “Sir!” I cut him off in my harshest centurion’s growl. I took a deep breath, tr
ying to control myself as the Emperor blinked and his officers stared at me in surprise. Do not shout at the Emperor of Rome, I told myself, and then I bellowed, “HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO TELL YOU TO WEAR YOUR BLOODY HELMET?”

  The Emperor opened his mouth, but I wasn’t having any of his excuses. Jaws dropped further in the circle of guards and officers behind him (and hands hovered over sword hilts) as I jabbed a finger into Trajan’s chest and told him at the top of my lungs that he was an idiot. An idiot to get that close to the enemy, and an even greater idiot for getting that close to the enemy during an active attack. When I ran out of things to tell him I just cursed. When I ran out of curses, I just glared. The Emperor of Rome gazed at me in silent amusement, and when I finally trailed off, he patted my wounded shoulder.

  “There, there, boy. Don’t excite yourself.”

  “EXCITE MYSELF?” I shouted, and that probably would have started me off again, but even that gentle pat had sent a bolt of pain through my arm, and I clutched at the wound with a stifled oath.

  “Go get that patched up,” the Emperor told me.

  “Yes, Caesar,” I muttered, still scowling.

  “Then come see me in my tent. I want you and your men here with me until I take Hatra, but after that I’m dispatching you back to Germania.”

  “Germania?” Rage faded abruptly. I started after him as he turned at his usual brisk pace and strode off. I loped to keep up, still holding my shoulder.

  “Those Dacians are stirring up trouble again,” Trajan said, not slowing. “Probably think I can’t keep my eye on them from all the way out here, the bastards. And I have been borrowing a bit heavily from the legions back in Germania; they’re stretched thin. You know Dacia, you were there the first time around, so you’ll take your men and the rest of the detachment back, take command of the legion, march on Dacia, and restore order. Congratulations, Vercingetorix.” He thumped me on the unwounded shoulder. “The Tenth Fidelis is yours.”

  Mine?

  “For—” I heard myself floundering like a boy and saw the other officers exchange glances, looking just as startled as I felt. “Giving me a legion—just for pulling you out of that archer’s way? I didn’t—I mean, I didn’t plan—”

  “No, I’d already planned to give you a legion. A bellow like that is wasted on a centurion. Your term as First Spear is up, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Caesar.”

  “Good, then you’ll be eligible to join the equites. All the plunder we’ve taken, you should be able to afford the fees. Now, I can’t make you legate of the Tenth; I’ll have to find some senatorial prat for that.” Trajan’s eyelid dropped in a wink. “But I can drag a bit on appointing one, eh? And I’ll give you some pliant fellow who knows how to manage the payroll and sign his name where you tell him. It’s going to get dangerous up in Dacia again, and I want a soldier in command. Not a sprig in a toga who just wants to be consul someday.”

  “Caesar,” I choked.

  “Don’t thank me yet. I’ll probably work you to death up there. But for saving my life just now, I hope you will take this”—my Emperor pulled a ring from his finger and put it in my hand—“and this.” He kissed me heartily on the cheek. “Now get that shoulder bandaged up and come see me for your orders.”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I had tears in my throat, blood on my arm, a kiss on my cheek, and joy in my heart. The other officers all looked at me as they filed past after Trajan, some with amusement, some with disdain, most with outright envy. If I was young to be a First Spear, how young was I to command a legion? You made a slew of enemies the minute he raised you up, I thought, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care at all. I just looked down at the ring in my hand as my Emperor moved away. A plain thing of heavy gold, carved with the word Parthicus. The title Trajan had been awarded by the Senate: “Conqueror of Parthia.” I slipped it over my middle finger, and it fit as though it had been made for me. “Parthicus,” I said, and my voice was thick.

  “Glad you shouted at him,” one of Trajan’s Praetorians grumped in passing. “How many times have we told him he has to wear his helmet, but does he listen to us? He’ll get himself killed someday, the royal fool.”

  “Not while I’ve got breath,” I said, and I felt no pain at all when the surgeon stitched up my torn shoulder. When he was done I had it tattooed with an X. An X for Tenth.

  My Tenth.

  CHAPTER 25

  PLOTINA

  “Apologies, Domina, but someone is requesting an audience.”

  “I am far too busy.” Plotina made a careful note on one wax tablet and reached for another. Four slave girls hurried behind her, busying themselves with a pile of silk gowns ready for pressing; two more slaves sat with the mending, and a pair of pages hovered ready to run errands, but the Empress of Rome at her desk in the middle of the bustle was busier than any of them. A statue of Trajan to be raised in his new forum… her winter gowns and cloaks to be unfolded from storage and checked for moths… a certain gentleman among the provincial governors who had recently gotten into debt, and who might be most amenable to throwing his support behind Dear Publius if a tidy loan came with it… spiders getting into the wine stores again… Dear Juno, how much there was to do. The Empress of the Roman Empire was the biggest slave in it!

