Out of the Waters (2 page)

Apart from the senators, free persons in the audience sat on stone benches. The wealthier had brought cushions, while the poor made do with a cloak or an extra tunic. This mime was scheduled to last all afternoon, so even a toil-hardened farmer visiting the capital needed something between his buttocks and the stone.

Pandareus followed his pupil's eyes to the slaves in the gallery and murmured, “I wonder how many of them are Lusitanians themselves? It's supposed to be a rather wild province, of course. If there are any of them here, they may not have enough Latin to realize that they're supposed to be looking at their homeland.”

The last of the cattle stamped and clattered off the stage below the Tribunal. An actor dressed as Mercury with a silver helmet and winged sandals cried, “Behold, the treasures of Lusitania, now yours by right of conquest!”

The first of what was obviously a long line of donkeys followed the steers. Instead of ordinary pack saddles, the animals were fitted with shelves which displayed silver and gold plate, bronze statuary, silks, and expensive pottery. Some of the dishes were decorated blue on a white background, products of the same Far Eastern peoples who produced the silk.

“Master?” Varus said as a question occurred to him. “There were twenty cattle. Is there some literary basis for that? Because frankly—”

He lowered his voice, though there was no likelihood that Saxa on his right side could have overheard.

“—I would have expected my father to provide more, just for the show.”

Pandareus allowed himself a pleased smile. “As it happens,” he said, trying to keep the pride out of his voice, “your father's impresario, Meoetes, asked me the same question while he planned the mime. I told him that annotations by Callimachus on Euripides' claim that the ‘cattle' are actually a metaphor for the twenty letters of the Greek alphabet which Heracles—”

He used the god's Greek name.

“—brought to replace the alphabet of Cronus. Meoetes was doubtful, as you surmise, but the senator insisted on accuracy over spectacle.” He coughed and continued, “Since I couldn't give any guidance on the loot of Iberia, I believe they decided to, ah, spread themselves.”

Varus grinned again, feeling a rush of unexpected warmth toward his father. Saxa had not been harsh toward his son and daughter—he wasn't a man who could be harsh to anyone, even a slave; though of course he had foremen and stewards who could do what they thought was necessary. Neither had Saxa showed any interest in his children, however.

That had changed very recently. Saxa appreciated the real erudition which he was honest enough to know that he lacked himself. He had learned that Marcus Priscus, a member of the Commission for the Sacred Rites and reputedly the most learned man in the Senate, respected Varus' scholarship and regarded Pandareus as his equal in knowledge. That had raised son and teacher enormously in Saxa's estimation.

Alphena, Saxa's sixteen-year-old daughter, had gained status for an even better reason: Hedia, Saxa's third wife and the children's stepmother, had taken the girl under her wing. Hedia was lovely and could be charming, but she knew her own mind—and got her way in everything that mattered to her.

Varus wouldn't have believed that his tomboy sister would ever want to act like a lady, let alone that she would be capable of doing a creditable job of it. The fact that Alphena was here in the theater, wearing a long dress with a silk cape over her shoulders, was almost as remarkable as other things that had happened in the course of the past week.

Almost
. Varus had seen the earth open and demons rise from the blazing rivers of the Underworld. He had seen that, or he thought he had seen that; and it had seemed that he himself was the magician whose chanted spell had dispersed those demons and sealed the world against them.

Varus prided himself on his intellect; intellectually he knew the things he recalled could not be true. Unfortunately for logic and reason, his teacher recalled the same things. When a scholar of the stature of Pandareus accepted the evidence of his eyes over common sense, a mere student like Varus was left with a dilemma.

The line of mules moved steadily except when one stopped, raised its tail, and deposited dung on the stage. Pandareus leaned forward, watching with more interest than he had shown for the splendid goods themselves.

“How will they clean the stage after the performance, Lord Varus?” he said. “That is, I understand there are to be eight hundred mules. If even a small portion of such a herd…?”

