Chapter 9

Looking over the array of tightly wrapped scrolls, each with a red ribbon around it, Hyperion just smiled. The scrolls had been dropped off in the morning with more added every few hours. He would hear the door open, and in would come a slave with an armful. He watched with ill-disguised glee. Every one of the scrolls represented money. Work, he concluded, was paying off handsomely.

He gulped down some fresh oysters brought earlier and placed on his desk. They had been soaked in wine and leeks, and still retained their vinegary flavor. He then nibbled a couple of grapes and at a piece of sweet cake specifically prepared for him. He really wasn’t hungry, but the canapés were hard to resist. He could have obtained the same treats at home while working on his construction-demolition business, but he would have had to pay for them. Here, they arrived at the snap of his fingers. Nothing was too good or couldn’t be delivered quickly enough for the cousin of the Emperor.

He wiped his bejeweled hands on a white napkin embroidered in gold thread and then sipped from his wine cup encrusted with gems. Perhaps a bath would be nice. He might have his slaves oust anyone in the public sauna so he could have some privacy. He needed a moment to relax and let the steam ease away the excesses built up during the day. He had already developed one of the habits of the wealthy: eating too much, tickling his throat with a feather to vomit and then resuming his feasting. A mid-day bath would fit right in. So would a few hours watching gladiators slaughter each other, a rousing orgy and, if he was lucky, an evisceration of a criminal.

The delights of the Roman elite: Hyperion was only beginning to sample the opportunities.

He basked in the afternoon sunlight. It streamed through the wide glass windows and played across the silken throw rug by his desk. Hauling himself from his chair, a real effort considering how quickly he had added girth, Hyperion slowly wandered over to enjoy the view, gazing thoughtfully into the afternoon sky. The small bag of gold coins he now carried habitually jingled as they bounced against his thigh.

From his perspective, all of Rome seemed beneath him, passing chaotically on the street by the palace. Hyperion studied the mishmash of people for a moment and then decided that he could read a few more scrolls. Nerva would appreciate the effort. Appearance was everything. The Emperor would be informed how assiduous his cousin handled his ponderous tasks. A positive impression carried such weight.

Hyperion lumbered over to the small altar to the household gods. He tipped some wine into the bowl there. The gods had been good to him. They had blessed and elevated him. He was happy to acknowledge them. Hyperion’s gleaming leather sandals clicked on the hard, stone flooring. The sound echoed around the large office. Hyperion listened to the echo for a moment. It was the roar of power, undisturbed by anything or anyone else. Even the din of the outside world was suffocated by the immense size and majesty in this office. He wondered who occupied it before he confiscated it.

Finally, Hyperion he returned to his desk and his plush, high-back chair. He picked up another scroll from the pile previously placed in a basket. He quickly scanned the contents. Another petition; like so many, this one requested a favorable ruling from the Emperor in a dispute over property lines. The writer offered his profound thanks for the expected, proper decision, but no hint of financial assistance. Hyperion sniffed in disdain. The Emperor normally would decide the merits of the request. Indeed, that was the most significant part of the Emperor’s job. However, since Nerva was old and probably unwilling to waste his few remaining hours on such mundane chores, Hyperion did not hesitate to scrawl a response. He was relieving the Emperor of such a difficult chore. Nerva would be proud to know that.

Hyperion had no trouble composing an appropriate message. He dipped his stylus into the inkpot and began to write. Other administrators might rely on scribes, he told himself, but he was literate. That was another plus in fulfilling his plans for the future. So was accumulating money. He could add to his treasury easily with a well-turned phrase, and no one else would know. Scribes had an awful tendency to share information. Secrecy was the key to fiscal independence.

He wrote carefully, starting by intimating that any decision would be difficult and require the investment of time and effort. Any successful application should be expected to include an offer to alleviate some of the cost. Prompt remuneration for official action could help resolve this question quickly and possibly favorably. The technique was to request a bribe in a covert manner, a camouflaged special mission.

There was a knock on the door. He looked up. Visitors were common, particular those with bulging purses and a desire to empty them into Hyperion’s pudgy hands. The process was quick and unobtrusive. No sense attracting attention from others who might want a cut or actually interfere with the transaction.