  “He is most insistent, Domina,” her steward persisted. “It’s—”

  “I don’t care who it is. I have no time to see anyone this morning.” Plotina scanned the latest letter from her husband—short and courteous, as always, looking like it had been carved out with a sword between battles. Trajan really had no gift for elegant correspondence. Plotina supposed she would have to plan a state visit to see him if this campaign dragged on much longer. She’d made the trek to Antioch two years ago to spend a very official month or two at his side, as a dutiful wife should, but the journey had hardly been pleasant. Eastern fleas, eastern wine, and eastern whores who called themselves Roman ladies and actually expected to dine with her. Perhaps I can put the visit off another year.

  “It’s Titus Aurelius Fulvus Boionius Arrius Antoninus, Lady.” Her steward still hovered. “He said it was most important.”

  “Is he deaf, or are you? I am not to be disturbed.” Certainly not for the likes of that jumped-up boy whom everyone seemed to regard as quite the coming man. Trajan’s rare letters hardly went a page without praising some action of Titus’s to the skies—the progress on the public baths, the tact with which he had smoothed over some fracas in the Senate. As if Dear Publius hadn’t done far more impressive things, and to far less applause! Plotina had spread a few rumors about this new favorite of Trajan’s—that he was a drunkard, that he worshipped obscene foreign cults like Isis and Ancasta and Taranis rather than good Roman gods—but nothing seemed to stick. The boy was dully, distressingly virtuous.

  “I fear it can’t wait, Lady.” A firm voice interrupted the steward, and Plotina looked up to see the boy himself planted solidly before her desk. “I must speak with you, and I would prefer to do so in private.”

  “You have no right to barge into my private quarters—”

  “You have no right to help yourself illegally to public funds,” he returned. “But if you wish to discuss it before your slaves, I will do so.”

  Plotina stared. Behind Titus, the steward stood pop-eyed. Two slave girls folding Plotina’s silks looked up, startled, and a third girl whispered behind her hand to the page boy holding Plotina’s cup of barley water.

  “Leave us,” said the Empress.

  Titus waited until the last slave had filed out, and the door swung shut. “Thank you,” he said, and sat uninvited. He wore a tunic and sandals—not even the dignity of a toga!—and he was unshaven as though he’d risen straight from bed without a stop at the bathhouse.

  “Is this how you call upon your Empress?” Plotina said icily. “With a stubbled chin and a mouthful of wild accusations?”

  He produced a handful of scrolls, arraying them across her desk. “Hardly wild.
”

  Plotina glanced at the first scroll. “What, are you pretending these come from my private accounts? I assure you, I review my accounts daily and nothing is missing.”

  “I made sure of that. My informant put copies into your study after bringing me the originals.”

  Informant? Plotina snatched across the desk to tear open the first scroll. Just a line or two was enough to chill her to the bone. “How did you lay hands on my private papers?” One of the slaves? I’ll have the wretch crucified, I’ll—

  “Never mind who brought them to me. They’re long gone, and you won’t find them.”

  “How dare you—”

  “I’m very tired, Lady. I spent most of a week untangling your cheap little financial schemes, and most of another week wondering what to do about it all. So I’ll be plain.” Titus brushed the hair out of his eyes, looking at her squarely. “You have been stealing funds, Empress Plotina, and I can prove it. From the building monies set aside for the Emperor’s public baths, from the alimenta program, and from other projects as well.”

  “I do not have to explain myself to the likes of you.” Plotina summoned all the crispness she could manage. Crisp but impersonal, yes, as if she were dealing with an impertinent slave. “An empress has reasons of which a common little man like you knows nothing.”

  “I’m not interested in your reasons, Lady.”

  Ah. Plotina sat back a little in her chair, feeling the ground begin to solidify beneath her. “What are you interested in, then?”

  He looked at her silently.

  “You can hardly want a rich wife, considering the fortune left to you by your grandfather. But perhaps you would like to add something a bit more illustrious to your title than quaestor.” She lifted an inviting hand. “Would consul suit you better? I can see your name on the list for next year.”

  Perhaps this was no bad thing. Young Titus Aurelius, one of the richest men in Rome, in her debt. A rich young consul who could easily be led about by the nose; oh, yes, that would be quite an ally for Dear Publius.