Rome Burning (27 page)

She tried again. ‘Anyway, your family has done so much for me. That’s why I hate to see this
clash
between you. And I do know that Marcus feels the same.’ She paused. It was difficult to balance her real purpose and her false one; she was wary of telling too many outright lies which might cause trouble later. ‘You think he doesn’t listen to you, don’t you? But perhaps he would if you listened to
him
more …’

Drusus once more gave a tight-lipped nod, but he was beginning to hope earnestly that she would go
soon
. A moment before he’d been thinking that she was pretty, if not compellingly so, and being alone this long with a dull, well-meaning, acceptably pretty girl, he would normally have at least entertained the idea of what her body would be like, just to keep from going mad with boredom. But he didn’t want to touch her; he didn’t know why. If he had, it would have seemed like the odd, fascinated temptation to lay his hand on red-hot metal or into moving machinery. He could no longer understand why he’d thought her so ordinary-looking to begin with, nor why the slight organisation of bones and skin had begun to seem sinister, diabolic to him, as if a small wisp of evil had fleetingly assumed the shape of a girl and come gently to light on the bench, its disguise slowly evaporating in the sunshine. Something about her must have changed. The expression was still one of diffident appeal, but it had become stiffened, set. Her eyes were really only a very dark brown, not even an unusual colour if her hair and skin hadn’t been so light and washed out; it was only that – a trick of contrast – that made the irises look almost as black as the pupils, the hot colour in the darkness almost red. She did not blink very often. He didn’t realise that he had inched back as, very slightly, she’d closed in.

She said, ‘You must understand the effect it had on him three years ago, to know that people wanted to kill him rather than let him be Emperor. After that, what could he do but become more … unbending? How can he help but think, If I don’t do what I set out to, then why did I go through all that? It’s difficult to
trust
people again, Your Highness, with his parents suddenly gone like that – and to know it was because of people so close to him, someone he must have known for years …’ Her voice had become quiet, even, rhythmic. She now exhaled slowly, shaking her head. ‘You know, I can’t understand it. Well – it’s easier with Gabinius, in a way, he was afraid for his business, he didn’t know Marcus. But the Emperor’s
wife
…
Why
did she …?’ She sat unmoving, knowing this was dangerous. She didn’t want to give any sense that she suspected him.

And now he could not help but think of it, though he had cut it out of their story because it did not fit, what counted was that he’d loved her, but now it came: Tulliola sitting beside him on the floor, his body still warm from her touch, but she was hissing furiously: ‘
I’ve
done everything.
For you
. Why am I the one paying for it, things I’ve done for you?’ And now there came a hammering torrent of remembered images and touches: the first cool, incredulous kiss – not two hundred yards away from where he sat, but then – oh, he could not help it now – the solitary wonder as the sharp tip of the gold pin he held pierced her heart. Her familiar smooth body struggling under the weight of his. The spilling warmth of her blood against his own breast – and this ache all through him, why did he have to feel this? Why had the baleful thing beside him done this to him?

It was all he could do to answer, ‘I don’t know. I didn’t know her very well.’ And even those intentionally bland words stung him with the unwanted memory of how afraid he had always been that this was the truth.

Now, careful, don’t behave any differently, Una instructed herself, feeling her flesh beg to recoil, the demand, in the hastening beat of her heart, in all her muscles, to get away. She’d suspected that he’d been part of it, but she’d never had any reason to doubt that Lady Tullia had killed herself. She felt an unexpected strength of revulsion, a sense of contamination almost beyond bearing. She wanted to claw off strips of her own skin, she wanted to wipe off Tulliola’s blood.

‘Well, I suppose it doesn’t make any difference why – it happened anyway,’ she said, almost airily, not the note she wanted. She smiled harmlessly again, amending, ‘But you don’t need me to tell you about Marcus, you’ve known him all his life. I just … wanted to help.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Drusus, and as he’d hoped, she finally got to her feet to leave.

‘Well, thank you for listening to me,’ she said, humbly bowing her head.

