‘That bad?’ he said quietly.
She didn’t open her eyes. ‘Worse.’ At last she looked up at him, saw the question in his eyes. ‘A boy,’ she said, though there was no joy in her announcement of this joyous news. ‘He was stuck fast and had to be forced free. At times we thought they both must die.’
‘Now it’s over,’ he stroked her hair, ‘and they live. The gods be thanked.’
‘Yes, they live,’ she said. ‘But Ceris believes Domitia will never be able to have another child, and if she attempts it she will certainly die in the process. And only the gods know the harm done to the child. His poor head was damaged in the ordeal, but Ceris assures me it will resume its shape eventually. You are not to mention any of this to Agricola, my love. He is not to see mother or baby until both have recovered.’
‘How much does he know?’
‘Only that they must be left alone for now.’ She hesitated. ‘He wept when I told him, Valerius, wept in a way that concerned me. Give him an hour before you congratulate him on his son – he is to be called Julius after his father – and, if you can, persuade him to go north again as soon as possible. Domitia needs time and solitude. There may still be more suffering to endure and I am not sure he can bear it.’
XXXIX
Rome, December AD 80
‘I always think Saturnalia sets a dangerous precedent, brother, don’t you?’ Domitian’s tone was perfectly harmless and the words were pleasant enough, but they contained that element of challenge Titus always found difficult to ignore. The younger man tugged irritably at his pilleus, the rather ludicrous felt cap everyone in the room wore, perched at a precarious angle on his head. Normally, the conical cap was only worn by freed slaves on the day of their manumission, but on this day it was a sign that, nominally, every man and woman was equal.
Below the Imperial dais, in the palace’s great dining hall, the members of Titus’s inner circle cheerfully dispensed food and drink to their household slaves and exchanged banter in a familiar fashion that would seem a distant memory in just a few days.
‘Look at them, acting as if they own the Palatine,’ Domitian continued. ‘Drinking like sows, arguing with their masters. Playing dice and haggling over which gift they should receive. I saw Acilius Glabrio giving one of his wife’s maids an expensive gold chain. All it does is give them a taste for freedom, and we know what happens when that taste turns into a hunger.’
‘It’s only once a year for a few days, husband.’
Titus noticed that Domitia Longina seemed to be enjoying herself. That pleased him, because she’d been pensive and troubled of late and it affected her looks. ‘Try taking the privilege of a hundred generations away from them and you will learn the true meaning of danger, brother,’ he said cheerfully. ‘They look forward to these six days all year long and they have come to believe they are entitled to them.’
‘That is exactly what I mean.’ Domitian leaned forward on his couch, waving his cup so wine spilled on the table. ‘A sense of entitlement in a slave is entirely inappropriate and can lead to a lack of respect. On the other hand, I suppose it gives one a chance to single out the troublemakers for future retribution.’
‘Wearing a pilleus for an afternoon of pleasant company is a small price to pay.’ Titus reached across and playfully knocked the cap over Domitian’s eyes. ‘Just be thankful that we at least are not expected to serve our slaves. I’m not sure I would remember how.’ He laughed, thinking that it had been months since he felt so cheerful and energetic. ‘Though I see old Philippus, your atriensis, down there. Perhaps I’ll ask you to serve him his soup.’
Domitian chuckled dutifully and his wife put a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.
‘When are you going to hold the ceremony to confirm Father’s divinity?’ Domitian manoeuvred the conversation to what he thought was safer ground. ‘He’s been in his grave for eighteen months now and still no proper tomb.’
‘I was going to talk to you about that.’ Titus smiled. ‘I plan to move him from the Mausoleum of Augustus to the family vaults next year, but first we have to turn them into a resting place fit for an emperor’ – he raised his cup to his brother – ‘for a dynasty. I would like you to look after that, Domitian, and I want you to organize the divination ceremonies. They’ll begin in July and last for the usual hundred days.’
It was an enormous task and Domitian felt as if all the wind had been knocked from him, but what could he say? ‘It will be an honour, brother.’
‘I thought you’d say that.’ Titus looked around the hall seeking out a particular face. Yes, there he was. ‘Flavius Josephus,’ he called. ‘Yes, you. You’re not deaf, are you? Don’t sit there looking so glum, come and join us.’ He summoned a passing servant. ‘Move the spare couch next to my brother.’
Josephus looked warily around the table, not certain if he was the subject of some kind of jest. Domitia’s welcoming smile put him more at ease and he slipped on to the couch next to Domitian. The servant placed a gold cup before him and filled it with wine. The Judaean had oiled his beard for the festival and, like the others, he’d relinquished his formal toga for the colourful dining clothes that were appropriate for the occasion. In his case, the voluminous smock had a rainbow sheen and was cut to make him look like an Eastern potentate, which was what he’d intended.
‘What do you think of it all?’ Titus waved an expansive hand across the thronged hall. ‘It must seem quite strange to you, even after all these years.’
‘On the contrary, Caesar.’ The Judaean tugged at his beard. ‘I find it rather entertaining to see masters fawning over their servants for a change. As you know, certain elements in my home country were very enthusiastic about notions of equality, and even common ownership.’
