by Sheila Finch
Halfway down the table opposite his seat, he became aware of a thin young woman, hardly more than a girl, sitting alone, The guests on either side of her ignored her presence, a sign he recognized as indicating her low status. A group of slaves entered and began to play flutes and cymbals. He found himself nodding to the pleasant rhythms.
A guest reclining beside him, a portly man with dark, oily curls and a red-scratched chin betraying a recent visit to an inept barber, leaned toward him. “Let us hope our great and honored host doesn’t add to the entertainment tonight.”
He didn’t know how to answer this, but was saved from the trouble by the fat man nudging him in the ribs and fluttering his eyelids in comical fashion.
“The emperor sings, you know. Such a voice!”
He was profoundly out of place, a country hare surrounded by city dogs. Yet part of him relished the grandeur of it all. A little touch of this pomp and ceremony would be fine at home – though he’d have a hard time persuading Breca.
A trumpet sounded and the emperor himself accompanied by two officials, one a dwarf, joined his guests. Nero’s golden curls were piled high on his head in almost female fashion, and bound by a golden wreath; he took mincing little steps toward his place at the head of the tables, as if he were dancing. He realized that Nero had hardly grown any taller than when they were both boys at Augustus’s court, while he himself had added at least a pes. And there was Amminus! He saw his white-robed boy, looking serious and rather out-of-place, led by a slave to take a seat to one side of the emperor’s couch at the head table. He was proud and nervous at the same time. The other two boys, sons of Roman senators who were to be his son’s co-students, were absent.
The emperor stopped before he reached his place of honor. He gazed down at Togidubnus who tried to scramble to his feet in the imperial presence. Nero’s hand on his shoulder pushed him down again.
“No, no, Tiberius, old friend of my boyhood,” Nero said, smiling broadly as if at some delicious secret. “Loyal ally!’ He turned to the dwarf who stood scowling beside him. “Satrias, you must remind me to reward my dear friend for his service in our defeat of the notorious rebel queen – whatever her name was.”
“Boudicca,” the dwarf muttered.
Encouraged, he began. “Great Caesar, I would discuss my plans –”
He stopped short, aware Nero’s smile had faded. “I meant, my humble suggestions –”
But the emperor walked past him and was now reclining on his couch, the servants bustling around him, arranging his toga, making him comfortable, the dwarf filling his wine cup.
Once the emperor was seated, the feast began. More food than he’d ever seen in any one meal: venison, wild boar, suckling pig, goat, duck and pheasants, one overloaded dish followed another – even a peacock arrayed tail and all – and all of it to be washed down with flagon after flagon of heavy wine. Caesar Augustus had been miserly in his treatment of guests by comparison. But very little fish other than the oysters, he noted, disappointed. In his island home, fish was usually the main dish on the table, and he preferred it. Too much rich meat slowed his thoughts, and he was going to need to be mentally nimble later tonight.
The noise in the room from the musicians and the roar of conversation combined to bring on a headache. The heavily spiced smell of the food that kept coming – wave after wave of steaming platters – started to make him nauseous, and the heat from so many guests under one roof was stifling. He felt a trickle of sweat sliding down from his hair and surreptitiously wiped it. Nobody was paying him attention, anyway. Adding to his dismay was the growing conviction that his well-planned speech was not going to find anybody sober as an audience tonight, let alone the emperor. How naive to ever think it would!
Hours passed. His limbs ached with the strain of reclining in what to him was an awkward position. His eyes smarted from the effects of too much wine and the smoke from the oil lamps. There was a momentary lull when one of his neighbors suddenly fell off his bench, victim of too much wine. Two slaves removed him. The noise resumed. Across the table, another man vomited, but nobody paid attention. One thought pushed its way into his pounding head; Breca would not approve of this decadent Roman way of entertaining guests.
