The Snake Catcher Page 6

  By afternoon, when Mani was riding the sky and Sunna was on her way down, both chased by the sky wolves, we saw the graveyards around Augusta Taurinorum. Then we saw the walls, which were high and imposing. The city was a former military camp transformed into a sprawling city.

  “Augustus and his kin are there,” I told my friends. “Tiberius told me.”

  Rochus grunted. “Ready to join us for the trip down Via Aurelia and the coast. I doubt he will be walking,” he snorted.

  “I wonder if he hates Tiberius for doing so,” I muttered. “I wonder if he is truly unhappy about the passing of Drusus.”

  Wandal slapped me. “Shut up. You’re too loud, you damned idiot, eh?”

  I nodded at Rochus. “He’s infected me with bold speech.”

  He shook his head. “But, I only speak boldly when there are only you fools around.”

  Brimwulf agreed with a grunt, as some Batavi gave us curious glances. They were auxilia, not Guards, but my friends were right. We were part of the Guard of Augustus, and would have to tread quietly. No need to alert the snake, I thought, and wondered if Julia had come forth to meet her husband. My discussion with Tiberius had left me nervous. Julia, and possibly her conspirators, could be anyone. Or, despite what Tiberius had said, it could be Augustus behind the whole thing. I felt paranoid and afraid for Cassia.

  Why had I not been cautious and left her north? I thought.

  But, I also knew she had been waiting for me for far too long already.

  We passed the marble and stone graveyards, with the hundreds of stones and mausoleums for the rich, and heard how legionnaires chortled at their oddly cheerful or sarcastic messages. We approached the walls, and entered the Porta Decumana, which had been garlanded with flowers.

  Hundreds of people had gathered in the sides of the streets.

  There was no silence. Some women, disheveled, were screaming their sorrow to the winds, hands stretched towards the body of Drusus, who had already passed them. They were preficae, hired mourners. I remembered my tutor, Marcus, telling me about them.

  “What in the name of Woden’s ball hair are they doing?” Wandal muttered, as he saw the creatures bow down to the stone road.

  “Look like drunk völva,” I whispered back. “Mad as bats in sunlight.”

  They tore at their hair and skin with dirty fingernails. They screamed uncontrollably, then burst into song, and I had to slap Wandal to keep him from chortling out too loudly. I noticed Cassia had already done the same on his other side. Some, exhausted by their performance, fell on their sides, rolling in uncontrollable, fake sadness, and I noticed even some of the townsfolk hid smiles at the sight.

  In the crowds, men and women served food and drinks to the spectators, and there were actors, professional entertainers, making jokes at the expense of the men who carried Drusus, though I noticed they didn’t mock Drusus or Tiberius, who was walking next to the lictors now. We had seen many cities, with modest mix of Roman and local, but the closer to Rome we came, the more things changed.

  “Look at those things,” Cassia breathed, and pointed discreetly at rows of porticos, shaded sidewalks, and the insulae, apartment buildings, that rose high above walkways. The buildings were many storied, with brown, red, and white walls. Some widows were closed with shutters, some sported precarious looking balconies hanging over the streets. People lined the sides of the houses under the porticos, and faces flashed in the windows. Children peeked through the shutters and drapes, and some women were swiftly gathering laundry from the windows. They had probably been warned to make the street look presentable. An array of red and brown rooftops stretched right, left, and before us, and we rode on. Sunna was on its very final stretch, and red, orange and light blue shades deepened in the sky.

  Rochus spoke. “They say the great Roman cities are dead at nighttime. I guess this is a special occasion.”

  He was correct, and I saw oil lamps being lit across the street in preparation for the night to come. Artisans, craftsmen, merchants, nobles all mixed in the crowd. Romans, many wearing white shoes, the commoners in tunics of brown, white, and gray, stood silently on each side of a vici that led through the city made of stone, wood, marble, and brick. Cassia rode next to me, looking shyly at the Roman women, whose hair were elaborately prepared, their stolae bright with reds and blues, and a mix of subtler colors. Many had shawls, palla, on their shoulders and over their head. They rather resembled the brazenly colorful statues that adorned many streets and corners. There were more of the many storied buildings, where people looked down upon us in silence. Finally, we came to an area of houses, with simple façades and two stories. They were domus, private buildings of the wealthier people. Some had shops around the main entrance.