‘The Christus fellow, you mean.’
‘Indeed.’ Josephus bowed to acknowledge Titus’s grasp of the subject. They’d served long enough together in Judaea for Josephus to be aware of the new emperor’s interests … and prejudices. ‘Your immediate predecessor but four,’ he bared his teeth to show that his use of words was a small, harmless jest, and in no way intended as a slight to Titus’s father, ‘took vigorous steps to stamp them out in Rome, but I believe they are still active in Galilee.’
‘Being in Rome doesn’t appear to have done you any harm, Jew.’ Domitian ignored his wife’s stare to reach across and lift Josephus’s arm to show off the massive gold bracelet adorning his wrist.
‘Indeed.’ Josephus smiled. Outwardly he took no offence, though his hand twitched for a knife to push into that scrawny throat. ‘I will always be grateful to your father for inviting me here for the good of my health. I find the proximity of the Tiber and the water from your fine aqueducts most invigorating.’
Domitian snorted, and even Titus stifled a laugh. Every man in Rome knew that if Josephus so much as set one foot on the soil of Judaea enough of his enemies remained to ensure that his life would be measured in minutes. The members of no less than three different sects were certain he had betrayed the secrets of Jerusalem to Titus, and had thus been equally responsible for its ultimate destruction.
‘And you, my lady.’ Josephus turned his dark eyes on Domitia. With her, he always played the father figure, though she was certain his inclinations were far from fatherly. ‘You are in such fine colour that one would almost say … but of course, I will not.’ Domitia felt herself redden and the Judaean raised a speculative eyebrow. ‘I do believe I saw you coming from the palace kitchens again the other day?’
Domitia darted a warning glance at her husband, but Domitian’s attention was on the increasingly drunken revels below. Josephus realized his mistake and artfully changed the subject.
‘What news of Britannia, Caesar? The last word was of a great victory and I understand we must congratulate you on being hailed Imperator yet again. What is it now? Sixteen times, and each more deserving than the last.’
Titus’s smile froze momentarily. The initial reports from Londinium had i
ndicated precisely that, but he had his own sources and there were hints that the ‘great victory’ might not be all it appeared. ‘Fifteen,’ he corrected. ‘You flatter me. But that was always one of your great strengths.’
‘Indeed, lord—’
‘Yes.’ Domitian’s bray cut across the conversation. ‘What are you going to do about Britannia? Two years you gave that sluggard Agricola, and now we hear he’s consolidating. Building forts as if he’s some kind of engineer. He shouldn’t be consolidating, he should be advancing. He should have rounded up each and every barbarian male on the island by now and shipped them off to the slave market at Ostia.’
‘It may be that there are extenuating circumstances.’ Titus suddenly felt tired. ‘The governor’s wife has recently borne him a son and it would be a callous emperor,’ he bestowed a weak smile on Domitia, ‘who begrudged one of his officials a few weeks with his wife at such a time.’
‘At the least he should have ordered his generals to do what he was not prepared to do himself.’
‘Perhaps you are right, brother,’ Titus pinned Domitian with his solemn grey eyes, ‘and it is time for some new blood. I have been considering a replacement for some months now, though in all conscience I cannot make the change until Agricola has had his two years and a chance to win a triumph.’
‘Who?’ Titus could see Domitian running the potential candidates through his mind, wondering who would provide him with the greatest advantage.
‘Gaius Valerius Verrens was the man I had in mind.’
Domitian spluttered into his wine cup and a flash of alarm appeared in Domitia’s dark eyes. Titus had a momentary twinge of regret that in his clumsy eagerness to astonish Domitian he’d caused her pain or alarm. Domitia Longina and Gaius Valerius Verrens had a history of which Domitian was perfectly aware and would like to expunge permanently from memory.
‘A mere plebeian?’ Domitian found his voice. ‘A man who has proved himself little more than a brute? You would appoint someone as proconsul of Rome who turned traitor not once but three times during the civil war?’
‘Careful, brother.’ The words were accompanied by a half smile, but the iron in the voice was unmistakable. ‘I am perfectly aware of your dislike of the man, but do not let that cloud your judgement. Much of what Verrens did or did not do during the late war was at my bidding or our father’s. He is, as you well know, an eques, from a venerable family of knights, and our father esteemed him enough to award him patrician status before he left for Britannia. Between them, he and Josephus here handed me the keys to Jerusalem. In our long acquaintance I have found him to be both loyal and honest, a rare enough combination to single him out for overdue advancement. He has a long history of service to Rome and our family, both as a diplomat and as a fighter.’
‘And,’ Domitian struggled to keep the sneer from his voice, ‘he is your friend.’
‘Yes, he is my friend.’ Titus went dangerously still. ‘And I can assure you, brother, I have discovered that an emperor cannot have enough true friends. You may argue that he is not of consular rank, but that is soon resolved. I intend to appoint him a suffect consul next year; the only question is whether he should share it with you or me.’ He grimaced at some internal tumult. ‘But we will speak of this no more. I ask your forbearance and your discretion. It would not be right for Agricola to hear of his replacement from anyone but myself. Now,’ he raised himself to his feet and two aides rushed to his side, ‘if you will excuse me I have much reading to do before nightfall. Domitian, you will close the banquet for me?’ His brother inclined his head in acknowledgement of the honour. ‘Good.’ Titus smiled. ‘And be so kind as to have a jug of that excellent Falernian sent through to help me with my labours.’
