DARK CLOUDS had been building up in the west and the first low mutters of thunder, like the sound of a distant army marching, echoed along the sky. The day was hot and oppressive, with very little breeze from the storm that was hovering near the ocean. The air over Rome seemed filled with a nameless menace, as if rent by an unheard scream.
There were no Games at the Circus Maximus that day, "For which," said the manager of the vast amphitheatre, "I am heartily grateful. In weather like this, the way things are, we'd have fighting in the stands before the day was half over." He was standing on the spina, looking out across the sands to the tiers of seats and benches. Below him, a bestiarius was working with his performing bears while slaves spread the new sand.
Saint-Germain, who had been inspecting the hydraulic organ, agreed. "There is something worse than lightning in the air." He was dressed in the Egyptian manner, in a short military kalasiris of pleated black linen, with red Scythian boots that reached almost to his knees.
"The grain dole has been cut again and the distribution of oil was stopped day before yesterday." The manager said this calmly, though he was aware what such shortages would mean.
"What has the Emperor done?" In spite of himself, he was concerned now. If Nero did not respond to the people, they would turn against him, forgetting their enthusiastic affection for him.
"He says he's trying to get grain for them, but that Vespasianus has refused to send any grain." The manager leaned over the low rail of the spina to call to the bestiarius, "Get them to run, fool! If you can't do any better than this, I'll turn the tigers loose on you!"
The bestiarius responded with a loud, savage cry that set his animals lumbering down the sands.
"What do you think, then?" the manager asked of Saint-Germain, turning to him once again. "I know the Emperor wants the organ improved, but I can't see how it's to be accomplished."
"I think there are some things that can be done with it," he responded thoughtfully. "The pipes are old and their shape isn't true. A more perfect casting is possible, I think, and that should improve the sound. Also, the pitches are not carefully made, and that I know I can improve. It will take time, of course, but I have specialized equipment that might do what's needed. There are always problems casting brass pipes of that length; however, I'm reasonably certain that I can get what's required."
The manager, a Greek freedman, clasped his hands over his ample belly and sighed. "I'll confess that any change will be welcome. The organ has been in need of repair for some time, but there has never been anyone willing to undertake it."
"That's no longer a problem, is it?" Saint-Germain asked sweetly, then gestured toward the stairs that led to the passages beneath the floor of the arena. "I've seen enough. I'll do my calculations, and then return to get specific measurements for my work. I'll give you ample notice before I come to do the work."
"Yes, yes," said the manager, leading the way down the steep flight. "I'll need to keep the time free and make plans so that no one else is on the spina. You'll be able to work in privacy that way. We have our annual cleaning of the dolphins and eggs coming up shortly, but there shouldn't be any conflict then."
Saint-Germain acknowledged this with a wave of the hand. "I doubt we'd be in each other's way, but it will be as you wish. My body slave will bring you my message. He's with me today. You met him earlier."
The manager's expression was slightly more grim. "Oh, yes. The Egyptian."
"He's seeing to the chariot we brought for the next races. It's a new design, something borrowed from the Scythians, with deep grooves in the floor of the vehicle. You need to wear heeled boots like these"-he gestured toward his feet-"to use the grooves as braces, but one of my charioteers has been practicing with it. He claims that he can hold the team steadier this way."
They were in the underground passage now, and the air was fairly cool, filled with the odors of animals and old blood. "That's the Persian, isn't it?"
"Yes," Saint-Germain said, adding, "since that accident he had three years ago, he's been anxious to have a more stable chariot without losing any of the maneuverability he requires. I'll admit the project intrigued me."
"He's fortunate in his master," the manager said, an odd irritation in his tone. "Most owners of charioteers don't care anything about the chariots except that they be fast. If the drivers get maimed or killed, they blame their skill and not the vehicle."
This unexpected vehemence surprised Saint-Germain. He had not thought that the manager would be so sympathetic to the dangers of racing. "This design, if it proves successful, would be available to anyone who wanted to use it."
They were nearing the end of the tunnel now, and the air was very close, almost cloying. Nearby a leopard coughed and padded in a holding cage, and there was another strange sound which Saint-Germain realized was the distressed whimper of wild dogs.
"I'll let it be known, but I don't expect much. They're all used to the old designs." He stepped into the corridor that led to the stableyard. "I'm afraid I have to leave you here. There are other duties I must attend to. But I'm glad that someone is finally going to do something about that instrument. It's getting so the trumpets can't keep with its sequence." He bobbed his head once or twice, for all the world like a gigantic bird, then hurried away into the gloom under the stands.