  Cassia pulled at my tunic. “What is that? Look.”

  There, another domus, a Roman noble villa, with stone benches in front, and a wall where hundreds of clay-made arms, hands, what appeared to be eyes, and even cocks, had been hung. “Sorcery?” she whispered.

  Rochus snorted. “No, a doctor. Surgeon, likely. They leave offerings in thanks—”

  “It is incredible, but ghastly. Like our sacred groves,” I agreed, tearing my eyes off the strange wall of offerings.

  I was distracted. I felt lost in the winding streets of the city. I stared at the people, and I had no idea what made them happy, unhappy, or how to approach them. I looked at the partially paved roads, mixed oddly with muddy, dark alleys where few lights shone, and I missed the woods, hills, and streams of home.

  Find proof Julia had killed Drusus? I? A woodsman?

  And to serve Livia?

  She would laugh when she saw me, meandering around, trying to wear one of the togas. She claimed I’d be very useful in finding the guilt of Julia, but surely she would change her mind quickly enough when she saw me.

  Had father felt this lost when he came to Rome? How had he survived?

  The Batavi stopped their horses. Something was happening up front.

  “Look at them,” Mathildis whispered, holding her rounding belly. “Look. Why?”

  “Shit,” Tudrus whispered, and I snapped my head to the right, where a block of insulae stretched far to the dark. There was a simple fountain near us, really just a slab of stone with running water spurting from a beak, but around it sat a few families, and one man, the father of a family, his hair dirty and disheveled, was looking blankly at us. A bedraggled woman was crying, but not for Drusus, because their child was on the mother’s lap, her belly swollen.

  People died all over Midgard. People died in Germania.

  They did, even in our homeland.

  Some starved to death, if it was winter, and there was nothing to eat, and disease took many, no matter the time of the year.

  These people were living in the street. In Germania, a man might expect help from a noble or kind neighbor of the village, and possibly still keep some dignity, if in distress. Not so in Rome. There were others, many families, squatting under the porticos, leaning on walls. Some had even their furniture with them.

  Rochus cleared his throat with distaste. “They probably couldn’t afford to renew their rent.”

  “Rent?” I growled softly.

  “Yes, rent,” he said. “Look, very few own a flat, a room in one of those buildings. They pay someone to live in one, see? I heard a Roman officer once discussing the ways of Rome with Segestes. They can’t pay, so they live in the street until they find a job or something else to do. Streets are dangerous in the nighttime, but now they have no choice.” Next to that family, there was a man in a voluminous toga. He was eating a chunk of focaccia bread, while staring at Drusus’s corpse being carried by the city officials towards the forum.

  Wandal was pulling at my sleeve. “Should you help them?”

  I pulled at the bread we had been issued from my bag, nodding.

  The food bag was empty. I gave him a suspicious look. “You ate yours already, right?”

  “I ate it,” he said with guilt
-ridden face. “Sorry, I forgot. Oh, don’t give me that look. Yes, I ate yours as well. But, you know me, eh?”

  “Shit,” I said. “You’re growing fat.”

  “He’d eat a mule, if one fell dead before him,” Tudrus said, gaunt in his anger, as he also stared at the gorging noble, who paid no mind to the child staring at him hungrily. “Give them something, Hraban. Coins?”

  Gernot opened his mouth to protest, but I growled.

  I pulled at my sack of coins.

  Ignoring my show of displeasure, Gernot guided his horse next to mine, and put a hand over the pouch. He frowned, and I frowned back, but he shook his head, as our newly renewed relationship was being tested again. He spoke softly. “It won’t make a difference. We get paid well, yes. Yet, as a Guardsman, we have no idea how much everything costs. The Guards—”

  Wandal, hating him, spoke, “You have one hand,” he said brusquely. “They will not take you in.”

