Iron and Rust. Harry SidebottomЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Rome The Carinae, Five Days after the Ides of March, AD235

      Iunia Fadilla knew herself blessed. A descendant of the divine Marcus Aurelius, she was made aware on many occasions and by all sorts of men that she possessed both beauty and an intellect that they claimed was rare in her sex. Before his untimely death, her father had found her an agreeable and generous husband. Now, two years or so after the marriage, her elderly spouse more predictably had gone the way of her parent. As was proper, the eighteen-year-old-widow wore no jewels and her stola was of the plainest grey. Yet, as she left the recital, her demeanour was more than a little at odds with her costume of bereavement.

      Her friend, Perpetua, evidently was happy as well. They walked, arm in arm, across the great courtyard of the Baths of Trajan. The rain of the day before had gone, and the sky was a clear, washed-out blue. Gaggles of schoolchildren darted here and there, shrieking, sandals slapping on paving slabs, unconfined by their teachers. Also freed from their labours, doctors, artisans and worse drifted in and out of the colonnaded doorways. A group of fullers and dyers laughed as they went to wash away the foulness of their trades. It was five days after the ides of March, the Quinquatrus, the day of the birth of Minerva. Tomorrow, the festival demanded they spread the sand, and men would die, but today all fighting was unlawful.

      They left via the north-western gates which gave on to the Oppian hill and turned left. Perpetua’s black hair, her bright gown and gems, formed an attractive counterpoint to Iunia’s head of tumbling blonde curls and sombre attire. They affected not to notice the many looks of frank admiration. Each woman was trailed by her custos and a maid. Almost alone, these followers did not obviously share in the general contentment. The day had nothing of the holiday for them, and the two guards at least had taken little pleasure in the modern poetry.

      Perpetua was talking politics. ‘My brother Gaius says this new Emperor may be good for our family.’

      Iunia thought Gaius immature and ugly. She had no interest in his views on politics, or on anything else. Politics bored her. But she let her friend talk. She was very fond of Perpetua.

      ‘Now he is one of the Tresviri Capitales he was allowed to listen to the debate from one of the doors of the Senate House yesterday.’

      ‘Given their own addictions to self-advancement and sycophancy,’ Iunia said, ‘it is touching that the Senators think the junior magistrates will benefit from their example in the Curia.’

      ‘That,’ said Perpetua, ‘is your late husband talking.’

      ‘He had a point.’

      ‘Quite a big one, you always said.’

      ‘Well, average at least.’

      They had walked down the alley between the Baths of Titus and the Temple of Tellus, and now took the quiet path to the right across the front of the latter and along the brow of the hill.

      ‘Anyway, Gaius says that, ages ago, this Maximinus served under Grandfather on the northern frontier, somewhere like Dacia or Moesia. Father was a tribune there and met him. Apparently, although a complete peasant, Maximinus is known for his loyalty. Gaius thinks it might mean that father will get to be Consul at last, maybe even as an Ordinarius. Imagine a year named after Father.’

      ‘Did he mention the prospects of your husband? Or of Toxotius?’ Iunia could never resist teasing her.

      Perpetua laughed. ‘I am not going to rise to it.’

      They went along the front of the Carinae. No one knew why this district of noble houses was so named. Nothing in sight even vaguely resembled the keel of a ship. Off to the left, at the foot of the incline was the Street of the Sandal-makers. Ahead, running around the hill and out of sight to the north, was the valley of the Subura. Down there all was bustle and crowds. On the Carinae a stately spaciousness held sway.

      Approaching the Domus Rostrata, the grandest house of all, the women were somewhat surprised to find their path blocked by four men. Their rough attire proclaimed their membership of the urban poor. Iunia could think of no good reason why they should have ascended from the slums below and were now standing outside the home of the Gordiani, where once Pompey the Great had lived. Even Perpetua had gone quiet. Iunia sensed her guard move up closer behind.

      Three of the men stepped to the side, bowed their heads, and muttered ‘My Lady’ as the women came near. The fourth loitered. He was little more than a boy, younger than them. He was short, with a thin, angular face like some malevolent creature from a story told to frighten children. He openly wore a dagger as long as a short sword at his belt.

      At the last moment, he stepped aside. As he bowed, he made no attempt to disguise the way his gaze travelled over Iunia’s body.

      ‘Health and great joy.’ He spoke in well-accented Greek, as if greeting his social equals.

      The women swept past. Neither acknowledged the existence of the plebeian interlopers. They had not gone far when they heard a burst of laughter, at once lascivious and mocking.

      ‘Imagine if they had overpowered our guards.’ Perpetua’s eyes were shining. ‘They could have dragged us down the hill. Once in their robbers’ lair, who knows what they might not want to do to two young senatorial matrons.’

      Iunia laughed. ‘You have read too many of those Greek novels where the heroine is always being abducted and sold into a brothel, from which the hero rescues her at the last moment.’

      ‘Perhaps in my story the saviour might be delayed a little?’

      ‘You are incorrigible.’

      ‘Me?’ Perpetua said. ‘I was not the one making eyes at Ticida as he recited poems about my breasts.’

      ‘About some girl’s breasts. He has never seen mine.’

      ‘But he would like to, just like that young knife-boy.’

      ‘Then his poetry had better improve.’ Iunia flung out her arm portentously and declaimed:

       ‘Could I but become a crimson rose,

       I might then hope you would pluck me

       And acquaint me with your snowy breasts.’

      Both women laughed, the more immoderately for their slight scare.

      ‘Ticida is good-looking,’ said Perpetua.

      ‘He is,’ Iunia agreed.

      ‘You have not taken a lover since Gordian left for Africa. Even male physicians argue that