Search the Seven Hills (The Quirinal Hill Affair)

318 Pages·2016·2.08 MB·English

by  Hambly Barbara

Search the Seven Hills
Barbara Hambly
For the Magic Christian—Dr. Jeffrey Russell

Contents
I
II
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VIII
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XIX
A Biography of Barbara Hambly
I
He [Nero] inflicted the most exquisite tortures on this class well hated
for their abominable practices and called Christians by the mob. Christus
(who gave them their name) was put to death in Tiberius’ reign by the
procurator Pontius Pilate; but the mischievous superstition, though
momentarily checked, broke out again not merely in Judaea, but in Rome
itself, where all things foul and shameful find a welcome and a home. So
arrests were first made of all such as pleaded guilty; and then, on their
evidence, a vast number were convicted not so much on the charge of
incendiarism as of hatred for all mankind.
Tacitus
DISTANTLY, THE SLAP OF SANDALS and the miscellaneous jingling of leather and
brass echoed in the canyons of the narrow streets. It was the quiet time of
evening, the eleventh hour of the day when most people were finishing their
suppers and the few shopkeepers still open were putting up their shutters for the
night; here among the elite shops and wealthy homes on the Quirinal Hill it was
quieter still. The noises of Rome’s center seemed to lie far off, like a noxious
sink of sound.
The young man leaning in the deep-set doorway of a modest apartment
building could hear the approach of the litter quite clearly. It was still early
enough that they might not have the usual entourage of torchbearers and an
armed guard. If they were coming from somewhere close—this side of the
Forum, for instance—they wouldn’t, but the gods only knew where she’d been.
Had he been less of a philosopher, he would have prayed for this to be so, but as
it was, he stoically prepared to accept whatever circumstances for the meeting
Fate should choose to lay upon his bony shoulders.
Fate appeared to be in one of her pleasanter moods this evening.
At the curve of the twilit street, the chair came into view, pale curtains
fluttering in the summer gloom. The houses were tall at this point, and the
brilliant gilding of the sunset had faded from their brick-red roof tiles some
quarter hour ago. Somber dusk filled the lane, azure and smoky purple, but even
so the chair was recognizable as belonging to J. Tullius Varus, prefect of the city
of Rome and, now that the emperor Trajan had resumed his campaigns in the
East, one of the most powerful men in the city. It was borne by two sweating
Arabs and followed by a middle-aged Greek slave laden down with parcels, but
it was otherwise alone.
From his hiding place, the young man watched it approach, prey to
overwhelming shyness. He wondered if she’d even deign to speak with him, or if
it was she at all—he’d look tremendously silly if he hailed the occupant and it
turned out to be her mother. He wondered why a perfectly adult philosopher of
twenty-two should feel this helpless dread of a meeting with a girl of sixteen; a
girl, moreover, whom he’d known since they were both children. It also occurred
to him, absurdly, that he’d forgotten to comb his hair.
It was with a curious feeling of exposure that he stepped from the shadows
of the doorway and stood, paralyzed and mute, in the gloom of the lane.
The white silk of the chair curtains moved. The chair came to a halt at his
side.
Miraculously, he found his voice. “Tullia?” He cleared his throat.
“Tertullia?”
The curtain slid back on its gold rings, each ring the perfect curve of a
leafed tendril of vine. Vines were worked into the white silk, too, and the pattern
of them laid a soft moire of shadows on the small, rather elfin face of the girl
within. He saw she’d been crying, but she said in a perfectly calm voice, “Hello,
Marcus.”
To a philosopher, grief and joy, fortune and death, should all be equally
acceptable. But the red eyes and puffy nose evaded his philosophic armor and
pierced his heart like a javelin. Forgetting his carefully prepared congratulations,
he blurted helplessly, “I’m sorry! I came as soon as I heard!”
Her breath caught in a laugh that was perilously close to a sob. “Oh,
Marcus, the betrothal was announced a week ago! You must be the only man in
Rome who hadn’t heard.”
It was a fair hit, and there wasn’t a thing he could say. He looked so forlorn
that she reached out her hands to him. “My poor Professor, I should have known
you’d be so wrapped up in your books that you wouldn’t hear about it. But I’m
glad you’ve come. I’m so glad.”
He clutched her hands to his breast, but the technical difficulties of
embracing someone positioned in an unstable vehicle slightly higher than one’s
own center of gravity defeated him. Besides, there were the bearers to think of,
who might or might not know Latin, and the slave, who certainly would. “Tullia,
I heard about it yesterday. I came to see you that same evening. Your father was
gone... ”
“He’s in Sicily,” she whispered, her fingers tightening over his hands
suddenly, as though she feared he would run from her. Then she broke off and
looked around quickly. “Hylas? Why don’t you take that on home, please?”
The slave bowed. “Of course, mistress.” He trotted away up the street, his
wide shoulders briefly washed by the light that fell from the windows of the
apartment houses on both sides of the street. Then he turned a corner and was
gone. All about them the lane was still, the last of the shopkeepers having bolted
up their shutters and gone inside. From the little lofts above the shops the
ubiquitous scent of porridge and onions floated, mingling with the cooling dust
smells of the lane. From the rustling gardens farther up the hill and the trees
around the spacious town houses of that old and elegant neighborhood came the
sleepy twitter of nesting birds. In that blue deepening light Tertullia Varia’s face
looked fragile and pointy, as though she had not slept, and very young in spite of
the sophisticated masses of symmetrical curls that framed it. Earrings in the
shape of bronze lilies twinkled among that dark profusion like autumn flowers
on the forest floor.
“Father will be back at the end of July,” she continued softly, “when the
new city officials are appointed, for the inaugurations and the last meeting of the
Senate.”
“So nothing can be done until then?”
She was silent for a moment, her slim fingers light on his, then tightening
suddenly, as though to feel the shape of his big awkward bones. “Exactly what
do you think can be done?”
Taken off-guard, he could only gape.
“Chambares Tiridates is rich,” she went on. “Your offering for my hand
won’t make him any poorer. It won’t make you anything other than a penniless
philosopher who spends all his time between the library and the schools of
philosophy in the Basilica Ulpias.”
He gulped and found his voice. “Your father can’t seriously contemplate
marrying you to—to some fat Syrian shopkeeper!”
“Tiridates isn’t a shopkeeper. He’s the wealthiest importer in Rome,” said
the girl gently. “And more than money, he has political power, power among the
Syrian and Persian merchants—”
“Your father has all the political power he could possibly want!” cried
Marcus. “He’d have to be a megalomaniac to want more!”
“Power’s like milk,” Tullia said in a tired, ironic voice far too old for that
thin elfin face. “It goes bad quickly. Father needs money; he needs popularity; it
isn’t enough that a man be good at his job. You know that. To keep power, a
man has to put on a good appearance, have clients at his beck and call, give
splendid dinners for his friends, sponsor games—”
Outrage made his voice squeaky. “Stupid, bloody, vulgar spectacles—”
“Marcus.” She released his hands, caught his face between her palms, her
fingers fragile and cold among the soft curls of his light-brown hair. He gazed up
at her helplessly for a moment, remembering suddenly that even when they were