Rome Burning (58 page)

‘
Lal
,’ Una interrupted with abrupt, stern urgency, almost in a shout. ‘If there are Roman agents looking for you, they’re acting for Drusus. He must have your letter. I don’t know what he wants with you but it won’t be good. You can’t let them find you.’

‘My letter …?’ repeated Lal, overwhelmed and dizzy.

‘Listen. We’ve got ten days. After that, or if the war starts, you’ll have to give up on us. Until then you stay as hidden as you can. If you have to move on, get a message to me again the same way, otherwise, if Marcus comes back, if I get out of this, I will contact you there. And I will send someone and I will get you to Rome. And if you do hear that the war’s beginning, then at least it means Drusus almost definitely isn’t after you any more. You’ll have to – I don’t know, you’ll have to do what you and Delir and Ziye would have done if they hadn’t been arrested. I’m sorry.’

Lal let out an unsteady breath, unable to speak. What answer was there to that?

‘Lal,’ said Una again, a gentler, regretful catch in her
voice now. ‘It would be really good to talk to you if it wasn’t for all this.’

Lal put the longdictor circlet heavily down on the table. It occurred to her that she was trembling, and she thought with a sense of vague bewilderment and annoyance, but I’m not that scared. That was strange, really – why wasn’t she? She was too tired to be scared. She hugged herself vaguely. And then she noticed at last that it made no sense to be so cold in the neutral, muggy air, and then realised that the dull, lethargic weight that had been pulsing in her head and limbs for at least the last two days was pain. For the first time she thought; I’m getting ill.

*

In Bianjing, Una turned off the longdictor and leant back in the chair, sighing. She muttered, ‘Well, there’s another reason to hope this works out.’

Noriko extracted the little cylinder on which the conversation had been stored from the base of the longdictor. It had been a condition of obtaining permission for the Roman hostage to make a short call that it should be recorded, although by now Noriko trusted Una enough to believe her agitated account of what the word Holzarta meant.

Then Tadahito broke suddenly into the room, his face pale. He stood and stared at Una and Noriko with an expression that hovered between wonder and distrust. He demanded, ‘You have done this? This bargain with the Empress – you and Lord Varius?’

‘Yes,’ Una said, starkly.

‘And you?’ he said, turning on Noriko switching to Nionian, his voice bright with accusation.

Noriko bowed calmly to her brother. ‘Yes. Forgive me if I did wrong.’

Tadahito took a half-exasperated breath and looked speechlessly from the two women to Varius, who had emerged from the inner room where he had been asleep.He remarked to all of them, ‘Drusus Novius has already made his threat. He demands that we hand you back to Rome, or face reprisals.’

‘He can no longer act on that threat, or repeat it,’ said
Varius, standing propped in the doorway between rooms. ‘At least not for now. So you pretend you did not see it, or know it arrived. You don’t respond. It never happened.’

Tadahito’s wary look at him diffused gradually, growing cautiously thoughtful, testing the idea.

Una said, with the lucid, adamant force in her voice again, ‘Marcus left us here in his place, to represent him while he’s gone. We should go on from where you left off. We should carry on the work, for the time we’ve got.’

*

There was definitely a noise in the sky, a steady, drilling rasp, a dull hammering of the air. It had passed the point where it could have been a desperate trick of imagination, nor was it wind or oncoming rain. It scraped away the surface of instinctive fears he’d learned three years ago, and his blood ran faster, but there was eager anticipation in it now. Marcus pressed against the windows of the carriage, but the sound was coming from behind the train, he could only see colourless sky. They’d locked the door to the saloon balcony days ago.

He had not seen the torn tunic or the photograph of Sulien since that morning four days earlier. Of course he did not need to see them. Day by day the train had remained motionless on the magnetway and the magistrate of Roxelania continued to watch him with vigilant, critical eyes, and Marcus could not stamp the thought of it down into his dreams, as he had done to his fear over Una and Varius. There was no point until which he could safely defer thinking about it; it was too concrete. There was a decision that had to be made. And innumerable circumstances, choices he might make, interviews with Faustus, ways out, acted themselves within his mind as if a dreadful locked theatre had been forcibly constructed there, but all the time he was chilled by the quiet but definite appeal that kept recurring in his mind: ‘Sulien. Forgive me.’

