The Devil Will Come

EIGHT

Rome, AD 37

DUSK WAS TURNING to night as two weary boys trudged up the road toward the city centre. An insipid quarter-moon hung limply in the black sky, dimly lighting the way. In silence they kept close to the stinking central gutter to avoid worse piles of refuse that littered their way.

‘Where will we sleep?’ the youngest asked fearfully as they passed a gloomy alley.

‘I’ve no idea,’ snapped his older brother. Sensing the seven-year-old’s abject misery he relented. ‘The father of my friend, Lucius, says he sleeps in the cattle market whenever he stays in Rome. We’ll find a place there.’

Clasping his brother’s hand, the younger child shivered. His loose tunic barely warded off the chill.

‘Are we nearly there? At the cattle market?’ he enquired hopefully.

Quintus groaned, having heard a variant of the same question at least a hundred times that day.

‘Yes, Sextus, soon we’ll have somewhere warm to rest, after we’ve had a bite to eat.’

They were travelling to their uncle’s brick manufactory in the north of Rome, on the Pincian Hill, and they were hungry and exhausted following a dawn departure from their village. At least they’d made it through the walls, into the city. The two huge Praetorians with scorpion emblems affixed to their breastplates at the Porta Capena had given them a world of trouble and tried to shake them down for a bribe. But they had no coins, nothing at all and they had to prove it by stripping themselves bare and enduring the taunts of the fearsome soldiers.

Quintus, the older by three years, had wondered if his father had looked like these men. Only the vaguest of memories lingered. He was a toddler when the centurion left for active service in Germania. Their mother had to fend for herself with only the help of two older girls to tend their smallholding and look after Quintus and his baby brother.

Only a fortnight ago, their mother had gotten notice of her husband’s death in battle against the Cheruscii. On further learning that the bastard had frittered away his accumulated pay on wine and whores all she could do was shed futile tears.

Faced with crippling debts, she quickly sold her land for a pittance to a rich patrician. She and her daughters would have to survive by hiring themselves out as labourers and cloth weavers, but she could ill afford to feed two useless mouths. Rather than sell them into slavery she made the somewhat more humane decision to send the boys to their uncle to earn their keep there.

Judging by the smells, they were getting close to the cattle market in an industrial sector where tenements clung to islands of land in a sea of twisting and claustrophobic alleyways.

At street level, the retaining walls of the tenements were built of stone and reasonably robust. Higher stories listed at precarious angles and looked a good bit flimsier and indeed they passed a block which had suffered a collapse. The dwellings doubled as shops by day, selling bare necessities and cheap, rough wine. The boys dragged themselves along the fetid street towards the ghostly white glow of the stone-flagged marketplace, keeping to the centre, avoiding the glowering shadows.

The open windows at street level leered at them like black sockets in a cadaver’s skull. Sextus squeaked in fright as he tripped over a pile of offal festering in front of a butcher shop and set a loathsome carpet of rats in motion. With the last of his fading strength, Quintus managed to jerk him upright before the little boy fell into the mess.

An empty cattle byre beckoned. An emaciated dog emerged from it, interested in seizing the rotting meat before the rats reclaimed their prize. The mongrel succeeded and scuttled off down an alleyway dragging a coil of intestines.

Inside the animal pen, Quintus looked around and declared, ‘We’ll sleep here.’ They busied themselves raking up stray hanks of unfouled straw and dry grass with their hands, laying out a bed of sorts against the plank walls at the far corner of the unroofed shed.

‘We won’t have far to travel tomorrow, will we, Quintus?’ asked the younger boy hopefully.

Quintus wasn’t at all sure but he said with feigned confidence, ‘If we start early, we’ll be at Uncle’s before noon.’

He untied the knotted corners of the travelling blanket he’d been carrying over his shoulder and removed the last of their meagre provisions. Handing Sextus half the bread and an apple, the two boys collapsed on the straw bed and ate.

Balbilus heard a dull pounding overhead, an iron rod smashing against stone, a signal that he was wanted.