Varus laughed. He wasn't a frequent spectator at Carce's mass entertainments, but he obviously got out more than his teacher did. He said, “They hold beast fights and hunts—”

So-called hunts, that is. Archers and javelin throwers behind metal fences shot corralled animals until they had no more living targets.

“—here also. Channels from the Virgin Aqueduct divert water over the stage and the cellars beneath to wash detritus into the sewers.”

He met his teacher's eyes and added, “I don't believe that will be part of the performance though, as this mime doesn't include Hercules cleansing the stables of King Augeas.”

They smiled together. Varus was proud to be able to make literary jokes with his teacher, and he suspected that Pandareus was pleased to have students who actually appreciated literature as something more than a source for florid allusions to be thrown out during a speech. Of the ten youths studying with Pandareus at present, only Varus and his friend Corylus could be described as scholars.

Varus let his eyes drift over the audience to where he had spotted Corylus while the jugglers and rope dancers were performing before the mime itself began. Publius Cispius was a Knight of Carce, entitling his son Publius Cispius Corylus to a seat in the first fourteen rows at any public entertainment. Corylus was in the fourteenth row, so that his servant, Marcus Pulto, could sit directly behind him.

The elder Cispius had capped a successful military career with command of a squadron of Batavian cavalry and had been knighted on retirement. He had purchased a perfume business on the Bay of Puteoli with the considerable money he had made while in service.

By ordinary standards, Cispius was wealthy—but Saxa was wealthy by the standards of the Senate. At Varus' request, Saxa had invited Corylus to watch the mime with them in the Tribunal. Corylus had refused, politely but without hesitation.

Part of Varus deplored the stiff-necked determination of a sturdy provincial not to look like a rich man's toady. There was no question of anything of the sort: Varus just wanted his friend to sit with him at this lengthy event.

On the other hand, if Carce's citizens hadn't been so stiff-necked and determined, the city would not rule all the land from Mesopotamia to the Atlantic, from the German Sea to Nubia. Logically, Varus would admit that being without his friend's presence was a cheap price to pay for an empire.

In his heart, though, he wasn't sure. Corylus was a soldier's son and destined for the army himself. He had grown up on the Rhine and the Danube, where mistakes meant not embarrassment and expense but death in whatever fashion barbarian ingenuity could contrive. Corylus projected calm.

Varus needed calm right now. He wasn't really watching the stately procession of treasures across the stage. That vision of the wizened old woman seated on a throne in the clouds was becoming sharper in his mind.

She was the Cumean Sibyl, and she prophesied the approach of Chaos.

*   *   *

H
EDIA'S FACE WAS TURNED
toward the stage, wearing a look of polite pleasure. That was the appropriate expression for the wife of the noble patron of the entertainment, so
of course
that was how she looked. She would have tried to appear just as politely pleased while torturers used a stick to roll her intestines out through a slit in her belly if that were what the duties of her station called for.

Moved by a sudden feeling of fondness, Hedia patted the back of her husband's hand. He looked at her in surprise, then blushed and faced the stage again.

Saxa was a thoroughly decent man, a
sweet
man. There were people—there were quite a lot of people, in fact—who felt that Hedia in her twenty-two years of existence had encompassed all the licentious decadence which had flowed into Carce along with the wealth of the conquered East. There was evidence for their belief, but even Hedia's worst enemies would never claim that she wasn't a perfect wife in public.

As for what happened after dinner parties at the houses of friends or in Baiae while the business of the Senate detained her husband in Carce, well—there were stories about any wealthy, beautiful woman, and not all of them were true. In Hedia's particular case, most of the stories
were
true, but she maintained a discreet silence about her private life. That was, after all, the appropriate response to impertinent questions.

The dreadfully long line of mules seemed to have passed. Another patron might have made a hundred mules do, leading them around behind the stage and exchanging their loads for fresh goods. Saxa's wealth made that unnecessary.

The actor draped in a gilded lion skin raised his hands, one of which held a glittering club. Hedia thought he was supposed to be Hercules, but she hadn't paid much attention. She had always found life to hold quite enough drama without inventing things to put on stage.