Saint-Germain made his way along the corridor to the stableyard. His mind was preoccupied with the design problems for improving the hydraulic organ, and it was not until he was almost across the wide expanse that he became aware of a sound stronger and more near at hand than the thunder. He stopped, listening. He knew what he heard then, for he had experienced it before while watching the Games; it was the eerie drone of thousands of voices. This time it was not the buzz and rush of anticipation of the Games, but a different sound, one more chaotic, echoing off the tall walls of the insulae near the Circus Maximus where much of the population lived.
Aumtehoutep stood beside the new chariot with a stable slave, instructing him in the method of harnessing the team with the new yoke that Saint-Germain had developed, which lessened the drag of the collar strap on the horse's neck. Occasionally he would give an uneasy glance to the gates as the noise outside grew louder.
The stable slave was visibly frightened, and paying little attention to what he was being told. He was young, hardly more than a boy, and his slave's collar identifying him as the Emperor's property was fairly new.
"This," Aumtehoutep said, fingering the strap in question on the nearest of the four horses, "is a new feature as well. It runs from the collar strap to the girth, and prevents the collar riding up as well as helping to hold the girth in place. You may see how this works with the new, smaller yoke, binding less on the shoulders and making it possible for the horse to breathe more freely as it runs."
It was likely that the stable slave did not see any such thing. The noise from outside was growing louder as the mob neared the Circus Maximus, starting to mill around the huge, narrow structure.
"I am giving you instructions," Aumtehoutep reminded the stable slave sharply.
The slave gave one frightened cry of agreement, then bolted from the stableyard seeking a haven in the gigantic stables.
"He wasn't listening to you." Saint-Germain had to shout to be heard. "He's terrified."
Aumtehoutep looked severe. "The walls are stout and he was told to learn this new system of harnessing."
"Consider his position a moment," Saint-Germain suggested. "Out there are he doesn't know how many people, and they are making more noise than hungry lions. He is familiar enough with lions to recognize them in human form. Let him go, Aumtehoutep."
The large wooden gate that blocked the far end of the stableyard began to sound as fists, rocks and other things were hurled against it.
"They may break in here." Aumtehoutep said it quite calmly, his manner unafraid.
"They're probably after the food stores that are kept for the animals. There's a lot of grain brought in especially for the horses." Saint-Germain looked quickly around the suddenly empty stableyard. "I think that's their purpose, if they have one-to get the grain."
As if in acknowledgment of this assessment, the pounding on the gate grew louder, more intense, and the huge timbers began to groan under the assault. The sound of the mob had become a feral howl, like some monster out of legend hunting its victim.
There was a splintering crash and one of the thick hinges tore away from the wood. A ragged cheer rose beyond the gate and the efforts of the crowd were redoubled.
"Into the chariot," Saint-Germain said to Aumtehoutep, his manner now brisk and not open to question. He stepped into the light racing vehicle himself as he spoke, making room beside him for his slave.
The horses were restless, tossing their heads and sidling as far as their harness would allow. As a second timber splintered, the big bay on the far left side of the team, the horse that would in a race be on the inside of the sharp turns in the Circus Maximus, neighed shrilly and leaped forward, pulling the other horses with him and almost overturning the chariot.
A grating, creaking, snapping moan came from the gate as the wood gave way at last. The mob pressed against the falling timbers, frenzied with success.
Saint-Germain already had the reins in his hands as the first few figures rushed into the stableyard. With all his great strength, he dragged the horses around to face the rushing hordes of desperate Romans who poured through the broken gate like a floodtide. As the mob came on, he started the horses walking into that maddened mass of people, who were beginning to spread through the stableyards and into the passages under the stands.
The horses minced forward, their eyes showing whites, and foam flecking their mouths as their coats darkened with sweat. Saint-Germain held them steadily even as the chariot rocked as people knocked against it or grabbed it to keep from falling.
A young man in a cheap torn tunica tried to climb onto the back of the bay, and the horse reared up, whinnying and pawing the air as the other three horses strained at their bits, ready to bolt.
Saint-Germain reached for the light whip that was used to guide the outer two horses in the turns and with a quick, expert motion sent the lash across the forearms of the man clinging to the bay's yoke. The man shouted as he lost his grip, sliding off the horse and almost falling under the press of people before he disappeared in the mob.