The underground chamber was well lit by sooty lamps. It was a large space – fifty men could assemble there comfortably, a hundred in a pinch. Live men. There was space for thousands of dead ones if most were cremated and tucked inside urns in the tuff walls. It was newly finished. The columbarium was awaiting its first inhabitant.

Tiberius Claudius Balbilus put down his paintbrush. He disliked interruptions but he was used to them. Many sought him out.

He was in his thirties, a powerful-looking man with the olive skin of his half-Egyptian, half-Greek heritage, a large nose and a well-tended beard which was trimmed to a sharp point and made his face look like some sort of weapon or chisel tool. He had let his tunic go loose for comfort but before he climbed the stairs he cinched his belt and donned a cloak.

Balbilus entered the mausoleum by pushing open a concealed trapdoor. The walls were lined with the tombs and shrines of the wealthy. A fresh corpse, no more than a few weeks old, linen-wrapped and stuffed into a loculum, made the place reek of death. The mausoleum had been in his family for a few generations. It was a good, steady source of income, but because of his recent secret excavation it now had another purpose.

When his time came, he would rest there for eternity, not above ground with these so-called citizens but underground, among his own kind. His followers would rest there too. For the sake of space most would be cremated. But he and his sons and his son’s sons could be laid out – all their flesh, all their bones – in all their glory.

There was a solitary figure waiting for him, his face concealed by a hooded cloak. He bowed slightly to Balbilus and said, ‘The others are outside.’

Balbilus, together with this man, Vibius, emerged from a rear door into the cold December night. They were within a grove only a few paces off the Appian Way. The mausoleum was a rectangular building with a barrel-vaulted roof made of the finest bricks. Balbilus’s lavish villa lay on the other side of the grove.

The quarter-moon reappeared from behind a shroud of purple clouds. Five cloaked figures moved away from the darkness of the fruit trees. Balbilus lined them up like a military unit in front of the mausoleum wall.

‘I’ve studied the charts, and the stars favor action,’ Balbilus said, addressing the men. ‘Tonight we light a fire. Although it will be small at first it will spawn another one, and another and another until, one day, there will be a great conflagration that will consume the city. And when that happens we will gain wealth and power beyond our dreams. It is in the stars and I know it to be true. Tonight we will set the Romans against this new Christian cult. I can see in the stars that they will become powerful one day. Their message is seductive, like bread and circuses for the soul. The masses will, I fear, take to it like sheep. If we allow them to become too powerful they will be a formidable enemy. Vibius has my instructions. Tonight you will spill blood because …’ he took a breath for effect then spat out the rest ‘… this is what we do.’

And the men answered in unison, ‘And this is who we are.’

Balbilus left them and went back underground where his paintbrushes awaited him.

The six men moved out in silence. Making use of the concealment provided by the tombs and foliage bordering the Appian Way they headed north toward Rome.

After a while they came upon a dim radius of flickering light cast by pitch torches on either side of a broad postern gate. They flitted from shadow to shadow, getting closer.

The two Praetorians peered dispiritedly into the feeble pool of light and stamped their feet to keep warm.

Vibius made his move. He weaved onto the main road, garbling the words of a drinking song. The sentries became alert and stared as he emerged from the darkness, swaying gently. He stopped to take a swig from a bulging wine-bag.

Resuming his unsteady approach, he came to a stumbling halt, just beyond arm’s length from the stockier of the two sentinels.

‘Eh, lads, let me pass, will you?’ he slurred.

The soldier seemed to relax but he still kept his hand on the pommel of his short-sword.

‘It’s curfew hour, you drunken fool – all passage is forbidden.’

Vibius staggered a bit further forward, offering the wine sack. ‘Drink, my lords, as much as you want. I will pay you for entry. All’s I want is to get home.’

With his left hand he waved the bag in the guard’s face and when the soldier raised his arm to swat it away Vibius suddenly thrust his right hand upwards, gripping the long dagger he’d concealed beneath his robe. The blade pierced the underside of the guard’s chin and with a grisly crunch its point exited through the top of his head.