“As a sign of my prowess!” the actor boomed. He seemed a weedy little fellow, despite his armor and the lion skin, but his voice filled the hollow of the theater. “I raise these pillars to mark my conquest!”

On cue, a pair of gilded “hills” began to rise from the basement, through trap doors in the stage. Hedia frowned: bizarrely, monkeys were tethered in niches in the steep cones. The animals had been dusted with gold also, but in between bouts of angry chittering they were trying to chew their fur clean.

“In later years, another conqueror and god will come to this strait!” said the actor. “He too will bring the whole world beneath his beneficent rule before he returns to the heavens; but greater than I, he will found a line of succession. Each of his descendents will be more magnificent than his predecessor. Hail Caesar, and hail to your mighty house!”

A monkey shrieked and made a full-armed gesture. Something splattered the ornate shield displayed on a frame beside the actor.

Hedia blinked, uncertain of what she had just seen.
Oh by Venus! The little beast is throwing its own feces!
she realized. She started to whoop with laughter, not because what had happened was particularly funny but because its unexpectedness had broken the shell of fear that had enclosed Hedia since last night's dream.

She stifled the laughter into what she hoped would pass for a coughing fit. She was horrified at herself. The incident would embarrass Saxa if he noticed it, and to have had his own wife leading the seeming mockery would shrivel his soul.

Hedia reached over and this time gripped Saxa's hand firmly. The last thing she wanted to do was to hurt the gentle man who had, very likely, saved her life: he had married her when the relatives of her first husband, Gaius Calpurnius Latus, were claiming she had poisoned him.

Maybe some of the relatives had believed that. Latus had been an unpleasant man with unpleasant tastes; one of his partners—particularly the sort of boys he favored—might well have poisoned him. Hedia wasn't the sort, though if someone had brained Latus with a statuette …

She realized she was grinning at the thought; she softened her expression instantly.

Most likely Latus had died of a perfectly ordinary fever, as thousands did every year across the empire. He had been a wealthy man, however, and if his widow was executed for his murder, that wealth would be distributed among his surviving relatives—some of whom were well-connected politically.

Hedia knew that if matters had continued in the direction they were going, she would probably have been strangled by the public executioner—though in the entrance of the family home, in deference to her noble status. Instead, Saxa—a distant cousin of Latus—had asked her to marry him. Saxa's wealth and unblemished reputation immediately made the threat of prosecution vanish.

Hedia continued to caress her husband's hand. He glanced halfway toward her, then faced the stage again. He didn't pull away, though he seemed puzzled.

Hedia had never understood why Saxa had married her. Despite his relationship to Latus, they hadn't moved in the same circles. She was as attractive as any woman in Carce, and she was more—talented, one might say—than most highly paid professionals, but that couldn't have been an important factor in his decision.

Hedia made sure that her husband got full value whenever she enticed him into her bed, but she was invariably the instigator. Saxa appeared to enjoy himself, but he was past fifty and couldn't have been much of an athlete—in any fashion—even in the flush of youth.

As best Hedia could tell, Saxa was a sweet man who had chosen to protect a pretty girl who was being bullied. That she was one of the most notorious women in Carce may have had something to do with it as well. Saxa, for all his wealth, had been considered a foolish eccentric when anybody thought of him at all. The husband of the noble Hedia was a subject of interest to both men and women.

Storm clouds painted on flats descended over the stage. A troupe of attractive boys representing the Winds—a placard identified them—danced, while the actor playing Hercules' companion Ithys sang about his leader's battle with Geryon.

According to the song, this was merely a prefiguring of the greater battles which the divine Caesar and his heirs would fight in coming days. Silver foil on the scenery reflected torchlight to mimic lightning, and pairs of stagehands rattled sheets of bronze thunderously between stanzas.

The fellow playing Ithys was well set up. In other circumstances, Hedia might have invited him to perform at—and after—a private dinner some night.