Rome Burning (64 page)

And then she was outside, alone, under the foreign night sky.

There was a firm, rapid beat on the door. Varius was back in his rooms after walking through the city until after darkness fell, letting some of the unease and strain beat out of himself into the clean white pavements under his feet. He opened the door and found Una standing there, hugging her arms and shivering so that for a moment he had the bizarre impression that the weather outside had changed and frozen, and that she was soaked to the skin with icy rain. Then he saw her pale, hardened face, and that she had been crying, and would cry later – but not now, not while talking to him.

‘Come in,’ he said at once, concerned, but she shook her head, vehemently, as if he were asking her to part with something essential.

‘I’m saying goodbye,’ she announced, rather roughly, her mouth folding tightly as she finished speaking.

He could see at once that she wasn’t simply going home to see Sulien. He didn’t say anything.

‘He’ll marry her. Noriko. He’s been asked to. What’s he supposed to do? Bound to happen really. So …’ she shuddered again, looked at him, and shrugged.

‘I’m sorry.’

Una smiled at him unevenly. She remarked with a kind of fractured brightness, ‘I wish you could tell me this was the wrong thing to do.’

He’d really been trying to think of something, as he took in the implications of the marriage being suggested openly, at this point. ‘I do too,’ he said.

She nodded a few times. ‘I’m glad you were there, these last two weeks.’

He held out his hand. She gripped it quickly and jerked her head the way she’d come, towards Marcus’ quarters. ‘Please can you – please make sure he’s – please keep an eye on him.’

‘Of course I will,’ Varius said.

Marcus stood where she had left him, breathless, shaking. This rigour, this pain he was in, did not tempt him to rest or sink into it; it was not released by the splintery tears in his eyes. Instead it gripped and rolled with a terrible lacerating energy; it demanded some kind of action, and yet for the moment it would not let him move. His heartbeat bucked and surged and seethed.

And then, as he turned his head, he saw the texture of the wall change. The dark, carved wood put out tiny hairs, or petals, or tongues. And these lapped and rippled and breathed, and then seemed to melt and crumple down together as if the wall were a rough covering, a
skin
, which was about to slither loose.

Marcus lurched back with a gasp that felt ripped out of him, like a strip of fabric being torn away. He swung around, throwing an unsteady accusing gaze all round him – and the illusion had gone, it had scarcely lasted a second. Yet nothing looked normal any more. It was what he’d seen, three
years ago, under the action of the drug in the Aesculapian hospital and the Galenian Sanctuary. He’d been made to seem mad – to
be
mad, so that all his claims of conspiracies would appear to be the pitiable onset of the Novian affliction. And all for Drusus’ sake, as he knew now.

And afterwards, when it was over, the fear that the drug had permanently changed him, that it might trigger the disease he’d learned to dread since childhood … it had shrunk away with time until he’d almost thought it had vanished. And now …

Marcus’ breath was still harsh and ragged in his lungs, but he drew himself up straight. He punched open the door of the room and marched out, unconscious of any servant or guard in his way until he reached the pavilion in which he and Una had only lately stayed; where Drusus was now.

He stood and looked at the guards standing outside the shut doors, and said in an undertone, ‘Move aside.’

Marcus approached the door with a kind of predatory gentleness, pacing softly, delicately trying the handle. It did not surprise him that the door was locked; he grimaced, sardonically, and then he hurled himself against it shoulder first, felt the wood quiver under the impact and did it again; once, twice – and then as he stepped back to attack again the door was unlocked from within and opened inwards, suddenly.

‘Marcus,’ said Drusus from inside – a courteous greeting.

Marcus strode across the threshold. ‘Out,’ he said to the slaves – the one who had opened the door and a few others, standing in meek attendance around the room.

Drusus contradicted quickly, ‘Stay where you are.’ And Marcus watched the white, panicked flicker of his eyes as the slaves obeyed the first order, darting past him with lowered faces, out through the door.

Marcus advanced into the room, and instinctively, matching his pace, Drusus retreated. Then, sensing how close he was to being backed against the wall, he drew himself up and stood facing Marcus. For the time being, Marcus seemed to accept the degree of space between them; he came to a halt, surveying his cousin.