But now there were Roman military aircraft out there, flying low, closing in. What did they want with him? If the soldiers on board the train were taken by surprise, as he sensed they were, what would they do?

They landed, shining on the coarse grass, dark-uniformed men bursting out of them just as they had on Siphnos. Instinctively Marcus stepped back as they leapt up and in through the doors. A legionary found him at once, and said, ‘You must come with us immediately, Caesar.’

‘Come where?’ said Marcus, noticing the use of the title, unconsciously caressing the Imperial plumb of gold on his index finger with the tip of his thumb.

The officer looked confused. ‘Rome, of course, sir.’

Marcus felt a smile of tense triumph wrench at his mouth. ‘It will be good to be home,’ he said. And as he went forward to join them, he looked back only to stare coldly at the nervous magistrate of Roxelania, and say, ‘I told you. I will remember you.’

Marcus never left the aircraft when they stopped to refuel at Trapezus. But they lingered on the ground for so long that his grim excitement began to fade and he wondered if this was only another stage of obstruction. But then he heard the wings begin to turn again and a cold, bracing surge of air flooded the cabin as the hatchway opened and Salvius entered.

Marcus stared at him, straightening in his seat. ‘Salvius. Is this your doing?’

‘Well, of course it is,’ said Salvius brusquely.

Marcus continued to look at him fixedly until Salvius turned his eyes away in impatient unease. Marcus said at last, ‘Thank you.’

‘Caesar,’ said Salvius drily. ‘I must in conscience say I didn’t do this as a favour to you. Whatever this problem with the magnetway, it was becoming absurd. The situation must be resolved. You must answer to the Emperor.’

‘Then I still say, thank you,’ maintained Marcus. ‘But Salvius, don’t you realise Drusus arranged this? He knows he’s at risk when I see the Emperor, because he knows how many lies he’s told him, and you.’

‘Your cousin has been in contact deploring the delay.’

‘But he didn’t order you to do what you have now. I imagine he said there were other concerns than a few days of my time lost in Sarmatia. Maybe he even admitted that his efforts in Bianjing would run more smoothly without
my interference. But you decided that was wrong. Didn’t you?’

Salvius said nothing.

‘Tell me something else. My friend Sulien – is he under arrest now?’

Salvius frowned, as if afraid of being drawn into some kind of trap. ‘No. Unfortunately, he is not.’

Marcus dropped his head back against the seat with a gasp. And yet the strong, wonderful relief came with an immediate knowledge that in another second he was going to have to let it go.

If Salvius were not so deep in Drusus’ confidence that he could not act independently, as he had done, then he might not know if Sulien were being held or not. Probably would not, in fact. Salvius’ denial only meant that if it had happened, it had not been officially acknowledged. And people could certainly disappear – look at what had happened to Varius three years ago.

And then, in the cold, silent voice he had shrunk from ever since he’d seen that terrible picture, he told himself: Believe what Salvius says – if you need something comforting to tell yourself. Take it at face value. Take the risk. It’s the only thing you can do.

Please forgive me, Sulien.

‘Marcus,’ said Faustus. He sounded surprised and uneasy. ‘You’re finally home.’

Marcus remained standing at the far end of the room, the shut doors behind him, and did not come forward. ‘Yes.’

‘I’m glad to see you,’ Faustus said coolly. Marcus clenched his teeth against an involuntary little spurt of bitter laughter. Faustus’ face hardened, and then turned away. He muttered regretfully, ‘Perhaps this can wait until morning.’

