Rome 2: The Coming of the King (17 page)

The chosen vessel should have been empty, should have kept her mind clear to hear the voice of the god, but Saulos filled her mind; Saulos in the flesh, striding into the audience chamber to take control of the meeting that had nearly slipped away from him; Saulos, smelling of fire and smoke; Saulos, in her dreams, worse than any of this.

Queen Berenice had asked a question and was waiting for a reply. She was clear-skinned and clear-eyed and hiding her headache well. Yet she, too, had seen Saulos, and his triumph, and she, too, was afraid.

Hypatia said, ‘If you are asking my opinion on Yusaf’s dilemma, I believe there is a way that the king might give
the Hebrews what they want and still keep the Syrians from destroying the synagogue in revenge. But I think it will not be permitted to happen.’

‘Explain,’ said the queen.

They were alone, as much as any queen can be. The slaves and servants had been dismissed but for the men who guarded the door and even they had taken up their weapons and stepped outside. Drusilla was pouring wine; a fire-coloured Caecuban, well aged and still warm from the heat of the day. The goblets were of gold so thin that a finger’s pressure might dent them.

Passing one now, the queen’s younger sister smiled and it seemed to Hypatia that this was Drusilla’s role, to smile at visitors and keep them sweet, to laugh when the conversation might otherwise become excessively serious. She wondered what it cost her, and whether the queen despised her for it as her daughter undoubtedly did.

Kleopatra had been ordered to bed as soon as they left the audience room. Hypatia did not know where she had gone, but bed did not seem likely on this night.

Berenice stared over the gold and ruby rim of her goblet, waiting.

‘The king should return the gold to Yusaf in the morning,’ Hypatia said. ‘Moreover, he should do nothing to stop the Syrians building on the land around the synagogue. Let them set a brewery, a pork butcher and a shrine for laying out the dead at every wall if they want to – but let the king first move the synagogue itself, stone by stone, to a new location within the city.’

Berenice’s hand tightened on her goblet. The gold bowed, but did not dent. ‘Where to?’

‘I don’t know, but for the worth of eight talents, a place could surely be bought. Only let it be paid for openly by the king. If the Hebrews wish to give him gold later that’s their affair, but to begin with, if the land is seen as the king’s gift, none will dare insult it as they have done the synagogue.’

‘She’s right.’ Drusilla nodded, smiling. ‘The question is whether our brother will allow it.’

‘No, the question is quite different.’ With her eyes still on the queen, Hypatia asked, ‘How close is Saulos to your brother?’

‘Ah.’ A reclining couch stood behind, upholstered in a blue just a shade deeper than the queen’s gown. Abruptly, Berenice sat on it.

A breeze hissed in through the windows. Hypatia moved to close the shutters, and paused, holding them half open. The moon was there, shining disc of Isis, past its height, sliding down towards the west, cast in replica on the ice-black water. She kept her back to the two royal sisters, hiding her face.

The whole world knew that Berenice, queen in Caesarea, had left her last surviving husband to return to the city of her birth. Some said that she, who lived for the joy of the hunt, had pined for the quality of the ibex and gazelles that ranged on the low hills to its south, being in want of equal quarry in the lands of her husband. Others said she loved her brother and had returned for the love of his touch. A very few said that she might have loved him, but that her brother, the king, could not bring himself to mate with any woman, even the few times necessary to beget a child.

The Empress Poppaea, who had best reason to know, had it differently.
Agrippa didn’t call his sister, I sent her, and she went for love of me. Agrippa is not fit to rule; he’s weak and too easily swayed by his latest … attraction. Berenice has the heart of a monarch and she knows that her people’s interests are Rome’s interests. She will rule better than him or any of the idiot governors we send
.

Hypatia closed the shutters. Berenice was still on the couch, watching her. Drusilla mustered a small smile.

Hypatia turned to face them. ‘Has he … Have they …?’

‘They are as brothers,’ Berenice said, crisply, which did not entirely answer the question Hypatia had not entirely asked; in this family, brothers might still be lovers.

‘Then there is no point in our discussing what may or may
not be done with Yusaf’s gold. If Saulos has the king’s trust so completely, you will go to Jerusalem. Whatever they have been in the past, today, here, now, the riots outside are a tool and their purpose is to move you, to bring you more completely into Saulos’ power. Your question, then, is whether you are willing so to be moved.’