‘All the things you’ve done,’ Marcus said to him, his voice calm, marvelling.

‘You’ve never listened to my side of it,’ attempted Drusus, with dry lips.

Marcus gave a hard laugh. ‘Not likely to start now, then, am I?’ He took another hostile step forward. ‘My parents – they were good to you, weren’t they? Part of your family.
But that wasn’t a reason to let them live, not for you. Nothing could have been.’

Drusus felt an apprehensive swell of confusion. Leo and Clodia’s deaths seemed so fixedly part of history to him now that he could hardly remember them alive, hardly imagine that anyone could have been surprised when they were killed. ‘I’m sorry you lost your parents, Marcus – I’ve always mourned that loss. But you know it was Gabinius,
I
had no part in it—’

‘Shut up! I’m not asking you questions. I want to make you hear what you’ve done. You’re responsible for their deaths. And Gemella’s, just as much as that bitch Tulliola. Everyone I give a damn about you’ve hurt, you’ve tried to kill. I know what you’d have done to Varius and
Una
if you could.’ He could not keep himself from placing a helpless, furious stress on Una’s name. ‘When I saw the state you’d left her in—’

‘That’s not what happened,’ Drusus stammered, a cold flush rising to his face as he tried not to react at the mention of Tulliola.

‘
I said quiet
.’ Marcus shoved Drusus, slamming him against the wall and holding him there. ‘
Her
. Sulien. I know there’s nothing you won’t tear apart or wreck. The whole world if that’s what it takes, right? Kato. Those fires, all those people in Veii,
all of this now
…’

Drusus was pale, open-mouthed, staring at Marcus. He blinked and dodged free, backing away again, even more frightened than before. ‘What are you talking about? Veii? My own country? I
love
Rome; I could never betray it.’ He’d had Sulien followed for a couple of weeks, and having him killed had been an obvious possible end to the business – but his injuries at Veii had removed him from Drusus’ way for a while. And after that there had been Una, and arrest.

Marcus was coming after him, moving in a steadily prowling crescent shape, heading him off. ‘My father was Rome. And my mother. And I am.’

‘I promise I never did anything against you,’ vowed Drusus. ‘And – the Nionian lord? I don’t understand.’

Marcus stopped, reaching a moment of defeated bafflement.
‘What can you possibly hope for by denying it now?’ he asked.

‘You’re mad,’ said Drusus, recklessly, and for a split second he was chilled as something like a grin of savage concurrence cut like a blade across Marcus’ face.

And Marcus hit him in the face with all his strength. A hot spark of peace flew up his arm from his fist to his spine, glowed for an instant and died out, unsatisfyingly, so as Drusus staggered back, clutching his face, his lip already split, Marcus dragged him closer by a handful of expensive tunic, pulled tight around his neck, and hit him again. This time he felt a rubbery crunch of bone under his knuckles, which came away wet. Again the moment of release was gallingly brief. At least he’d made a start.

Bright, black craters sparked behind Drusus’ eyes, and pain inflated into the hollows of his skull, which felt huge and rocky and full of pressure, like deep-sea caves. A loose spout of blood discharged from his broken nose, spattering shockingly warm and shameful on his chest; blood splashed unexpectedly in the back of his throat too, and he had no time even to gag and spit it clear as Marcus lunged for him again. But Drusus did not hit back, not at first. He was paralysed with physical shock and terror. All day he’d been able to feel the power gathering unreasonably, like a bank of cloud, away from him, on Marcus’ side. If he provoked Marcus to call the guards back with their guns, if he gave him any excuse to have him arrested again, he felt certain he wouldn’t survive. He could only hope to get away, or to last it out.

Marcus knocked him backwards twice, driving him against the side table behind him so its edge bit against the small of his back and a row of ornaments sprayed across the floor, smashed. Drusus pressed an arm desperately on Marcus’ chest, trying to lever his way past, and another blow landed on the side of his face, shivering through the broken bones and causing a whirling drain of dizziness to swill through his head. He grabbed Marcus’ forearms and tried to force them back, propelling him a few feet towards the centre of the room. The pain grew tighter and more solid on his face, like something knotted around it, a blindfold.

