The Art of War

Chapter 62

Rome, 19 December AD 69

Jocasta

They came just after noon, a wave of silent, grim-faced Guards in dull-polished helms with their swords held tight to their sides; no histrionics, no waving of weapons, but a sense of duty and drive that coursed ahead of them and brought silence to the roofs of the priests’ houses, where Domitian was holding what seemed to be a raucous Saturnalia party where the rules were what you wanted them to be as long as they involved singing and throwing things.

Pantera was up there with them, at the highest point, a hundred yards in front of the temple. He leapt down, landed in dirt, skidded, made his way down through muddy slurry to the barricades where I was rallying my small band of defenders.

I was filthy, I am sure. My hair was stiff with grime; I could feel it sticking up from my head in hedgehog spines, falling away at the back in tumbling, rat-knotted tails. My shift was in rags, my nails were torn.

I was enjoying myself more than any time I can remember.

‘Did Felix make it safely out of the city?’ I asked.

Pantera raised a brow. He hadn’t told me about Felix; I had overheard Trabo talking about it to Sabinus. ‘We can only hope so.’

The Guards came on up the hill. The first of Domitian’s missiles rained down on them and they slowed. We pulled on our levers and sent our rocks tumbling down at them and they slowed more. It was tremendously satisfying when we hit a man and rolled him over, but it wasn’t stopping the rest from coming on.

‘Is Antonius Primus likely to rescue us?’ I asked.

‘I have sent a message in Sabinus’ name requesting that he does exactly that. If we’re lucky he may choose to make a hero of himself.’

‘Or he may choose to be just too late.’ Someone had to say aloud what was so plainly coursing through his mind. ‘He may find it easier to let us fight the Guard until we or they are dead, possibly both, then he can overrun their positions and claim victory for himself.’ I raised my voice. ‘To the levers. Second wave: now! ’

Pantera looked at me queerly for a moment. ‘There was a woman in Britain,’ he said, after a while, ‘named Aerthen. Translated, her name meant “at the battle’s end”. Just then, you looked exactly as she did when the fighting was about to start. You were born to be a warrior. Did you know that?’

Ahh, what could I have said? He had that power to strike where it hurt and I don’t think he knew it, or meant it; it was just that he cut through to what mattered so much more keenly than anyone else.

I studied his face, seeking the weak points; found none. But I knew some things from Seneca’s notes, enough to ask, ‘What happened to Aerthen when the battle ended?’

‘All times but the last one, we found somewhere apart from the rest and made love.’

‘And the last battle? What happened after that?’

‘I killed her. I cut her throat so that no man of Rome might make her a slave.’ He could not meet my eyes. His gaze stretched over the barricade to where Domitian’s rooftop army was in full swing, raining rocks on the Guards.

He said, thoughtfully, ‘It’s the real difficulty of being a spy. You come to believe that you are what you say you are. I said I was the enemy of Rome, and I became it.’

‘And now?’

‘Now I want to see Vespasian on the throne as much as I have ever wanted anything.’ He gave a bleak smile. ‘The same could not necessarily be said for everyone on this side of the barrier. Remember that, when the fighting starts. There is at least one un-friend here who wants to see our downfall.’

There was no time to ask him what he meant, for, although the silent mass of Guards had slowed to a standstill, the smell of new fire spiked the air, sharply.

‘ Fuck. ’

‘Fuck,’ I said, in agreement. ‘The Guards have set fire the priests’ houses. Are you all right?’

I wasn’t in Rome when the fire took it; my memories of that night don’t run so deep, nor with such horror. But Pantera had been there, and from the look on his face I’d say his ears were ringing with old memories, the snap and bustle of fire, the screams of burning women, growing higher, harder, more desperate, more impossible to forget.

He wrenched his eyes away to look at me. I said, ‘Shouldn’t we…’

‘Run? Yes. Swiftly. The barricades won’t hold against fire. Get back into the temple and tell Sabinus he needs to block the gates. After that, find Caenis and make sure she is safe.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Up on to the rooftops, where else? Domitian is up there and it won’t be easy to talk him down.’