Now the slaves were bringing honey-sweetened cakes and fruit, and bowls of warm, scented water for the guests to wash their meat-sticky fingers. And more wine. Above the table, the ceiling opened up and rose petals rained down on the guests with cloying perfume. He closed his tired eyes and gave up on his intention to speak of the importance of Britannia to Rome. Indeed, he doubted his wine-thickened tongue could find the words. All he desired was that the interminable feast would end, the morning would come quickly, and he would be on his way home.
He had almost drifted into sleep when a loud trumpet burst startled him. The emperor was standing on his couch, a silver chalice in one hand, a slave propping him up at his elbow. He heard a low grumbling around him as the guests were forced to stand too in respect, a task some found almost impossible after such indulging.
“My friends, my countrymen!” Nero’s voice emerged high and squeaky. “My guests!”
The room hushed. A little late in the proceedings for a toast, he thought. He reached reluctantly for his fine glass beaker which the slaves had refilled. His hand was unsteady and he succeeded only in knocking the beaker over and spilling the wine across the table, splashing the toga of a man who hardly noticed, his attention fixed elsewhere. When he looked up from this disaster, he saw the emperor beckoning to a guest to come and stand beside him. Togidubnus followed the direction of the other guests’ gaze and saw the young woman he’d noticed earlier walking slowly – reluctantly, and accompanied by two slaves – to the head table.
Nero stretched one hand down and seized the girl’s wrist, holding it over her head.
“Antonia Plautina,” Nero announced. “Daughter of the respected senator and my dearest friend, Gaius Antonius Plautinus – deceased!”
The emperor paused to make his face a mask of suffering that would’ve made actors proud. He was embarrassed for the emperor, but the guests clapped in approval.
Nero continued, “A treasured friend whose hospitality I have so enjoyed in the past.”
A tear appeared at the corner of his eye, and the emperor allowed it to make its way down his cheek. A moment’s hesitation, and the guests applauded again.
Aware he was being observed by the guest who’d commented on Nero’s singing, he made the motions too. A quick glance at his son, beside the emperor, revealed that the boy kept his eyes on the plate before him. Wise boy, he thought with pride.
“But away with sorrow! Tonight it is time for happiness and rejoicing.” Nero lifted his chalice. “We are here to celebrate Antonia’s marriage.”
The young woman’s face indicated anything but happiness, he saw, and wondered what was going on. None of this drama was his business. One more thing to endure before the night was over and he could return home. The other guests cheered loudly. A servant appeared behind her and placed a wreath of orange blossom on her head. Slaves hurried to refill the cups emptied in the toast to the bride-to-be.
“Where, you may be wondering, is the bridegroom?” Nero said, his voice climbing in his excitement. “Ah! I see him, shyly waiting his time to claim his bride!”
There was some raucous laughter at that, and he caught a few lewd suggestions. He was startled when two slaves appeared and took hold of his arms, urging him to move towards the emperor’s couch. They jostled him into position beside the young woman. He caught the sweet scent of orange blossom.
But this wasn’t right. “There’s some mistake –”
Nero smiled down, small eyes glittering fiercely.
“I give you Tiberius Claudius Togidubnus, chief of the Regni – a very small tribe in our Britannic territory!”
There was laughter at that, but Nero held up his free hand and it subsided. “From this day, I shall name Tiberius Claudius Togidubnus, king of his
tribe!”
No! he wanted to say. You can’t do this! The Elders must vote –
“And now he’ll be the worthy bridegroom of my dearest friend’s daughter.”
The room erupted in a wave of cheers and hoots, but he felt as if he were engulfed in ice, unable to speak for the sudden realization of what was happening.
“Great Caesar – I am already married – I have a wife in Britannia.”
“A wife in Britannia!” Nero giggled, swaying drunkenly on his perch. The dwarf stood hurriedly to support him. “But I am the emperor, am I not? I make the laws that govern this empire, isn’t that true? And I can break them. Away with such feeble impediments! I divorce you, Tiberius Claudius Togidubnus. You are no longer married to the wife in Britannia.”
