of the gods from their temples. Those who had protested had been beaten, clubbed to death. All the wealth he had taken had vanished into his northern campaigns, or been lavished on the ridiculous ceremonies proclaiming his ugly, dead wife a new goddess.
Up on the Rostra, the young Senator Menophilus was making a speech. The Gordiani were coming from Africa. Old-fashioned morality would return to Rome. Maximinus would be defeated. The Senate would guard Italy until the new Emperors arrived. The plebs and soldiers would heed their commands. Justice and liberty, free speech and dignity, the ways of their ancestors, all would return to the Seven Hills.
Menophilus was good looking, fresh faced, with short, curling dark hair, but her attention wandered from the meaningless concepts he expounded. Near her in the press was a young woman of about her age, blonde like her, of similar height and build. A man stood with his arm solicitously about her waist. No one would grab her arse, fondle her tits, without answering to him. She looked a bit like Rhodope. What would have become of Rhodope, Caenis wondered, if that terrible thing had not happened in Ephesus? Would she be standing somewhere with a husband to protect her? Would she have a home in which she could sleep undisturbed at night? Would she have children? Ephesus seemed a lifetime ago, but it was only five years.
The crowd cheered. Thick ropes of black smoke were curling up. Flames licked up to devour Maximinus, his soldiers, and the women and children in an indiscriminate holocaust.
Caenis stumbled as the throng shifted back. The Lictors were pushing people out of the way. Once their attendants had opened a path, the magistrates and other Senators processed to the Curia. Much-obscured by the heads of those in front, Caenis could only see a few of them. She glimpsed the attractive Menophilus. After him went the long-bearded figure of old Pupienus; a harsh man; as Prefect of the City, he had used the Urban Cohorts to drive the people from the Temple of Venus and Rome. Men had died, and the plebs had not forgotten. He ignored the insults that dogged his progress.
Among the very last, she saw Gallicanus in his homespun toga. He turned left and right, exchanging rough, manly banter with the crowd. Surely it could not be true about Gallicanus? The slave had been drunk, but he was in the household of the Senator, and he had sworn he told no lie. Public morality, and private vice; it was the oldest story. Caenis smiled. It felt good that she knew a secret that could bring down a high and mighty Senator like Gallicanus.
Once all the Senators were safely gathered in, the great bronze doors of the Curia clanged shut. Again the Senate would meet in secret session. The plebs made their disapproval known. The mob surged towards the Senate House. Libertas! Libertas! The atmosphere had changed in an instant. The shouts of Liberty echoed back off the surrounding buildings with an air of menace, as if the stones of the Forum itself called for blood.
The way back to the Subura was blocked; an angry mob wedged between the Curia and the Basilica Aemilia. Pushing and squirming through, careless of groping hands, Caenis fought her way past the Shrine of Venus Cloacina, and into the comparative quiet of the Portico of Gaius and Lucius Caesar. She would have to take a longer route home.
From the passage by the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, she emerged into the immense courtyard of the Temple of Peace. The wind had shifted and was stronger, bringing down from the north isolated dark clouds, the forerunners of a storm. But for now the sun shone on neat flowerbeds, fountains, statues, and ornamental trees. The stalls of the merchants were closed, and it was pleasantly empty after the Forum, just the occasional stroller. She had most of the day. It made no odds if the rain caught her. She would have to change before going to work.
Calm now, she turned to the right, ambling along under the colonnade. The columns were a pretty pink, with white bases and tops. Most of sculptures and paintings she could not identify. Unable to read their inscriptions, to her they were just a young athlete, a beautiful girl, or a grizzled wrestler. But some she knew. Here was Venus climbing from her bath, and over there was the shrine of Ganymede, with the convenient privacy of its hedges. It was deserted now, but memories of other days at that naughty little shrine made her smile.
She turned the corner, and made her way towards the offices of the Prefect of the City. Sometimes she liked to go into the public room, and look at the great marble plan of the city on the wall. It made her feel like a bird or a goddess gazing down at Rome, as if able to peer into the lives of all those people in the endless buildings, and then soar away. Once an earnest young man standing beside her had said it was odd that South was at the top of the plan. He was trying to pick her up, but she had asked him why. He had looked at her strangely, and said because North was at the top of most maps. When she had again asked why, he had looked put out, obviously not knowing the answer.
The offices were shuttered and chained today. Everyone said that the Prefect of the City had not been seen since Vitalianus had been murdered yesterday morning, and certainly the Urban Cohorts had remained in their barracks. Apparently the Prefect was a friend of Maximinus. Some said he had fled north to the protection of the tyrant.
‘I smell a she-wolf.’ Three men were sitting by the doors. They were unshaven, dirty, and were passing a jug from hand to hand. Normally the guards would have shooed their sort away.
‘Come and have a drink, little she-wolf.’
Caenis ignored them, and went to walk past.
One of them reached out, and caught the hem of her gown. ‘Just a little fun, no need to be stuck-up.’
Caenis pulled her gown free, saying she had to get to work.
‘Start early,’ the man said. ‘We have money.’
She walked on.
One of the others laughed. ‘Turned down by a Quadrantaria.’
Caenis bristled; how dare he call her a quarter-ass whore.
‘Come back here.’ She sensed the man who had grabbed her getting up.
She walked faster, knowing the others were on their feet too, that they would all follow her. There was no one in sight.
‘Come back here, and get what is coming to you.’
They were gaining, she hitched up her gown, and started to run.
‘Fucking bitch,’ one shouted.
She darted to the left, down between a row of stalls, then right along a flowerbed, cutting towards the nearest gate. Their footfall slapped on the earth behind her.
There were two men, a little way off.
‘Help!’
They turned, took in the situation, shrugged, and turned away.
She burst through the gate. No one. The Street of the Sandal-makers was near deserted; just an old beggar off to the left, slumped against the base of the statue of Apollo. Of course, fear of unrest must have driven away the fashionable young men, and shut all the bookshops.
Her pursuers crowding through the gate, she sprinted towards the statue. There was a bar there, The Lyre, if it was open, and she got inside, she might be safe.
Her head jerked back, searing pain as one of them grabbed her hair. Her legs went out from under her. She landed hard, agony driving up her spine.
‘Over there, do her up against the wall.’
She was half-pulled, half-dragged across the street. They pushed her into a corner formed by a buttress, crowding in at her.