For what seemed hours, Saint-Germain held the horses on a firm path for the gate. Their progress was made in inches as the pressure of the mob increased around them. The horses answered the rein reluctantly, only out of habit, kept in check by Saint-Germain's rigorous hands and the limits of their harness.
The crowd became denser as they neared the gate, and the chariot jostled and rocked. Hands, arms, clubs, refuse and other things appeared around them out of the vast swarm of bodies. The noise was as powerful as the physical presence of the mob.
Looking through the gate, Saint-Germain could see that an equally large mass of people waited beyond the stableyard as those thousands who had already forced their way into it. The street would be more difficult, with the narrow spaces and the limiting walls of the insulae decreasing their movement more than the expanse of the stableyard.
Aumtehoutep gave a cry, and clapped one hand over his eye.
"Don't let go!" Saint-Germain ordered, not daring to look around. "Are you hurt?"
"A stone struck me." Aumtehoutep reached back and fixed his grip on the top rail of the chariot's frame. His fingers were bright with blood.
There was a little break in the crowd, and Saint-Germain gave the horses their head, taking care to keep enough tension in the reins so that they would not take their bits in their teeth and run into the crowd.
Now they were almost through the gate and the noise that had been a senseless roar became the repeated cry for "Bread! Bread! Bread! Bread! Bread!" until the word made no sense and the chant itself drove the people on.
Just as they got to the gate, they were very nearly overturned as several youths with cudgels rushed at the chariot, yelling incoherently, brandishing their weapons and ready to do as much harm as possible. Saint-Germain braced himself, and as the first of these clubs swung toward him, he lifted one arm to meet it and turn it aside, knocking his assailant off his feet. It was a calculated risk, for he had to loosen his hold on the reins while he dealt with the cudgel, and for that moment the horses might have bolted.
Then they were through the gate and into the pandemonium of the streets. People milled before the gate, turning into whirlpools and eddies like the ocean, pounding at the narrow entrance to the stableyard. Women holding infants in their arms rushed with the crowd, their eyes crazed. Great numbers of young men pushed and shoved, each one eager to break into the rumored storehouses of grain and bread that were kept for the animals and slaves of the Circus Maximus. A few rushed at the chariot, but most of them were put off by the danger of the hooves and the intensity of the eyes of the foreigner who drove it.
"Master," Aumtehoutep shouted, though his voice was faint in the overwhelming sound. "There are more coming!"
Saint-Germain nodded to indicate he had heard. He could see the crush of people grow denser as they fought their way to the huge amphitheatre. It was foolish to continue against the tide. There was another, dangerous way, and for an instant he debated taking it. Once he committed himself, there could be no turning back, no restraining the crowd if the horses bolted out of control. The crowd thickened around the chariot, and soon they would not be able to move.
"Hold tightly!" Saint-Germain shouted to Aumtehoutep as he slowly, carefully turned the chariot broadside to the rush.
The horses trembled and the bay almost went down on his haunches, his ears laid back and teeth bared as the crowd pressed nearer. Saint-Germain could feel the team tremble through the reins as he continued to turn them.
It seemed that they must be overset, that the constant battering of countless bodies would dash the fragile chariot to pieces. It had never been intended for this sort of use. It was a racing vehicle, as lightweight as possible, designed for nothing more than the seven frantic laps around the spina of the Circus Maximus. The force of the mob against it shook the frame and nearly dislodged one of the two large wheels. Saint-Germain held the team steady and the chariot crept farther into the turn, moving into the current of the mob. A little more, and they would be pulled into the rush for the gate to the stableyard.
At the most hazardous instant, Saint-Germain pulled the horses away from the gate to the narrow street that ran beside the high walls of the Circus. Here the crowd was thinner, but moving more quickly, the whole motion more frenetic. With a shift of balance, Saint-Germain lowered his hands and let the horses run.
The streets of Rome were narrow, and here the paving stones were rutted and uneven. The chariot lurched like a drunkard over the pavement as the horses lengthened their stride.
Around them ran those parts of the mob that could not get into the stableyard, and with them came the denizens of the dark world under the stands. These were the gamblers, the prostitutes who served the gladiators and the patrons of the Games who found a dark satisfaction in lying with a woman or man or child while the bloody sports raged, the old and useless fighters with their wits gone, the abandoned children who begged, the debauched who reveled in the presence of the condemned and maimed, the traders in misery who corrupted servants and slaves in order to seduce and ruin their mistresses. This bizarre assortment of the exploited and depraved joined the madness with a rare enthusiasm, mocking and jeering as they ran.