  My friends had no love for him and they grunted in agreement.

  His face tightened, and he bit back an acid answer. He nodded towards the poor family, and spoke to me as if to an idiot, an old habit of his which annoyed me every time. “We’ll need to save our money. We’ll be armed and armored … or you shall be, if I don’t make the cut, and all that will probably cost us. We might need money for expenses, food, even lodging. You cannot ask Tiberius for it, meowing like a puppy. We know nothing. Save the coin.”

  I clutched the pouch with all our pay and his hand fell off. We had eaten with the troops thus far, and an insistent voice in my head told me Gernot might be infuriatingly right. Nonetheless, I put my hand inside the pouch, and pulled out a handful of asses, and some sestertiuses. “They will eat. I’ll think about our needs later. But, I won’t walk away from a starving girl and her mother. She’s the same age as Lif.”

  “Make sure no thieves take any,” Gernot said thinly, shaking his head. His weak beard and slouched appearance made him look jaundiced and older than he was. I guided my horse aside. I wore Leuthard’s old armor, which was grimy and dusty. We hadn’t bathed, our clothes were rough, in need of repair, the legionnaire chain rusty in places, and our beards were wild and long. We all towered far over the average man on the street. I pushed my horse towards the rich man in a toga, a noble or official of some sort, his hair brushed forward to cover a balding head, and the horse maliciously didn’t alter his way as he ploughed for the man.

  The man shrieked, and I pushed him with my foot as he dodged, and he fell on his rear. The column was moving a bit, as the dead one was being maneuvered for lodging for the night, but I was in no hurry. The noble man got up, looked up at me, then to my sword and shook his head as he took steps away.

  I turned my eyes at the woman. The wife of the family pushed a lock of dark hair out of her eyes, as she peered up at me. There was fear in her face. The wife lifted their daughter to the side, and got up, on weak knees. The husband followed suit, his chin unshaved, and reek of sweat clear in the evening air as he adjusted his dirty tunic. I looked down at him, and saw the noble Roman was about to complain, having gathered his bravery, when Wandal, Bohscyld, and Agetan guided their horses next to him. That gave him a final change of heart. He disappeared into the crowd. I hesitated, leaned down, and gave the poor man a half fistful of coins, enough to make his eyes pop out of his head.

  The woman grabbed my hand, her eyes moist, and the man was bowing, speaking softly, perhaps praying. I guided my horse to the side, and my friends followed me. The column had stopped again, as officials were conducting their ass-kissing routine up in the forum, which I now saw beyond an arch of some sort.

  Cassia gave me a long look, her face smooth and emotionless. “You did well.”

  “I feel good about it.” I smiled.

  She grabbed my bag of coins, and I saw Gernot smile at me coldly. He pointed his stump to the fountain. I turned my head to look at the family. The girl and the mother were still sitting by the fountain. The man had wandered off, bought a jar of wine, and ate the bread he had picked up from the ground.

  I could only stare blankly.

  Tudrus cursed, and began turning his horse around, and so did Wandal, but Brimwulf stopped his horse before them and looked past them at me. He glowered at us. “This is a different world, Raven. Perhaps you should observe and adapt, eh? There are shitty men in Germania as well, as you remember.”

  I waved my hand at him, and knew I’d have hard time accepting a scene, like the one I just saw. “That man—”

  “You’ll not save every person here, in Rome, or Gaul,” Cassia said. “And it’s high time I take care of the coins again. Gernot’s right.”

  Cassia picked out a silver coin from the bag, waiting until the drunken man turned away, and threw the coin to the woman, who took it from her lap, and smiled thankfully. I stared at Cassia with incredulity, and she scowled back. “She’s a sister. Never give money to a man.”

  An optio was rushing for us. The column was dispersing. There was a massive commotion, as Centurions were yelling orders. He spotted me and, hobnails clanking, he dragged his feet our way. He spoke with haste, while pointing toward the head of the column. “They are all there, the family. They are staying in some houses, and Tiberius is staying in that domus,” he said, indicating a sturdy building near a marketplace to the side. It had two stories, no windows, heavy gates. I stared at him in utter stupefaction, and he stated at me. “What? You expect a written invitation? Get to work! You are his bodyguards, no?”