He was aware of two things: the young woman’s sullen face – obviously this was not her plan – and Amminus, whose face was as white as his toga, his mouth a silent rictus of horror.
Nero’s eyes narrowed. He handed his chalice to one of the men supporting him, and reached down to grasp the boy’s shoulder. “Your boy shall be witness to this marriage, King Tiberius.”
He saw the tears on his son’s cheeks and his heart pounded. “Don’t do this, Caesar. I beg you.”
In response, Nero nodded to a guard. The soldier stepped forward and took the woman’s hand as Nero released it, then made a grab for Togidubnus’s hand. He took a step back, but he was aware as he did so of Nero’s tight grip on the boy’s shoulder. His son shook with fear. Defeated, he let the soldier lift his hand and join it with the girl’s.
“Where’s the auger?” a drunken voice shouted from halfway down the table. “We need an augury!”
“What do we need with augurs examining entrails?” Nero said. “I make the laws here! Tiberius Claudius Togidubnus and Antonia Plautina, I declare you married under my Roman law.”
The assembled guests roared their approval again. Drunk as they were, did they even understand what Nero was doing? In the midst of his pain, he knew they had as little choice in the matter as he.
“And as proof that in Rome all things are done lawfully,” Nero said, “I’ll have this divorce and marriage written out and signed, and you shall take it with you. And now, to bed!”
Nero scrambled down from his perch with the help of the dwarf, his hand still firmly grasping Amminus’s shoulder, the wild glitter gone from his eyes. He spoke softly so few other than Togidubnus could hear. “Remember, Tiberius, take care of your wife, and I will take care of your son.”
The last glimpse he had of Amminus was the tear-stained face glancing back at him as the emperor’s party left the banquet chamber.
His vision suffused with blood. Wild, brutish thoughts tumbled through his mind. He would chase Nero down and throttle him – stab him with one of the many knives on the table – kill him – spill his blood over the marble floors of his palace –
“Whatever you’re thinking,” a sullen voice said. “It won’t work. He has many guards, you’re just one man.”
He looked down into the young woman’s face, ugly with anger. She was hardly more than a girl. “My son – ”
“You’ve lost the battle. Just like I have. Don’t think I’m happy to be married off to an old barbarian!”
The guests were leaving the banquet chamber now, many of them stumbling or leaning on slaves. He stood, still in the jaws of a nightmare.
Someone touched his arm, a Greek freedman by the look of him. “The emperor has given orders that you both leave for Britannia tomorrow. I’ll go with you. There’s nothing in Rome for me.”
The woman turned to the Greek and collapsed sobbing into his arms.
“There will be time later,” the Greek said to him over her head. “But not tonight.”
CHAPTER SIX
The bad weather began the moment the ship left the dock at Ostia at the mouth of the Tiber. An early storm hit them two days out, and the trireme lurched and rolled in shoulder-high waves that washed over the deck, drenching Togidubnus and the sailors trying to keep the ship on course. The smell of salt, usually a welcome perfume he’d known since childhood, was bitter in his nose. He could have gone down inside, into the shelter of a small cabin, but the Roman girl was there, vomiting from the sea malady. The Greek was with her, taking care of her and the child.
He pulled his cloak up higher on his neck to keep out the driving rain; the storm was fierce for so early in the year. He crouched in the bow, staring into the black water. Above his head the canvas snapped and ropes beat against the mast; the song of the wind in the rigging was high and terrifying. Sailors rushed about, shouting orders to each other and to the rowers whose strength at the oars couldn’t compete with the fierce determination of the sea to overturn the ship and drown them all.
Neptune preserve me! And if Neptune saw fit to grant his prayer, how was he going to deal with this situation when he arrived back in Noviomagus? His stomach knotted.
How could he ever explain this Roman girl and the child to Breca?
What choice did he have but to accept the emperor’s command, since he was a Roman and sworn to obey Roman law?
And Amminus was a hostage. Breca hadn’t wanted him to take Amminus to Rome. He’d been so certain what he was doing was right.