The second Praetorian didn’t have time to draw his weapon. Another cloaked man had crept through the shadows, clamped an arm around the guard’s chest and reached for his jaw with his free hand. With a violent motion the cloaked man jerked hard and there was a loud crack as the Praetorian’s vertebrae gave way.

Both corpses twitched on the cold ground, then went limp. The rest of the cloaked men converged on them and joined in a savage choreography.

When they were done with their sharp work, body parts floated in pools of blood like pieces of meat in a stew. Vibius reached inside his cloak and pulled out a silver medallion on a broken chain. It was the chi-rho monogram, the symbol of Christ. He dropped it into the blood and waved the men forward through the Porta Capena into the city of Rome.

The slums at the base of the Esquiline Hill were never quiet. Even late at night there was always enough shouting, drunken brawling and noise from crying babies to disturb the peace. Against this din, the clip-clop of donkey hooves and the clatter of cart wheels on cobblestones went unnoticed.

The cart driver hauled on the reins outside a seedy apartment block on a narrow side street where much of the plaster had fallen from the façade. Had they not been bribed into silence, the city engineers would have condemned the structure years ago.

The driver hopped down between the cart and the building and whispered, ‘We’re here.’

The straw heaped in the cart moved and an arm appeared, then a bearded head. A tall man climbed down and brushed the straw from his cloak. He looked haggard, much older than his thirty-eight years, his long hair liberally flecked with grey.

‘Up these stairs. Knock thrice at the door,’ the driver said and with that he was off.

The stairway was pitch black and the man had to find his way by probing with the tips of his sandals. At the top landing he reached out until he felt the rough wood of a door. He banged it gently with his fist.

He heard voices from inside and the sound of a scraping latch. When the door opened he was surprised at how many people were crammed inside the small candlelit room.

The man who opened the door stared at him and called over his shoulder. ‘It’s all right. It’s him.’ Then he took the visitor’s cool hand and kissed it. ‘Peter. We’re overjoyed you’ve come.’

Inside, Peter the Apostle was showered with goodwill as men and women sought to kiss him, give him water, make him comfortable on a cushion.

His visits to Rome were infrequent. It was the home of the enemy, too dangerous for casual travel. He never knew what mood the Romans might be in and whether he had a price on his head. It was only four years since Jesus’s murder but the Christians, as they were beginning to be called, a name Peter much preferred to ‘the Jewish cult’, were growing in numbers and were becoming an annoyance to Rome.

Peter took a bowl of soup from his host, a tanner named Cornelius, and thanked him.

‘How was your journey from Antioch?’ the tanner asked.

‘Long, but I enjoyed many kindnesses along the way.’

A young boy, no more than twelve, drew near. ‘You must miss your family,’ the tanner said, looking at his son.

‘I do.’

‘Is it so, that you were there when Jesus rose from the dead?’ the boy asked.

Peter nodded. ‘The women, they were the ones who found His tomb empty. I was called and I can bear witness, lad, that He did rise. He died for us and then God called Him to His side.’

‘How long will you stay among us?’ Cornelius asked, shooing the boy away.

‘A fortnight. Perhaps less. Just time enough to meet with the Elders and get the measure of this new Emperor, Caligula.’

Cornelius puckered his mouth. If he’d been on the streets, he surely would have spat. ‘He’s bound to be better than Tiberius.’

‘I hope you’re right. But in Antioch, travellers have told me the persecutions persist, that our brothers and sisters are still being tortured and killed.’

Cornelius smiled fatalistically. ‘A few years ago we were rounded up for being Jews. Now we’re rounded up for being Christians. Unless we kiss the Emperor’s ass and pray to Jupiter, we’ll continue to be rounded up.’

‘What pretext are the authorities employing?’ Peter asked, munching a piece of bread.

‘There’ve been some killings. Citizens have been found cut to pieces with our symbols and monograms discovered nearby.’