Marcus felt the resistance as irrelevant, silly. He kicked, scraping a foot hard down Drusus’ shin, then tore free of the hold on his arms and flung Drusus right back over the little table, head smacking against the wall. Drusus crumpled, tripping over the fallen table as he crashed down, but at least further from Marcus now. He kicked the table away and scrambled towards the door, propping himself against the wall, limping. Marcus hurled himself after him.

‘
I’m sorry
,’ choked Drusus hopelessly, his breath wet, blood filming the words. But Marcus brought him down, fists stabbing at him, so that Drusus, too late, had to try and fight in earnest, clubbing and batting at Marcus, whose hands, clothes and unrecognisable face were flecked with red – and not a bruise on him yet.

At last Drusus succeeded in writhing onto his feet, Marcus still clutching and lashing at him, and threw a wild punch, strengthened by panic, that skated across Marcus’ cheek, catching hard enough on the bone that Marcus veered back – and felt nothing, no pain at all. He said, ‘I’ll kill you,’ and felt a bright elation of discovery at the knowledge that this was exactly what he meant, exactly what he was doing.

He had no idea what the next blow did to Drusus’ face. He grabbed him again, by the neck and sleeve, and threw Drusus away from him once more, and the intermittent, observing part of him that was not involved in the fight was coldly surprised at how far Drusus hurtled across the room, how hard he fell, plunging down in a pile-up of furniture and noise. He did not get up.

Marcus walked over to Drusus quite slowly, brushing toppled chairs out of his way as he went, unearthing him. Drusus was curled on his side under the heap, silent. Marcus kicked at one shoulder, turning Drusus onto his back. Drusus gulped in a bubbling red breath, but his swollen eyes did not open; he lay with his face white around the dark plastering of blood, his arms outflung. One hand lay loose beside Marcus’ foot; Marcus flicked it delicately into position with the toe of his boot, and then stamped down onto it. Drusus jackknifed into consciousness, flailing, tugging at his trapped hand, a weak, rasping shriek of agony forced out of him. Marcus pressed his weight down, twisting on the
crushed fingers, as if trying to smear them into a paste on the wood floor. Drusus thrashed, still screaming as he tried to pull away, then clawed up with his free hand, clutching at Marcus’ clothes, dragging so that Marcus fell onto him, releasing the wrecked hand, but burying fists and knees into Drusus’ stomach, ribs, throat.

But Drusus, frustratingly, seemed no longer to be there. Marcus could feel nothing under his hands; he knocked and pounded furiously as if on a locked door, but the punches seemed to vanish into air. Drusus had escaped him by dissolving, turning insubstantial as smoke. So he leant, gasping, on Drusus’ neck, then on the smashed face, damming up the thin flow of bloodied air. He could not feel if Drusus struggled – could not even see him any more.

Someone caught him by the shoulders and swung him away. Marcus, who had felt, with his hands pressed over Drusus’ mouth, as he were passing into a sleep-like void, jerked, suddenly electrified again with indignation. He pushed the man back, elbowing fiercely, shouting, ‘I said
get out
,’ swerved round to get in a more emphatic push or strike, and found it was Varius, who hadn’t let go of him. Who said, quietly, ‘Marcus. Stop. You can stop now.’

Marcus stared at him, panting, baffled. He muttered, ‘Leave me alone, Varius.’

‘No,’ said Varius. ‘No.’

On the ground, Drusus lolled feebly, trying to breathe.

Marcus grimaced impatiently and shook free, and surged back towards Drusus. At once Varius seized him again, silently holding him back. Marcus struggled, snarled, ‘
I’m warning you
,’ and threw his weight against Varius, dashing him into the wall as he had done to Drusus. And Varius simply allowed him to do it, without tensing against the collision, without flinching. Not even the still look on his face altered, so that at the last instant Marcus pulled back a little, instinctively softening the impact. He was far beyond forming the thought that Varius must have taught himself this deliberate non-resistance in those weeks of silence in prison, but something like it stirred queasily on the edge of his mind and he said roughly, ‘What’s wrong with you? You wanted this. You told me you wanted me to do this.’