Hyperion did not respond to the knock immediately. Any visitor needed to wait. The more minutes that ticked by, the more important Hyperion became. He calmly finished writing his note on the scroll, rolled it back up, placed a seal on it and shifted it into the completed file.

“Enter,” he commanded finally.

The door slid open. A young man almost tiptoed in. Dressed in a simple tunic that identified him as a slave, he couldn’t have been more than 15. Hyperion studied him. He liked the sandy hair and the gentle face. His sandy hair had a hint of curl. From his light coloring, Hyperion guessed the boy was an Anglo, a member of the tribe in the Tin Islands. They were fairer than most Romans and sought after as bedroom companions. The boy might serve some quiet evening, Hyperion thought.

Trembling, the lad held something tightly against his tunic with one hand and a piece of parchment in the other. He edged slowly toward the desk with blue eyes filled with fear.

“Yes?” Hyperion said sternly. “Be quick about your business.”

“Antony the sandal-maker sent me,” the youth quavered.

Hyperion thought a moment. The name was familiar. What had the sandal-maker wanted? There had been so many requests in the few weeks spent reading petitions. Then, he remembered. Antony needed permission to purchase the apartment next door from a reluctant resident. Hyperion smothered a smile, keeping the stern administrative expression on his pink face. Antony’s neighbor had already been in the office, providing a pittance to encourage Hyperion to reject the petition.

Auctions for services were so lucrative, Hyperion thought. What a pity such an even-handed approach couldn’t be used for all questions.

“What does your master want now?” Hyperion sneered.

The young man inched forward. “He asked me to give you this purse and this letter of thank-you,” he stammered. He placed them hurriedly on the desk and backed up even faster.

Hyperion picked up the small cloth purse. He opened it. Inside were five gold solidi. Hyperion frowned. He expected more. This was no better than Antony’s neighbor provided. So far, it was a tie. Of course, five was better than four. He put the coins in his hand and let them clink together. He did love that sound.

Hyperion glanced at the letter. It was an effusive thank-you scrawled in execrable Latin on cheap papyrus. The man hadn’t even hired a scribe. Hyperion tossed it carelessly into the basket by his desk. He looked up. “Are you still here?” he snapped at the teenager.

“Yes, sir,” the young man managed. “Have you a reply I can carry to my master?”

Hyperion glared across the room. “Tell Antony the bootlicker that I will look into the matter,” he said in a cold voice, enunciating each word. “These issues are delicate and take time.”

The young man hesitated.

“Get out of my office,” Hyperion ordered loudly, staring fiercely. Immediately, the door opened, and a guard peered inside with a lance at the ready.

The young man glanced behind him and saw the weapon. Color drained from his face. He did not wait for a second order and sped away. He lost a sandal in his haste and stumbled through the doorway. The guard shut the door behind him.

“So, sandal-maker,” Hyperion scoffed. “You didn’t send enough money, and you didn’t make a shoe that could stay on.” He would just ignore the petition. He always did, of course, but now he had an excuse.

“Guard,” he called. The door immediately opened, and a uniformed officer stepped inside. Hyperion nodded at the sandal. The guard grinned and removed it, closing the door with a satisfying click.

Reveling in the privacy, Hyperion opened a small drawer on the right side of his desk and gazed at the pile of coin already in there. He ran a hand through the collection. How quickly he had managed to accumulate an impressive nest egg. And this did not include the two small casks now filled with coins and stored at home. The money flowed in a golden torrent. Hyperion did not restrict himself or even attempt to turn off the spigot. He had to be financially prepared for what could be an expensive future. Nerva was not likely to rule very long, not at his advanced age. Already, the Pretorian Guard and the army were continually rumbling about his leadership. They had not been happy at his ascension anyway. They had expected a general to mount the throne, not a decrepit civil servant. They just might settle for an astute businessman.

That hope inspired Hyperion. Everyone knew that Nerva was his cousin. The Emperor had no surviving children and only a handful of distant relatives, only one of whom had come forward to share in his lofty success. As a result, Hyperion had become the center of quiet speculation. He realized others looked at him, followed his every move, whispered about him and made predictions whenever he came to the palace. After all, Nerva had made few political alliances of the kind that would sustain him. He was under pressure to select someone to succeed him. There were already rumors floating about regarding Nerva’s choice. The Emperor would have to adopt someone.