Saint-Germain's team plunged onward through the avalanche of people, swaying, curvetting, dragging the chariot after them. They were trained for speed, bred for it, and the nearness of the mob had driven them to a state of panic. There was foamy sweat on their flanks and their breath was taken in sobbing gulps, but they ran gratefully, and Saint-Germain held them on the road.
A long peal of thunder cracked and rumbled across the sky and the horses nearly broke stride. Saint-Germain yelled at them and reached for the light whip at his right elbow as he strained to keep the team moving. With a last wrenching effort he turned the chariot into a side street, away from the Circus Maximus, where few people ran and where the keeper of a wine shop, standing idle while less than a hundred paces away the poor of Rome rioted, cursed the racing vehicle for ruining his business, though the street was empty.
The next clap of thunder was louder still, a deep, awesome crescendo that drowned the shout of the mob. The dark clouds had moved and now commenced to blot out the sun as they roiled in from the west.
Carefully Saint-Germain began to rein in his team. It was nerve-racking to careen through the close, squalid streets, fearing that at any moment something, someone would appear out of nowhere to block their path. The chariot would certainly run down any but the most durable obstruction. With the added boom of the thunder, the horses rushed onward in a new burst of speed, seeking to escape the terrifying noises that surrounded them.
At last, when they were several blocks away from the Circus Maximus, Saint-Germain pulled the team to a dazed, tired walk. He took the reins into one hand and turned to Aumtehoutep just as the Egyptian reeled against him. For the first time he saw the deep gash in his slave's forehead and the blood that covered his face like an elaborate funerary mask. "Aumtehoutep!" He reached out his free hand to brace the other man.
The Egyptian tried to speak, but the words were slurred, and in a language that had never been spoken on the banks of the Tiber. Finally he dropped to his knees on the floor of the chariot. "Drive," he muttered.
Saint-Germain looked at his quivering, steaming horses. They were breathing hard, but they were bred to run. If he required it of them, he knew they could gallop most of the way to Villa Ragoczy, though it would exhaust them. What worried him the most was their hooves, for the paving stones were notoriously hard on even the toughest hooves.
On the floor of the chariot, Aumtehoutep bit back a groan. It was enough. Saint-Germain had seen his slave take an arrow in the arm and only wince. He reached for the whip in its brace and snaked it over the head of his team.
The bay faltered, stumbling as the tip of the lash flicked over his rump. Then he collected himself and set the pace for the other three horses, taking as fast a trot as the horses could maintain together without breaking into a gallop.
He was well along the Vicus Patricus between the Cespius and Viminalis hills when he heard another sound, the ordered tramping of feet coming from the north. Saint-Germain pulled his team to the side of the road and waited anxiously.
Within a few minutes a century of the Praetorian Guard appeared, marching four abreast so that little could get past them. As they came to Saint-Germain's chariot, the centurion bawled an order, and one side of the wide column dropped out of line with the rest so that the Guard could pass. The centurion paused beside the chariot. "You come from the Circus Maximus, foreigner?"
"Yes. We got away just as the mob broke in the gate to the stableyard." He spoke briskly, with a certain touch of haughtiness.
"We?" questioned the centurion.
"Yes. My body slave lies on the floor of this chariot with a gash on his face. Worse would have been done if we had not got away when we did." Saint-Germain made no effort to hide his impatience.
Apparently the centurion chose not to notice. "That's a racing rig you've got there. Not the kind of vehicle I'd want to take on the streets, though it's small enough for the law to allow it."
"I hadn't planned to," Saint-Germain said sardonically, wishing that the centurion would not detain him any longer.
"They say it's the biggest riot yet," the centurion went on. "We've had three estimates, twenty thousand, thirty thousand and seventy thousand. It's probably around thirty thousand." He made a face. "Well, who can blame them? They haven't had the grain dole for close to a month and there's been no oil distributed for ten days. They're hungry." He slapped the rail of the chariot and it sagged under the impact. "Well, if your slave is wounded, you probably want to get him to a physician, if he's worth anything to you. I won't keep you. But you know," he added as the thought occurred to him, "when Galba is Caesar, he'll get the dole going again soon enough." With a wave he fell in with his column as the last twelve soldiers marched by.