  I gawked, nodded, and we rode that way, and got to work, indeed.

  Our holiday was over.

  ***

  Tiberius was seated by a table in a tastefully painted atrium with shady pillars. There were two side rooms where dozens of chilling clay masks were displayed. The cubiculum, bedrooms, were around the atrium, though empty. The whole house was empty, the owners having given it over for the night to their illustrious guests. The vestibulum, the corridor leading outside, and more similar ones leading further into the house, were lit with oil lamps.

  Tiberius was eating focaccia, which he dipped in olive oil. He had had some gruel, and Wandal and I stood near him, staring forward, not sure if we were supposed to do something more than resemble ugly, dirty statues who guarded his life. Our bellies were rumbling with hunger.

  And yet, now, we were in charge of this great man’s life. The house was empty, save for us. The posticum, the servants’ entrance, was barred and guarded. The main door had guards. The windows were closed.

  I squinted up to the roof, wondering if a killer might come down from the hole. The light of Mani filtered down from a hole in the roof, which was called compluvium.

  No killer would touch Tiberius, while we stood there.

  Tiberius’s table was set in tablinum, a sort of an open study by the atrium, where the patron would conduct business. There were many rooms, and even a garden further in, and a secluded study, but Tiberius wanted to sit there, in full sight of us, though he had not uttered a single word. I was staring around; hand clutching spear, and Wandal was sneaking looks at the pool, called the impluvium, in the middle of the room. There were dark flowers floating on the pool of rainwater, probably to signify the mourning of the owners of the domus for Drusus. To the side, a small stone lararium, a shrine to the lares, the household spirits, held food sacrifices given that morning. Some flies had been busy with the food, and I wondered if a slave had forgotten to clean it before Tiberius arrived. There were incredible paintings on the walls, and most depicted scenes of green forests, mountains, tall trees, and intricately painted animals. We had never seen the like. The paintings were intriguing, colorful, especially in the light of the oil lamps, making them almost look alive. Our finest halls seem like outhouses in comparison. Tiberius was not saying anything, still in his armor, the toga abandoned on a chair. He was very deep in his thoughts, and we remained silent, keeping still.

  A slave girl, perhaps ten, walked by, and smiled like a ghost, as she lifte
d a lid off the floor, and hoisted water from some underground well.

  “The rainwater,” Wandal whispered, indicating to the roof. “They hold and use it.”

  “Shh,” I breathed. “So do we back home.”

  “I never noticed,” he muttered.

  I stiffened. Tiberius had moved. I wasn’t sure what to expect, since I didn’t know the man well enough, but he ignored us. He walked to a bronze plated cabinet. He stared inside for a moment, and grasped a silver goblet of intricate make, which he carried with him to the table.

  He poured wine from a pitcher of clay to the goblet. It drizzled pleasantly, and then he sat back down, and lifted the death mask of Drusus, rather similar to the few hung on the walls of two open rooms next to the atrium. He stared at the face of his brother, picked up his simple clay cup, toasted, and waited.

  There was a commotion outside.

  Horse’s hooves could be heard, men were speaking urgently, and I recognized the voice of Tudrus, and heard a grunt from Bohscyld. Cassia was somewhere on the second floor with Mathildis, and the sudden tension in the atmosphere made me wish I could check she was fine.

  The doors opened.

  Tiberius got up, leaned on the table, and put down the death mask. He grabbed the fine silver goblet, and turned. Wandal and I took steps to stand closer to him, but Tiberius shook his head without looking at us, and I pulled at Wandal’s sleeve, stopping him.

  The door opened. Steps could be heard in the vestibulum, and they approached. A shadow moved. It was a lictor, who stared at us with surprise, and Tiberius shook his head at him as well. The man hesitated, walking away, and then, I saw Augustus for the first time.

  He was a scion of lesser men in the family of Julius Caesar.

  Many had expected the sickly boy would never grow to truly embrace the legacy Julius Caesar built for him.