Peter sighed and put down his bowl. All eyes in the room were on him. ‘We all know that such atrocities can have nothing to do with the followers of Our Lord. Ours is a religion of love and peace – only one sacrifice has been made for it, that of the Christos Himself, and His cruel death has atoned for our sins for all eternity. No, this slaughter must be the work of some evil force at large in this world of conflict and torment. Let us say some words in prayer now. Tomorrow we can begin to discuss what must be done.’

In the cattle stall the two brothers lay close to each other under their blanket on the straw.

The younger boy began to cry, softly at first, then louder.

Quintus opened his eyes. ‘Shut up! What’s wrong with you? I was asleep!’

‘I’m scared,’ sobbed Sextus.

‘Quiet! Someone might hear you.’ The boy’s sobs continued unabated and Quintus took a different approach. ‘Of what?’

‘I’m afraid witches will get us.’

‘Don’t be silly. Everyone knows witches only live in the countryside. They won’t come into town. The soldiers would hunt them down and kill them.’

‘What about the Lemures?’

Quintus became defensive, as if he wished his brother hadn’t reminded him of their existence.

Lemures, the ones with tails, the kinless and hungry ghosts which skulked around houses and feasted on humans.

‘You’re a little idiot,’ Quintus said. ‘Lemures don’t hang around cattle pens. Settle down and sleep. We have a long journey tomorrow.’

‘You promised we had a short journey,’ moaned the child.

‘Short, long, don’t think about it, just go to sleep!’

Sextus was in the midst of a nightmare. He was desperately trying to run through a swamp to escape a demon. He frantically struggled from the wraith’s grasp and floundered in the muck. As sticky warm mud splashed his face, he felt the demon grabbing at his legs, pulling him under. Swamp water covered his face. He gasped for air but a coppery liquid coursed down his throat.

Mercifully, he awoke.

Then the true nightmare began.

He turned his head. A man was straddling his brother’s chest plunging a dagger into him. A crimson jet spurted from a great rent in his neck. It was spraying hot blood over Quintus’s face and was dribbling into his own mouth.

‘Quintus!’

There was enough moonlight to see the attacker’s cloak and tunic bunched and riding up his waist. Something was coming out of his back, dancing and flicking in the air.

A great weight compressed him and stifled further cries. A man was on his chest too. A man with dead eyes. When he saw the knife slashing towards his neck he clenched his eyes shut, praying he was still asleep.

The dismemberment and butchery was done quickly. ‘Put their heads under the straw but don’t hide them too well,’ Vibius commanded. ‘Wrap everything else in burlap. Make eight parcels and be sure that each contains a hand or a foot.’

The assassins moved down an alleyway toward one of the shops adjoining the cattle market, toting the gruesome products of their work. They stopped at an open windowsill which during the day became a waist-high counter. It was a butcher shop, the only one in the alley marked with the Christian dove.

Vibius stepped onto the cupped hands of a compatriot and was boosted up and over the counter. He dropped soundlessly to the rough-hewn floor and crept toward the rear of the room, stopping in his tracks when he heard loud, guttural rasps.

He inched forward slowly until he was able to peer past the curtain at the back of the shop. The butcher was snoring loudly, an empty jug of wine tipped over beside his bed. Vibius eased his grip on his sword.

Assured that the wine-sodden man was well asleep, he retraced his steps to the window.

He unlatched the door of the meat safe set into the stone wall under the counter, reached inside and began passing cool wrapped packages out the window to waiting hands.

He replaced them with parcels of warm, fresher meat. When was done he vaulted through the window and found the shadows again.

It was dawn when Balbilus finished his fresco but underground he was untouched by the winter sunshine. The oily vapors from the lamps burned his lungs but it was a small price to pay for the satisfying night of work. Vibius had reported back with the news that blood had indeed been well spilled. The Christians would be accused of the massacre of Rome’s finest, a couple of Praetorians. And even more heinously, they would now also be accused of killing Roman children and selling their flesh. In addition, the fresco was to his liking.

Could the new day be more auspicious?

Again, the thud of iron on stone.

At the top of the stairs Vibius opened the hatch and whispered something down to him.