‘No. It cannot.’ Tiredness was ground into his skin like a layer of dirt, his clothes felt travel-creased and stale. He had come straight from the landing field in the Palace grounds. Salvius, at least, had approved of his resistance of all protests or suggestions of rest. It was late evening, and Bianjing was five hours ahead. Three thousand miles away, Drusus was probably asleep. Marcus didn’t want him waking up before this was done.

‘What do you say, then?’

Marcus looked carefully at a detail of the mosaic at his feet. He said quietly, ‘You’re ill. I must make allowances for the fact that you’re ill. Otherwise what you’ve done would be unforgivable.’

Faustus hoisted himself up a little, insulted. ‘I am not so ill I don’t know what I’m doing.’

‘Don’t tell me that!’ Marcus shouted. ‘You undermine everything I’ve worked for, the work my parents died for. You set a murderer loose with two Empires to ruin. You listen to this poisonous drivel about my friends, you risk their lives – you make
me
risk their lives. You’d
better
not have known what you were doing!’

‘Be quiet,’ barked Faustus, furiously.

‘You didn’t bring me here to be quiet. If you didn’t want to listen to me you shouldn’t have signed that letter. What is it you wanted answered, then? That I’ve let my friends control me, that they’re using me to wreck Rome? Well, they’re not here now. Whether or not you like what I say, you can at least believe it comes from me.’

He strode closer to Faustus’ couch, standing over him, looking down. ‘If I were going to betray you. Get rid of you. Do you think I’d have to do it by stealth? I’m young. I’m strong. You’ve already given me your power. Would I need to dodge around in the shadows to keep it, just for fear of you? No. You’re ill and weak – like Tiberius, at the end. Caligula was already the heir. He took the Imperial ring and he smothered Tiberius with a pillow, while he was helpless. What could have stopped me doing that to you? Don’t you think that would have made my life easier? If I wanted, I could do it now.’ He shuddered with a sudden nausea as it struck him that not only was it true, but that he was actually tempted. A choice was necessary not to do it, he could not trust his nature to choose for him. He was so angry.

‘Give me back the ring,’ demanded Faustus.

Marcus stared at him in silence for a second. Then he dragged the ring off his finger and into his fist. ‘Drusus had your brother killed. For this. If you give it to him, and then ask for it back, what do you think will happen? And how long do you think
he
will let you live?’ He held it out.

Faustus took the ring, holding it between finger and thumb.

Marcus drew back from him a few steps, silent. He did not think, did not even try to read his uncle’s face, or his heavy gaze at the ring. But the air in the room seemed to pour out through the space inside the gold circle, like a small puncture in the world, a zero.

Faustus’ head fell back on the cushions, his eyes shut, his face helpless. The ring rolled loose onto his lap. Marcus remembered for the first time in months that the band had been changed to let him wear it. They could both see it was too small to fit past the top joint of Faustus’ finger, as it was now. Marcus felt a trace of compassion for him, for the first time.

‘This feud between you – both of you accuse each other of such terrible things. It can’t go on.’

‘It is not a feud,’ said Marcus. ‘There is no symmetry. He’s a manipulative criminal trying to take power by any means he can.’

‘I
can’t
believe that,’ moaned Faustus.

‘You must. At least, you can’t share it out between us. You have to believe either him or me.’

‘I can’t.’

Marcus left Faustus’ room behind, walking an unerring, purposeful course through the hushed Palace galleries and lobbies, through doors opened for him by unnoticed servants, skirting the plinths of statues, down flights of shallow marble steps – though in fact, he had no destination in mind, and could not have described a single room through which he passed. The Palace remained so deeply imprinted into his brain that he scarcely needed to look where he was going, and yet it seemed as if on another layer of the mind, he had forgotten it. He was only obeying the instinct to get a good distance away from Faustus. It was still early to consider going to bed, and yet he was more tired than he felt he had a right to be, as though it were as late here as it was in Bianjing. Finally, he cast himself back into a chair without having consciously perceived that it existed, and he laughed, without knowing why. Like a madman, he thought idly, and fell silent at once.