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The soldier turned his attention back to me and took my arm. He frowned at Clemens Fabius as though confused about why we were talking.
Clemens Fabius slipped him a solidus. “Thank you for doing your job so diligently.”
The soldier pulled me out of Casa Violetta and into a wooden cart that rumbled away down the sad, sorry street.
xvi
THE HOLDING AREA IN THE COMMAND POST WAS crowded and dirty. The walls were made of thick gray stone blocks: chipped by time, but still formidable. There was a rank smell of sweat and sick. Already several men and a few women had looked at me intently enough that I hoped we would not be kept there long. I pressed myself against the cold wall, trying for a few inches of space and air. Fortunately, I was near narrow slits looking out onto a corridor that soldiers passed through frequently. Whenever one walked by, I tried to explain that I was a guest in the house of the Archidux Sebastianus and a friend of the Comitissa Klaudia. There had been a mistake. I did not belong there. If any of the blue-cloaked men heard me, I couldn’t tell. None of them responded. For the first time in weeks, I said a silent prayer to the Goddess.
From what I could overhear, there had been raids across the old quarter. Pleasure houses and theaters had been shut down and workers inside arrested. As the dismal hours passed, I replayed events over and over in my mind. I had been in the workshop. It was raining. I received a letter from Agatha, inviting me to lunch. I took a carriage to the address and then— But of course, the letter hadn’t been written by one of Georgios’s daughters. Clemens Fabius, their houseguest, recognized the description of the strange young scholar staying with Sebastianus, and saw an opportunity. His words resounded in my ears: Of course, that’s just a difference in price and decoration. There was truth in his words, however uncomfortable it was to acknowledge.
I SLID DOWN the wall and dozed with my head against the stone. I lost track of time. Eventually, the heavy door opened and all of us—men, women, young, and old—were led into the hallway and up a set of stairs. We emerged, blinking, into bright morning sunlight. I struggled to get my bearings. We walked through a small gate, and I realized that we were at the edge of the Imperial District, by the harbor. If it were not for the line of soldiers flanking us, I could run home across the plaza, past the statue of Klaudia’s ancestor, down the narrow lane, and into the broad grounds of Sebastianus’s villa. What I wouldn’t give to be there right now. We trudged along in silence until a woman near me realized where we were headed and began to scream.
Up close, the Diluvion was a massive building made of limestone and marble. Its huge dome blazed in the sunshine, gilded with the melted-down remnants of other, older gods. It had several entrances, each marked by bronze doors twice the height of a man. They were thrown open against the walls so that their ornately worked inner surfaces could be seen, spiral after grooved spiral etched into the metal.
A crowd had gathered at each of the entrances. Whatever was about to happen, people were eager to get inside and see it. I pulled my palla closer around my face, although what difference it made now whether anyone saw me, I didn’t know. Why were we being taken here?
As we drew nearer, a soldier directed us to a concealed door in the wall of the temple. A block of basalt swung inward to let us pass. Torches illuminated a narrow staircase, and we descended, passing several landings that all seemed to open onto a cavernous space. I could hear the murmur of many voices and a rush of water, like waves crashing on a beach. The scent of the sea filled the air.
At last, we reached the bottom, where the sound of waves was even louder. We emerged into the vast interior, a single space that began twenty feet below ground and stretched far overhead. The great dome was visible only by the light of the torches on the balconies that rose one above the other, allowing spectators to observe what was happening far below.
The floor was a glittering mosaic in hues of blue and green: an ocean of tile stretching from one side of the temple to the other. The surface sloped gradually down toward the far wall, where blocks of stone had been cut away to allow the sea to flow in directly from the harbor. Waves rushed up, covering nearly half of the floor, and then back out again, leaving droplets of water and bits of seaweed behind. It was an amazing sight, as though the God of the Deep Sea was reaching his immortal, watery fingers directly into the room.
We were corralled onto a platform suspended a few feet above the water, the men and women divided into separate groups. One other feature caught my eye: a large hole in the floor below us, rimmed by pieces of black tile. As the ocean rushed in, it flowed over that hole with a sucking sound and began to swirl down into it with the pull of a small whirlpool. The image of the spiral of Gurgexenes that I had now seen many times, carved into walls, embroidered onto cloaks, displayed in the little shrine in Sebastianus’s villa, flashed through my mind.
Not far away from us was a viewing area cordoned off by a rope of white silk strung between bronze poles. It was crowded with onlookers. With a shock, I saw faces I recognized: Sophia and her three daughters deep in conversation with a tall, underfed man who I suspected might be their tutor. He seemed to punctuate his remarks with hand movements, at one point gesturing toward the floor and miming a swirling spiral. Sophia watched him, transfixed.
The waves rushed in fiercely, cresting in white froth only a few feet below. The whirlpool swirled and sucked. I studied the expectant faces in the crowd, coming back again to Sophia’s enraptured look. A few feet behind her, I saw a tall figure with unruly curls of blond hair, a pair of sharp gray eyes, a thin nose. Clemens Fabius.
The water flowed in and out.
A bell clanged once from somewhere far above. A small side door opened, and a row of women in long black robes and veils filed slowly in, the spiral insignia embroidered in white on their garments.
Three male prisoners, those closest to the front, were led to the edge of the platform. They stumbled and clung to one another as the water gurgled below.
One of the black-clad women cried out in a clear voice, “Let the justice of Gurgexenes be upon you, and may you serve as a warning to others!” She grabbed the first captive and, without another word, shoved him off the platform. His cries were quickly drowned out by the sucking of the whirlpool.
The blood turned to ice in my veins.
Two more men went the way of the first. My stomach heaved.
Another of the temple sisters addressed our group of captive women as we clung to one another in fear. “The Imperatrix, in her mercy, grants you the opportunity for reform. Refuse, and you will face the justice of the great Sea God. What do you choose?”
All around me, weak shouts of “Reform!” went up from the ragged group of women. What choice did we have, given the alternative?
A few feet away, the desperate men cried out. Bile rose in my throat as I spotted Luca. What would happen to his children?
Suddenly my frantic gaze focused on a face in the crowd: Klaudia, beside the silk rope, frowning at the cluster of frightened captives.
I began to jump up and down, shouting and waving. “Klaudia! Klaudia! I am here!”
Several women pulled away from me, frightened by my cries. A blue-cloaked soldier hit me hard in the shoulder. Pain radiated down my arm. “No noise.”
But it was enough. Klaudia had seen me. I watched her face freeze for a moment in a mask of horror. She whirled around and pushed her way into the middle of the group of nobles.
The ghastly cries and splashes continued, one after the other.
Suddenly, rough hands were on my shoulders, and I screamed. The sound was barely audible to my own ears amid the noise and clamor. A soldier pulled me back and began to muscle us through the cluster of prisoners. I tripped, and he jerked me upright. He led me along a narrow ledge until we emerged behind the special viewing area. I could see the backs of cloaks and togas as people leaned forward to see what was happening at the whirlpool. Another scream, a shout from the crowd, and the whoosh of waves told me that someone else had been pushed into the hole.