As she began to walk away towards the aviary door, an inexplicable dread and urgency took hold of him, and an
abrupt, commanding voice spoke in his mind saying fiercely:
Stop
her. You can do it easily. Don’t let her get out.

But it made no sense, so he did nothing.

Una walked out of the aviary at a relaxed pace, barely able to wait to get out of sight so she could move faster. The relief at leaving Drusus behind was wonderful, the air felt clean again. But once she was out in the open, passing the fountains, the golden heat stretched the distance back to the Palace, weighed down her limbs and trapped pain in her head. She broke finally into a laboured run, across the grass of the sunken lawn, kept green and flawless even under this sun. Drusus was not following, why should he? She wasn’t sure how she could interrupt the meeting to tell Marcus, but she would do it at any cost; beyond all doubt Drusus was a threat to Marcus, and even after three years she felt it could not be delayed a second.

She ran up the steps to the pavilion, between the screens towards the table. She saw the couches were bare, the servants were clearing the dishes away, carrying the cushions inside. She stood and looked at this almost in outrage. Then – yes, she did understand what had happened. After the meeting Marcus had to go to the Forum to give a speech about the peace talks. She caught the eye of the boy who’d taken Drusus’ glass. She said, lamely, angrily, ‘I didn’t think I’d been so long.’

*

Drusus lay back on the bench, sunbathing, trying to let the pain seep from his mind now she was gone. But it would not; too much of the malevolent haze associated with her remained in the air. He got up and left the aviary, glad to realise that already Una was out of sight. He wandered across the grass, but he could not get away from it – he was drifting as if against his will towards the fountains, among rose bushes where he’d first kissed Tulliola. He gave in and went and looked at the same stones and flowers, dipped his hands in the water to cool them.

Still he had the sense that he’d let something go terribly wrong – worse, that he was allowing it
now
, that there
might just still be time to save himself, but that he didn’t know how.

He saw a woman heading aimlessly across the garden and feared for a moment that it was Una coming back, and thought of hiding. But it was Makaria, so he raised a hand in greeting and she swerved towards him. She was dressed – unusually for her – in a floor-length dress, not the height of fashion; there was a veil hanging back from brooches in her short stiff hair. She looked uncomfortable and hot.

‘You weren’t at the meeting,’ said Drusus.

Makaria dropped wearily onto the seat at the edge of the fountain with a little groan. ‘I’ve been in Veii. Showing the Novians care.’

‘Oh, Jove. How was
that
?’

‘Looking at rubble and sitting at bedsides? Boring and upsetting in equal measure. Someone had to do it, though.’

Drusus nodded.

Makaria peered at him curiously and said, ‘Are you all right? You look pale.’

‘I feel it,’ he muttered.

‘Are you ill?’

‘No. Oh, it’s just – it’s just Marcus.’

‘Hmm,’ she said, her face tightening slightly in disapproval.

He sighed. He did not want to hear her defending Marcus’ plans, he’d had enough of that. ‘And that girl.’

‘Una?’

‘She followed me out and wouldn’t go away.’

Makaria made a vaguely sympathetic, tutting sound.

Drusus hesitated, and confessed suddenly, ‘You know, it’s stupid. But she – she made me feel … I can’t seem to shake it off. Do you know what I mean at all? Have you ever found her … unsettling?’

Makaria gave a short laugh. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, very. Well, I owe her a lot. But, to be honest, yes. After all she is …’

‘What?’

Makaria seemed reluctant to answer. ‘A witch, I was going to say,’ she admitted at last.

A premonitory alarm inserted taut claws into Drusus’ flesh. ‘A witch?’

Makaria’s face had grown tense, her mouth contracted. There was a pause, during which Drusus felt a fury of impatience, before she went on. ‘You know, don’t you, that Tullia tried to blame everything on me?’

So many mentions of his love’s name in such a short space of time, it frightened him as well as hurting him. He made himself nod. ‘The sweets … ’

‘Yes. I got dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to find that out. That even
Daddy
thought …’ She broke off. Drusus, bawling at her in his mind to spit it out, placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. It worked, Makaria finished: ‘And she – Una was there. She was there with Marcus. She knew I was telling the truth. She knew Tullia was lying. And it seems she can do that – know what people are thinking. Someone should have found her and apprenticed her at Delphi or Cumae, or done
something
with her. Because I don’t know how Marcus can stand it, really.’