‘Agrippina? Here?’ Balbilus asked incredulously. ‘How is that possible?’

Vibius shrugged. ‘She’s in a wagon. She wants to be carried down to the tomb.’

‘It’s unbelievable! What a woman! Make sure her wagon is hidden from the road.’

Julia Agrippina. Great-granddaughter of Augustus. Incestuous sister of Caligula. Wife of the Emperor Claudius. The most powerful woman in Rome.

And one of us.

Agrippina was borne on a stretcher by her attendants and taken carefully down the stairs and placed gently on the floor. Balbilus knew her people. They could be trusted.

Agrippina was swaddled in blankets, her head resting on a silk pillow. She was pale and haggard and wincing in pain, but even in her fragile state her beauty shone through.

‘Balbilus,’ she said. ‘I had to come.’

‘Domina,’ he replied, falling to his knees to reach for her hand. ‘You should have summoned me. I would have come to you.’

‘No, I wanted this to happen here.’ She turned her head to the wall. ‘Your fresco – it’s done!’

‘I hope it’s to your liking.’

‘All the zodiacal signs. Beautifully drawn, and by your own hand, I see,’ she said, looking at his paint-stained fingers. ‘But tell me: this sequence of planets – what does it mean?’

‘It’s a small personal tribute, Domina. Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn. This was the alignment of the planets on the day I was born thirty-three years ago. I now question my decision. I should have chosen your alignment. I can have new plaster laid.’

‘Nonsense, my good seer. This is your tomb.’

‘Our tomb, Domina.’

‘I insist that you keep the fresco as it is.’

There was a faint cry from under her blanket.

‘Domina!’ Balbilus said. ‘It’s happened!’

‘Yes. Only two hours ago,’ Agrippina said weakly. ‘After all these years, and all these fucking men, finally: my firstborn.’

One of Agrippina’s maids pulled back her blanket to reveal a tiny pink baby. Agrippina pulled the infant’s blanket aside and said proudly, ‘See. It’s a boy. His name is Lucius Domitus Ahenobarbus.’

‘This is wonderful,’ Balbilus crowed. ‘Truly wonderful. ‘May I see?’

She turned the baby over. There was a perfect pink tail, wriggling energetically.

‘Your bloodlines are strong,’ Balbilus said with admiration. ‘I assume the Emperor doesn’t know?’

‘That bumbling, pathetic old man doesn’t even know I have one! Our unions are absurd affairs.’ Agrippina said. ‘This is between you and me. You honor me with the title Domina, but you, Balbilus, my great astrologer, you are my Dominus.’

Balbilus bowed his head.

‘I want to know about this boy,’ she said. ‘Tell me what will befall him.’

Balbilus had been reading the charts carefully. He knew each day of the week by heart, almost each hour. He rose to his feet and delivered the prophecy with great solemnity.

‘The boy’s rising sign, Sagittarius, is in tune with Leo where his moon is placed. As the moon represents you, Domina, you and the boy will enjoy harmonious relations.’

‘Ah, good,’ Agrippina purred.

‘The planet that rules this boy and which is his ascendant is highly propitious. It is Saturn, the evil one.’

She smiled.

‘And his moon is situated in the Eighth House, the House of Death. This indicates high position, large income, honors. Jupiter is in the Eleventh House, the House of Friends. From this will come the greatest good fortune and great fame, enormous power.’ He lowered his voice, ‘There is only one caveat.’

‘Tell me,’ Agrippina said.

‘He is square with Mars. This will serve to diminish his good fortune. How, I cannot say.’

She sighed. ‘It is a good reading. To say otherwise would be untrue. Nothing is perfect in our world. But tell me, Balbilus, will my son be Emperor?’

Balbilus closed his eyes. He felt his own tail tingle. ‘He will be Emperor,’ he said. ‘He will take the name Nero. And he will be perfectly evil. But you must know this: you yourself, his own mother, may be among the many he will kill.’

Agrippina hardly flinched as she said, ‘So be it.’