As he whipped his team up again, Saint-Germain wondered if many others agreed with the centurion, and now supported Galba's claim to the purple. Then he turned his whole attention to his driving as he sped toward the Viminalis Gate and the road to Villa Ragoczy that lay beyond.
TEXT OF A REPORT TO THE SENATE OF ROME BY THE TRIBUNE MARCUS ANTONIUS DEVA.
To the august and revered Senators of Rome, hail!
It has been said of the Ahenobarbus family that their bronze beards are a fitting match for their iron faces and leaden hearts, though in the case of Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, who ruled as Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus, the matter is open to question. His death, when he finally accomplished it, showed him to have a few virtues left, and indicated that he was not entirely given over to the effeminate conduct of the Greeks.
When news of the battle of Vesontio was brought to him a few days ago, on the seventh, and though he rejoiced to hear of the death of Vindex, he realized that the situation was much more serious than he had previously believed. Until then he had planned to go to Gallia and into the west, perhaps as far as Lusitania, for the purposes of appealing to his troops and singing new songs for them that would win them to him again, as he had done years before. He had not taken into account the action of the legions at Carthago Nova who had already hailed Galba their Emperor, and who, in spite of Nero's attempts to seize his lands and property, and even take on the role of counsel for himself, had found many among you Senators to side with him in open defiance of Nero.
With Tigellinus gone, Nymphidius Sabinus could make no decision, and so the Praetorian Guard was left to flounder, with those who opposed Nero having the stronger voice.
On the night of the eighth, the troops guarding Nero left their posts, his personal guard taking his box of poisons with them. According to his slaves and others at the Golden House, his freedman Phaon suggested that they leave the palace and go to his house outside of the city. Phaon had heard some of the troops talking earlier that night about a plan to kill Nero as he slept, and so thought to remove him from danger this way.
One of the Praetorians claims that he paid Phaon to reveal Nero's hiding place in the storage shed behind Phaon's house, but that may be an idle boast. Phaon himself did not go with the Emperor, but sent him two messages, one assuring Nero that all would be well, and one informing him of the sentence handed down by your rule: that he was to be stripped and beaten to death with heavy staves. According to Epaphroditus, his minister who had accompanied him to Phaon's house with Sporus, it was then that Nero decided to take his own life, and had a grave dug to his measure. He lacked the courage to throw himself in the river, though Sporus said that he made a joke about cold water having always been his favorite drink. He sang a few choruses in Greek, chiding himself for indecision and cowardice, and lamented how ugly his life had become. Epaphroditus tells us that Nero was particularly upset that he would no longer enjoy the arts. He was confident that if he could restore the dole and remove Vespasianus from office in Egypt, the people would love him as they always had.
It was when he heard the sound of approaching horses that he made up his mind to use his knives, or so Sporus says.
I had ridden there with four other Praetorians on your orders, anxious to arrest Nero and deliver him up for the death you had decreed for him. It had taken almost an hour to get the information we needed to find him, and then we rode fast, for we feared he would escape.
When I found him, he was already dying from a cut in his throat, and as I raised his head, he gave me a look of greatest derision and with an obscene gesture said, "You are too late, my loyal Praetorian." My three companions entered soon after, and Nero's attendant ministers were taken into custody, and you have their statements as well as my own as to what transpired.
I recommend that the petition of Nero's old mistress Acte be granted and that she be given charge of the body so that the former Emperor may have a proper funeral. For all his faults, he was much loved by the people and they will want to do him honor. It is not suitable that he be cast into the river like a beggar or burned with refuse in the fields. Nero has already lain two days without cremation or burial, and it is imperative that proper disposal be made as soon as possible.
It is the opinion of Sporus that Phaon was tricked into betraying Nero's hiding place, but if that is so, I very much doubt that he was unaware of what he did. There is a rumor that Phaon was trying to find a captain to carry Nero away from Rome until he could rebuild his support and return to Rome in victory. It may be that, driven by desperation, Phaon did such a foolish thing. Any captain in Rome approached by Nero's freedman on the morning of the ninth would have known what was being planned, and would have come to the Praetorians or to the Senate with the report, for feeling was running high in the city. I only know that Nymphidius Sabinus gave us our orders at midmorning, and that Nero was hiding where we were told he would be.
By my own hand, under seal, on the eleventh day of June in the 820th Year of the City.
Hail Galba!
Marcus Antoninus Deva
Tribune, the Praetorian Guard