Dark stains grew in the armpits of Berenice’s gown. A greenish tinge marked the corners of her mouth and eyes, a sure sign that sickness was coming. She kept her head high. ‘What is your advice? Personally, not as the Chosen of Isis.’

‘The two are the same, lady. Unless you are ready to face Saulos down, you should appear meek in his company.’

‘How will I know if I am ready to face him?’

‘You will know. If you are not sure, then you are not ready. For now—’ Hypatia gave Drusilla her goblet, and rubbed her hands briskly. ‘There may be little time. Choose what you need and then what you most want. Pack them, or have them packed. Be ready, for the order to leave will come when you least expect it, and—’

The door crashed back with a force that broke the mosaics on the wall behind it.

Kleopatra, fully dressed, quite awake, stood framed in the entrance, twisting away from Polyphemos even as he tried to restrain her. Her black hair was wild about her shoulders. Her eyes were pale as ice, and burning.

‘Mother! Aunt Berenice … that is, your majesty! We have to go
now
!’ The emphasis robbed the sentence of everything except its urgency, but that was enough to bring the queen, her sister and her new counsellor to the doorway.

Berenice said, ‘Kleopatra, comport yourself. Polyphemos, what is she saying?’

The steward, too, was imperfectly dressed, and the unctuous hand-wringing had been swept away by a terror that left him grey. ‘Rioters have broken through the outer gates, majesty. To the east, the Hebrew synagogue is on fire. Men are fighting in the streets: Hebrews against Syrians, fighting to the death.’

‘Then the governor must—’

‘No, lady. Governor Florus took horse for Jerusalem when the king stood to speak in the theatre and now the Syrians are calling for the blood of the Herods to slake the foundations of their new buildings, and the Hebrews are calling on it for heresy, and for taking their gold without fulfilling the promise. For safety, you must go. We all must.’

‘No! The Syrians are our people, not our enemies. Polyphemos, find the king, tell him—’

‘He’s here, lady.’ Hypatia caught the queen’s elbow, turning her.

Agrippa stood in the corridor with a broken vase at his feet, scarlet tulips strewn across the black-on-white tiles. Water stained the gold tissue robes.

‘We must stay,’ Berenice said.

‘We can’t.’ Agrippa did not sound like a child, but not like a king, either. His voice cracked as he spoke. ‘Berenice, the riots are happening again, as they did when Father died. They’re setting us in effigy on the inn roofs, naming us whores, calling for our blood. We can’t hide in a cupboard now – they’ll tear the palace down to get to us. We have to leave. I’ve ordered the horses made ready. Jucundus of the Watch is here with a century of his men. We’ll go in two troops: Saulos and Iksahra will ride with us, Kleopatra and Hyrcanus with you.’

‘And Hypatia,’ Berenice said, and in that conceded defeat, even as she claimed a small triumph of her own. ‘The Chosen of Isis comes with us.’

NEWS OF THE
governor’s departure reached the crowd around the theatre at almost the same time as did news that the king had taken eight talents of Hebrew gold to use against the Syrians.

It didn’t matter that Agrippa hadn’t taken it, and wouldn’t have used it against the Syrians if he had: facts had reached that malleable state where they fitted the prejudice of any individual and, when enough people held the same prejudice, the result was incendiary.

News that the royal family were also planning to leave the city was the spark that lit the combustible mass, that pushed the simmering crowd into screaming hysteria, into rolling chants that called for Hebrew blood, for Syrian blood, for Herodian blood, for Roman blood … and soon, inevitably, just for blood.

Pantera thrust through the mass, seeking Mergus. If anyone thought him a Nabatean archer trying to flee the violence they were welcome. If they thought him an agent of the emperor, trying to undo the damage, they were equally welcome. As long as nobody thought him either Hebrew or Syrian and tried to slide a knife between his ribs, he was happy.

He shouted, ‘Make way, make way,’ alternately in Latin and in the desert tongue of the Saba brothers and cared not if nobody understood either; at least he wasn’t speaking Greek or Aramaic.