Why had he not seen the treachery of Nero ahead of time? How could he have ever believed he was going to discuss matters of state like equals – and not see the peril he was putting his son in? He’d been a fool to assume this court would be a safe space for Amminus to learn Roman statesmanship, as he’d done at the court of Claudius. There were no answers, but the questions continued to torture him.
“Here. Some bread, a piece of fish – you must eat something.”
He looked up at the old legionary, heavy cloak draped over his head, offering a plate. “I’m not hungry.”
Gallus had joined the party on the dock. The old warrior spent most of his time gaming with sailors if they weren’t working, or lending a hand with the ship’s lines when they were. Togidubnus took the plate but had no appetite for food or conversation; every man on board had heard of his failed dealings with Nero and his forced “wedding” with the Roman girl. He would have found their sympathy as toxic as their mockery. The bitter irony was that he was unshakeable in his belief in the superiority of Roman law – and it had dealt with him like this.
“Not wise sleeping out here, Little Fox,” Gallus observed.
“Gallus, I was never your commander in the legion, but I’m commanding you now. Leave me in peace!”
“Leave you to wallow in self-pity, you mean.”
“How can you know what I feel?”
“Everybody knows!” the old man said sharply. “The emperor needed to get his bastard away before his enemies discovered her. You were just a convenience. Grieving over what’s done doesn’t help.”
“What does?”
“You’re making too much of this. A Roman thinks nothing of having a wife and taking a concubine –”
“I took an oath!”
The wind tore the old man’s reply to shreds and he went away.
A bedraggled gull, swept onto the bow by the force of the wind, eyed the bread hungrily. He tossed both fish and bread into the air and the bird gulped them down.
Breca’s reaction to his news would only be the beginning. The Council of Elders wouldn’t be happy that Nero had pre-empted their choice of king. He couldn’t see his way forward.
Later, he awoke to find himself shrouded in layers of heavy cloaks and leather hides. Someone had tried to protect him from the weather. He had no sense of how much time had passed, just a fleeting memory of being forced to eat a few bites of cheese and bread at one point – Gallus again entreating him to go below – the rain stinging his face – the bitter cold in his bones. For the most part, the sailors had respected his misery and left him alone.
The sky was full of fast-moving clouds and patches of intense blue. The sea was wrinkled, sparkling under flashes of sun. Overhea
d, the sails were stiff with wind, racing over the water to make up for storm-lost time. In the distance, the Pillars of Hercules loomed. A few hours and they would pass through the gap and out into the open sea.
His mind felt as clear as the air this morning. All life was a risk, a gamble like old Gallus wagering on the roll of a dice. Nero too had much to lose in this game if he played him false. It wasn’t a pretty game, and there’d be no winners. But it might equally be true that he could work it so there’d be no losers.
He was a warrior still. He’d find a way to deal with the fate the gods had given him.
* * *
It was evening, several days later, when the ship skirted the island of Vectis and came in sight of the south coast of Britannia with its many bays and inlets that he knew so well. The land was already shadowed, but the sun slipping down the western sky still sparked the water into a million shining coins. A cool breeze sprang up as the shadows lengthened. The tide ran high and a strong current carried them to shore. A flock of shorebirds swooped over the ship, turned in an instant and swerved back toward land. Below them, a dolphin leaped, another. The smells of land reached him now, pine, and the subtler smell of gorse, the first summer apples ripening on the trees; his heart swelled in recognition. He’d been away several weeks and the seasons had changed.
The ship’s master guided the ship past the channel that led to the old port of Hengistbury Head that even before the Romans came had been always busy, then smoothly into the channel leading to Noviomagus Regnorum. Now he could make out the gleam of lanterns lit to guide fishermen home. He knew this channel well, the deeps and the sand bars, the very run of the waves. He’d fished these waters as boy with his father, flounder and eels and plaice, and sometimes dab driven down from the northern coast. The dock that served his small house lay just at the edge of his vision now.