Why not a hard-working, dedicated, loyal cousin? Dynasties were expected: Julian, Flavian and now Nervian.

Some dinari spent in the right places could help ensure that’s what actually happened. Hyperion fondled the sandal-maker’s coins and dropped them one by one into his treasury. The sandal-maker and his colleagues, he thought, could make him the next Emperor.

Hyperion had no idea what Nerva might think, but knew there was precedent in his favor. Julius Caesar had adopted his grand-nephew, Octavius, a young man then unknown to the rest of the Roman hierarchy. Octavius had gone on to become Augustus, the greatest of the Emperors. Couldn’t Hyperion follow that same path? He didn’t see any reason why not. He had the intelligence, the drive, the courtly manner and, now, something Octavius had not had – at least a modicum of experience among the ruling hierarchy.

In the privacy of his own villa, Hyperion was already trying out regal names. Given his Greek heritage, he wondered about the name Epiphany, “the great one?” It had a certain panache. The name was smooth and easy to understand. It would also enhance his chances of immortality, especially after the Senate made him a god, as had been done with emperors Augustus, Tiberius, Claudius, Vespasian and Titus. Augustus even had a month named after him. What month would suit Hyperion? He considered the options, but couldn’t decide.

Both of his young mistresses had suggestions for a new name, as had his wife. However, he could see the money lust fill their eyes. None of them would live long enough to enjoy his ascension to power, he decided. He would have access to all of the women in Rome. Why would he settle for these nothings? His wife was the daughter of a tailor. She would serve no purpose when high-born women would flock to him. Besides, his wife reminded him of the days when he was poor, when setting fires barely enabled him to pluck profit from the ashes. As for the mistresses, they were suitably young, but both had glommed to him because of his wealth. Their parents had acceded to his interest in return for suitable payment. In the future, he could claim any girls – and some boys – without expending an aes.

As emperor, Hyperion intended to bury the past. He was sure enemies would demean him for his lowly birth, but the divine Augustus, too, had lived in genteel poverty before his ascension. Livia, Augustus’ wife who had also been raised to divinity status, once had to flee for her life. All he had done was burn down a few buildings, like Crassus, who had gone on to be part of the ruling triumvirate before Augustus took total control.

Of course, there was always the chance that Nerva would finally select an army officer as a way of mollifying the military’s concern about his leadership. That would be a poor choice, Hyperion told his youngest mistress. The position required a bureaucrat, someone with business acumen and experience. Certainly, there were enemies to kill, but that was for the Pretorian Guard and the army to handle on behalf of any emperor, who did not need military experience or have to dirty his hands with participation in the requisite bloodletting.

Hyperion already had a plan to handle such a necessity. All he would do is write a few names of those to be proscribed and hand the list to the captain of the Pretorian Guard. The actual murders would take place in quiet, far from the palace. Most people once informed of their designation would commit suicide anyway. All he had to do was to send notification of his imperial wish and then inherit their estates.

Despite having carefully developed blueprint when the time came for him to don the purple, Hyperion was also prepared if Nerva mistakenly turned his eyes to someone else to succeed him. In the weeks while the Emperor weighed his options, Hyperion was sucking as much as possible from the rich feast that graced his desk, knowing that he could be quickly shooed away when the next emperor took over. Bribes were particularly lucrative for a man in his position. And, if he failed to live up to the expectations of the donor, there was little recourse. What could someone like Antony the sandal-maker do? Complain to the Emperor about his cousin?

Not even the most-foolhardy miscreant would attempt that.

Antony the sandal-maker could seethe quietly and probably would. He could whisper angry comments and probably do that, too. He could spend more money, a method tried by many. However, Antony would not dare to approach him directly. Hyperion made sure to have alert guards. Besides, the gods had given him a quick tongue and the ability to soothe even the angriest visitor. That talent had come in handy when a tenant complained about a fire, or one of Domitian’s officials came by to investigate. Then, Hyperion had been able to respond with proper indifference. Now, he could handle the problems even more efficiently. One overly nosy civil servant, a pest from the days of the previous administration, recently had been assigned to the silver mines along with Longus.

They would have a lot to talk about.