Drusus felt the ground tip sideways, his blood sliding with it, sheets of boiling ice hitting his skin. It did not occur to him to doubt what Makaria said, or ask himself if there could be any other explanation for what Una had known. Makaria had mentioned the Oracles, and Drusus thought of the Sibyl and thought of Una, and stark as the physical differences between them were, there seemed something about them that was the same; a remote secretive pride. He felt certain it was true. Reeling, he made himself skim through the innocuously worded conversation with Una, and saw that, yes, it was exactly as bad as he felt it to be. His lips felt numb, as if he were dying of cold, it took such an effort even to whisper, ‘I see. That explains it.’

‘What is it?’

Drusus just managed to lift his hand, clasping his head as if it ached. ‘The heat. I do feel ill.’

He was telling the truth. He could scarcely breathe, scarcely keep his balance. He stammered some further excuses about getting into the shade. He lurched across the alien ground towards the Palace, tripped as he reached the steps, bruising his hands as he had to put them down to save himself, groaning, ‘Oh please, oh no …’

Why was he going back towards the Golden House?
There was no refuge, unless he could get out of his own body. Oh, somebody help me, his desperate self keened. Oh, gods above, please, someone help.

And even before the pavilion came into full sight, he remembered Marcus’ speech in the Forum. Una might not have reached him. Surely she could not have done. There was still some time before this disaster took full effect. And the same calm, decisive voice that had tried to help him in the aviary said to him, booming across the gardens so loudly that the earth seemed to shake:
No half-measures. No one else to help you. Find her now. Do it.

Only once in his life had he killed with his own hands. The memory, which Una had already scraped raw, loosed tears from his eyes. And to do it again now – so unprepared, with so little warning – ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ he whimpered pitifully to himself, as his body shook. He didn’t know where she was, he had no weapon, the Palace was full of people. Even if he could do it, how could he keep it distant from himself – how could he be safe once it was done?

And it occurred to him then that it didn’t matter. If he couldn’t kill her, he was finished anyway, so to do it and fail to make it look like an accident or someone else’s fault could make things no worse. He would at least have a chance.

The voice continued. It was his own, he realised now, but sounding older and firmer, and it spoke to him like a good father, stern and dispassionate, but on his side. And now it told him the crucial, glaring fact: that it was because of Una that he could never see his lover again.
That
was what Makaria’s uneasy gratitude to the girl had meant.
She
had pointed the finger,
she
had killed Tulliola as surely as if she had been the one to hold the knife. To think of Una, sitting there so primly, and a murderer …! It was amazing that he could have gone this many seconds without seeing it.

Drusus gasped, shakily, at the blurred grass. ‘Oh,’ he said softly, no longer moaning. ‘Oh.’ He took a slow, thirsty draught of the warm air, and exhaled, blowing his panic and misery away into the roses. If the situation had not been so appalling he knew he would even have felt a load lift. With unusual clarity, he remembered the morning before
he’d seen Tulliola for the last time, in his hand, the small weight of the jewelled hairpin that he’d kept so long. He remembered scraping away little shavings of gold from its point, knowing he
had
to do it. And that was truer even than he’d known at the time. He could see his anguish as he sharpened the pin, and even the act that had followed, as if Una had been in each room, a poison in the air.

Drusus raised his head to look up at the stark height of the Palace wall – a great gold precipice. He walked steadily towards it, under the shade of the awning. The muscles of his stomach twisted in anxious nausea. How could he even get close to her – wouldn’t she know at once what he meant to do to her? But he strode rapidly on, as if he knew how he could overcome this. He knew that he
would
know, because he’d never felt this before – this quiet, resigned, chiselled fury. No, not even with Marcus, even though sometimes his cousin’s very existence seemed an unbearable check to his own. He had never hated anyone until now.