He came to a small square with a nine-pillared fountain whose pipes had been wrenched out of line, spilling water darkly, like free-flowing blood, across the pavings and none at all into the fountain. Beyond it stood a temple to Jupiter Dolichenos that had not yet been sacked and then a long blind wall. Beyond that, men fought to put out a fire. Others stood and watched, as they had in Rome, as if fire were an entertainment, not a danger.

There was no obvious route through and yet every time Pantera turned west towards the palace, where Saulos must be, the prickle in his spine drew him east again, towards the synagogue, like iron to a lodestone. He turned left, therefore, and pushed his way through the thinning crowd. At its margin, a tall, dark figure was forging a straight line through its thinnest edge.

‘Menachem!’ Pantera shouted, and was not heard. He turned at a sharp angle and wove, ducking, past a Syrian fishwife and her three grown sons, who were shouting useless advice at the unheeding fire-fighters. He came up to the zealot from behind and shouted again, and saw a stocky figure beside him turn, and had time to call again ‘Menachem—’ before he must twist sideways and round and thrust his arm up and block the blade that came for his throat.

‘Moshe, no!’ Menachem, too, had gripped the same arm. The man they held between them was more wiry than stocky closer up, with hair wild as a bush and a beard to match. He set his lips in a hard line and shook himself free.

Menachem said, ‘Tonight, he is a friend,’ and his tone suggested he was speaking of both, to each. He carried a charge with him of simmering excitement, not unlike that of the rioters. Even as he dropped Moshe’s arm he was pushing through the crowds again, so that Pantera must follow, or be left behind.

Pantera said, ‘I’m looking for Mergus.’

‘I know. We have found him.’ Half turning, Menachem said, ‘On my orders, Moshe followed Mergus away from the theatre while we were inside. Mergus, in turn, followed the man Kleitos who has just sacrificed a dove on an upturned urn in the porch of the synagogue. If the rest of Caesarea finds out, the city will be ash and rubble by morning.’

‘Kleitos wouldn’t do that alone,’ Pantera said. ‘He hasn’t the courage.’ And then, ‘How many with him?’

Moshe turned, scowling darkly. ‘Five to begin with, but others were coming as I came away. At least a dozen.’

‘And we are three,’ Pantera said. ‘If we can go past the Temple of Mithras, my bow is there. It will even the odds.’

‘You can shoot in the dark?’ Menachem asked, with interest.

‘I can try.’

In the dark and flying shadows around the synagogue’s porch, the war-bow sang three times. Three men died with arrows in their throats before the rest realized they were under fire and dropped out of sight.

In the clot of heaving bodies at the back, only Estaph was clearly visible, a mountain of muscle, flanked on either side by shimmering iron as his axes spun and spun and now and then impacted with a skull, breaking it open with a noise that was audible far down the street in a fight that was otherwise marked by its lack of noise.

Even close to, Pantera heard little beyond the contained grunts of the battling men, none of whom wanted to attract the wrong attention and the majority of whom wanted to escape as soon as they realized whose side the bow was on. Hunting men as they fled was a sordid task at the best of times, made harder now by the necessity to be sure that each shape seen in the dark was not Mergus.

Pantera shot three more times, and then dropped the bow and drew his Saba blade and sliced it forward and outward, fast and
fast and fast, and a man was dead and another had lost half the skin of his scalp and was blinded by his own blood so that Menachem, fighting with a ruthless efficiency at Pantera’s left side, was able to kill him without fuss and then the one that came after. Somewhere on Menachem’s other side, Moshe acquitted himself well, which is to say, he killed and did not die.

And then came the moment when no man was left standing except the three of them and Estaph, facing each other over a slippery mass of man-flesh with a smashed urn between them that might once have held the corpse of a sacrificed dove.

Seeing it, Pantera came to realize he had light enough to see by, that the flames from the burning theatre had wrought night to day, dispelling shadows. He turned on his heel, counting, in growing dread. Kleitos was not among the dead. Mergus was not among the living.

He came full circle, facing Estaph. ‘Where is he?’

‘Kleitos has him.’ Estaph stepped over the bodies, sheathing his axe handles in his belt. The battle-light was dying from his eyes, replaced by concern. ‘He was fighting Kleitos and three others away from me, and then … not. I couldn’t get to him. I’m sorry.’

‘We must find them swiftly.’ Pantera looked across the road. ‘Is your family still here, when there are flames fit to roast the city?’