He picked up another scroll. This one requested a meeting to discuss “the manner that an issue might be resolved” in the writer’s favor. Hyperion smiled. This was a writer who understood the clever use of words. Euphemisms had such power. He wrote a note to his secretary, asking him to arrange an appointment with the petitioner.

He glanced down at his pallium. Here and there, he could see black spots. He had grown too careless. Ink had splattered the fabric. Some had even fallen onto the extra-wide purple stripes. He felt unclean. That would not do, especially for a man of his lofty status.

“Humilius,” he bellowed.

His new slave appeared quickly. He had been waiting just outside the door in proper deference. Hyperion liked him, particularly because Humilius had such an obsequious nature. He responded immediately and performed his duties with all the humble obedience any master could want. He had been consigned to slavery recently after being hauled in with Longus, but his debasing manner had won him a reprieve from the mines. Hyperion did not care that the man professed to be Christian, whatever that was; only that he had been living in the same catacomb with Longus, who was now on his way to oblivion. Hyperion had taken the opportunity to send Longus a note about what happened to his former companion. How it must gall him that Humilius enjoyed the luxury of a palace assignment and the rich leftovers. That was another pain Longus could endure during his brief, fatal experience in Spain.

Humilius was a thin man whose face was covered with billowing black hair and a beard. He stood by the bust of Nerva that had been placed by the right side of the entrance, bending forward with the imprint of fear that seemed stamped into his face. He did not say anything, but clasped his hands together and stared at the ground.

He had initially identified himself as Clement, but Hyperion had renamed him to reflect his abasing nature.

“Get me a new robe,” Hyperion ordered.

“At once,” Humilius replied appropriately humbly and sped away.

Hyperion felt a glow of self-satisfaction. Such authority almost matched his feelings about money. He once had made a lot of cash by buying and selling the sordid Rome apartments that had the good sense to catch on fire. Nothing compared to his current haul. If only he had realized how lucrative public life could be. He would have stood for office far earlier than this.

He saw the avarice filling the faces of those he passed in the hall. That, too, was especially enjoyable. How he loved their envy. Sneering at those who had been born to a lofty place in society added to the pleasure. However, nothing compared to the smugness that came with political power and its accompanying wealth.

Humilius returned with a fresh pallium. Hyperion changed clothes and gave his slave the old robe. Humilius bowed and walked out backwards.

“More wine,” Hyperion demanded. “Tell the chef to bring me larks’ tongues, too. I have a taste for a delicacy.”

“At once, Master,” Humilius said and scurried away.

The door closed. Hyperion briefly heard muffled voices. He sat up. More visitors? How nice. More money. Then, too, there was always a chance the Emperor would come to visit. In the past, Hyperion often saw Nerva, who, though, busy in Domitian’s employ, nevertheless always found a few moments for his lone cousin. Now, however, Nerva did not seem to have the time for those ranked below kings and generals. Indeed, Hyperion had simply assumed the position as monitor of petitions without an official dictum, but had sent an obsequious note to Nerva, thanking him for the ability to serve and how much he appreciated the opportunity to shift some onerous responsibilities from the Emperor’s very busy schedule.

There had been no reply. Still, no one had intervened when Hyperion commandeered this office, ordered guards to maintain a vigil outside the door, demanded repasts proper for a person in his position and began issuing directives. Having a relative as Emperor came with great benefits, Hyperion quickly realized, and he continued to take full advantage of all of them.

The closed door blocked the voices, which were evident, but not audible. Still, a conversation was rare. The humble plebeians who came by rarely said much. Like the teen of the few minutes before, they simply trembled and managed to produce a handful of words and coins. Someone talking in full sentences had to have some status and was not overawed by his position. Hyperion waited anxiously.

In a moment, Humilius knocked and entered on command. He carried the requested dish and placed the slivers of meat on the desk.

“You have two visitors,” he announced.

“I am tired,” Hyperion began, making sure whoever had come to see him was well aware of their lowly position compared to his. “Tell them …”

“To come right in,” a deep voice interrupted. Two men dressed in togas walked through the open door.

Hyperion immediately recognized the leader, Sextus Julius Frontinus, now in his 50s with gray hair and a voice tinged with age and gravitas. He walked unsteadily with a cane while his ample stomach led the way into the room. Possessor of a deep voice that seemed to billow from proud jowls, he walked with his head erect and back stiff. He was followed by Tiberius Avidus Quietus, another older man who was even rounder and tended to waddle. Quietus bore a reputation for rhetoric, but his reedy voice tended to give weak support to his speeches.

Regardless, Hyperion had heard both orate in the Senate and was immediately awe-struck by their presence.

Both were prominent senators from distinguished families. Each had held important positions through several reigns. Both, in fact, were rumored to be up for gubernatorial posts, although, based on palace gossip, neither liked the current Emperor, an animosity that steeped from earlier dealings.

Then unaware of their feelings, Hyperion had sent both fawning letters in his earlier life as a businessman and even attempted to greet them in the Senate. Both had ignored him. Now, he reveled, they had come to see him. He was determined to appear their equal.

Hyperion arose slowly and regally. “Yes,” he said with icy disdain. “You may stay. I do not mind pausing in my many labors. I always make an exception for such distinguished visitors.”

Humilius quickly slid another chair in front of the desk and was waved away. He moved into the corner shadows of the office, standing next to a small table hosting goblets and a pitcher of wine.

“Patres Conscripti,” Hyperion said, sitting and then gesturing at his guests to do the same. Frontinus’ face hardened, but he complied. Quietus simply plopped down. “Please have some lark.” Hyperion gestured at the plate. The men did not respond. “Wine,” Hyperion snapped at the slave. Humilius immediately hurried forward with filled goblets.

“A sweetbread?” Hyperion offered. “I am honored you have come to my simple office.”

Frontinus held up a hand for him to stop and glanced around, noting the bust of Nerva, the wall-length mosaic inlaid with inlaid gold and silver and the large desk, and smothered a smile. “Simple?” he repeated. “I have seen kings of Gaul with less ornament.”

“Thank you,” Hyperion said. “Of course, the Gaul are barbarians. They cannot be expected to enjoy Roman refinements. Important government officials must present a proper image, as you well know.”

Both men smiled.

“We have heard of your work,” Frontinus said and paused as Hyperion waited expectantly. His busy mind was concocting all sorts of possible reasons for the visit. Since neither liked the Emperor, they had not come because Hyperion was related. If Frontinus wanted something, the bribe involved would definitely be substantial. Maybe both were involved in a business proposition. Hyperion rubbed his hands together in anticipation. The gods had really showered him with blessings.

“A moment,” Frontinus said. He turned and cocked an ear. The unmistakable sound of a horn filled the afternoon sky. He raised an eyebrow at Hyperion. “The Emperor,” he murmured. “How fortuitous.”

He hobbled to the window and looked out. Quietus and Hyperion followed. On the paved road visible from the window, a platoon of soldiers resplendent in red, gleaming uniforms with the sun bouncing off breastplates marched with lances held high. The man in front bore a silver eagle. Several others had banners. Behind them came a litter borne by six men, followed by two priests in white robes and then several musicians with horns and drums.

“Hail the Emperor,” Frontinus breathed, pressing his right fist to his chest.

“Long may he prosper,” added Quietus.

“To my cousin,” Hyperion said. He drank in the splendid sight, the pageantry, the awe-inspiring spectacle.

“He is such a great man,” Frontinus continued with bated enthusiasm. “We are blessed to have such a ruler.”

The procession moved slowly through thick crowds staring and silent. Children stopped playing. Old women gaped, gap-toothed and wrinkled. Men stood at attention. Even the clouds seemed to stop sweeping by. In a few moments, the soldiers and litter disappeared from view. The crowds dissolved, and the afternoon resumed its daily trek through time.

“May the gods grant him long life,” Quietus said.

“So say us all,” Frontinus agreed.

He turned and led the way back to the desk. “Yet,” he said, “it is the reality of all men that our existence will cease eventually. Not right away,” he added hastily, popping a piece of meat into his ample mouth. “Still, the Empire must always think of the future. We will need another great leader to continue on the path our noble Emperor has set.”

Hyperion did not say anything, but followed the route of the lark tongue from plate to mouth. Were these men hinting they wanted him to be the next Emperor? That’s what Frontinus seemed to be suggesting. Hyperion gave a wan smile and snapped his fingers.

Humilius hurried forward again with the pitcher of wine. He filled the two goblets on the desk and then re-filled Hyperion’s before returning to the shadows, ignored and unseen.

“To the Emperor’s health,” Hyperion toasted, raising his goblet. His companions followed suit. They all drank deeply.

“As senators,” Frontinus continued, “we concern ourselves with the Empire and its continued success.”

“As do we all,” Hyperion chimed in. He wished Frontinus would be more direct, but the older man was too political for such an obvious tactic.

“Where could we find another man as brave, intelligent, respected …” Quietus started.

“Thoughtful, unimpeachable and motivated by patriotism,” Frontinus finished.

“Indeed,” Hyperion said, trying to hide a smile. They were describing him. He knew it.

“Such a man could be ready to succeed the Emperor when the immortal gods call him to join them,” Quietus said.

“Many, many years from now,” Hyperion added.

“Of course,” Frontinus said. “Decades.” He sipped. “Still, the future of the Empire is paramount.”

“This is a matter to ponder,” Hyperion said. He glanced from face to face. “After all, hard as it is to contemplate, the Emperor could die soon.” He sighed. “I pray for my cousin’s health every day. It will be so hard to find someone with the ability to replace him.”

“The matter can be left to the fates or other means,” Frontinus said.

Hyperion almost gasped. They all knew how Nerva came to office after the assassination of Domitian. Caligula, too, had been murdered. Claudius had been poisoned. Some suggested that Tiberius had been smothered by a pillow. Was Frontinus daring to suggest a coupe?

Frontinus held up a fist. He placed his hand on the desk so the knuckles pointed at Hyperion. “Men who would achieve great power learn to lead by example. They seize the moment. They demonstrate their courage and strength.”

Hyperion was acutely aware that both men were staring at him. “I understand,” he said slowly. He nodded. Frontinus seemed to bob his head, too. That was enough.

“When?” Hyperion asked. His eyes darted from face to face. Frontinus was implacable. Quietus, however, was breathing hard with a red tinge to his cheeks.

“Sooner is always better,” Frontinus said. “You have access and acceptance. Others could not get as close as easily.”

Hyperion weighed the suggestion. His cousin would never suspect him. He would be unwary and certainly not prepared.

“Do you have a method in mind?’ he asked.

Frontinus kept his voice low. “I would not to presume to make a suggestion to someone about to become Emperor,” he said. He tapped his chest.

Hyperion stood. “Gentlemen,” he said with a hand to his heart, “to better days and a brighter future.”

Both nodded. Frontinus drained his goblet and crammed the rest of the meat into his mouth. He gave a quick smile and thudded toward the door. Quietus followed. They did not look back.

Hyperion sat down and thought about what Frontinus had suggested. Kill the Emperor? Could he? The Senate would confirm him afterwards. He was sure of that, especially with Frontinus and Quietus on his side. Few would mourn. Nerva had no public support. At least, not yet. He was simply a caretaker. Being younger and armed with connections in the highest rank of the Senate, Hyperion could be the kind of ruler that Romans honored and that history remembered.

He gazed out the window again, seeing instead the admiring throng, all gazing up at him, cheering, chanting his name. He would give them bread and stage the most-impressive gladiator games.

Lost in the moment, he paid no attention to Humilius, who watched. The slave tried to show no emotion. Had he heard right? Was this a plot? He did not know who the men were, other than that they were senators, but there was no question of Hyperion’s complicity. Information like this could be very helpful for someone who yearned to be free. Perhaps, Humilius thought, a word to the proper ears would release him and even someone else like Longus condemned to the mines.

How could he inform the Emperor?

Rachel could help. She was still free, moving furtively from home to home. She could tell Markus. He had some contacts in the court. Several Christians were now slaves to a quaestor and an aedile. At least one wife of a tribune was now Christian. Markus could get the information to them. It would not take long.

“More wine!” Hyperion commanded.

“Yes, my master,” Humilius said. He grabbed the pitcher and poured a glass.

Hyperion took it without looking at Humilius. His hand was trembling. Hyperion sipped slowly. He was on the verge of greatness. He could feel it. He knew it. The gods had chosen him. He was about to become a god himself.