He bent to kiss Domitia Longina’s hand and she watched him go with a smile that disguised her concern. She’d been pleased to see him so energetic and voluble after so many months of lethargy, but there’d been something unnatural about his eyes and the way his mood swung so violently.
Domitian gestured to the man who had been serving them. ‘Take a jug of the Falernian to the Emperor’s private quarters. The best, mind. Not the tavern slops we’ve been serving to the slaves.’
Only the practised eyes of Josephus noticed the silent message that passed between master and servant. Even he couldn’t divine the true meaning, or, for that matter, where he stood in the ever-changing ebb and flow of palace life. In any case, what could he do?
The servant retrieved a full jug from a long chest behind the Imperial table and covered it with a white cloth. On the way to the Emperor’s quarters he found a junction between two corridors where he was certain he couldn’t be seen. He pulled back the cloth over the jug’s mouth and, with a last look to ensure he was alone, reached into his tunic and pulled out a cloth sachet. His fingers worked at the thread ties to open the mouth and he poured the contents into the jug, shaking it to help them dissolve.
He took a deep breath – he would never get used to this – and carried the wine to the Emperor’s apartments.
‘Good.’ Titus looked up from his parchment as the man was ushered in by his guards. ‘Put the wine there and pour me a cup, then you may go.’
XL
Emrys waited silently in the darkness where the bowed, drooping branches of a willow touched the black water. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could suffer the freezing cold that had long since turned his submerged legs into numb, useless blocks of dead flesh and was working its way up his body. A man groaned nearby with the pain of it and he hissed for silence. His fingers stroked the thin strands of hemp that made up the net, folded just so in the water in front of him, and he vowed to go home as soon as he could no longer feel the rough fibres. Yet the contented mumbling was not too far away and for men who’d been living on the summer’s smoked fish for five weeks it was a temptation beyond reason. Even the thought of that sweet, pale flesh flaking away from the breastbone had the saliva running down his throat.
Closer now, and closer still. The darkness was total, a stygian black that even the light of the stars couldn’t penetrate. His decision and his alone. And it must be made by using a combination of ear and instinct. An occasional whimper amongst the soft chirring made him think of a dog dreaming by the fire. He knew this branch of the swamp well and he had a picture in his mind of what was in front of him. But was it a true picture?
‘Now!’ Two pairs of hands propelled the circular net into the air, swinging and turning, carried upwards and out by the stones attached to the outer strands. A sharp squawk of alarm accompanied by a frenzied thrashing and a beating of wings. Emrys and his companion forced their way through the water and carefully checked their catch.
‘Four,’ he chortled. ‘I told you it would be worth the wait. That’s twelve for the night. Just about worth freezing your balls off.’ They dragged the net full of outraged squawking birds to the bank, taking care not to leave any way to escape. Once they were on dry land Emrys removed them one by one and chopped off their heads with a flick of his knife. They gathered up the net and the night’s haul and set off for home by the now familiar walkways. But not before Emrys had seen a shadow detach itself from one of the trees and disappear back into the night.
It didn’t affect his mood. They would eat goose tonight.
Cathal had called a council of his war chiefs on his return from meeting the Silver King and told them of his agreement, with a stern admonition to abide by it. But he also knew a hungry man would not look out on such bounty for long before his belly urged him to take advantage of it. So he chose not to see. When the Venicones king’s outraged wails of broken promises were conveyed to him he would be able to say with truth that he knew nothing of these charges. As far as he was aware, there was no poaching of the king’s geese.
‘This fish is good tonight.’ He smiled over the fire at Olwyn.
‘Yes.’ She tore at a piece of leg meat with her strong white teeth. ‘I believe Dugald helped catch it.’ Her son shot her
a glance of alarm from his place among a bundle of furs and swiftly dipped his head before his father could look in his direction. Berta snored gently a few feet away.
‘My father told me of a trader who visited Mairos once,’ Cathal said. ‘He had skin as black as night and decked himself in furs even in the heart of summer because he claimed his body could not stand our chill winds. He told outlandish tales of the birds and beasts he’d seen on his travels. One of them was of an odd creature: a fish that flew above the waves. Can you imagine such a thing? Yet I do believe this is the very same.’
They grinned at each other, but the smiles vanished at a sound outside the doorway. Olwyn was by the children even before the knife appeared in Cathal’s hand. ‘Lord king?’ He relaxed as the curtain was drawn back and Colm’s stolid face appeared in the entrance. ‘The druid says he must see you.’
Gwlym slipped inside uninvited and placed himself in front of the fire as if he could see it as well as any man in the room. ‘Careful, priest, or you will be scorched,’ Cathal admonished him. ‘I don’t much mind if you set yourself ablaze, but the hut would go up with you.’
‘I have walked through the sacred flames of Pencerrig,’ Gwlym said scornfully. ‘No fire can harm me.’ His voice changed without warning to take on a mystic quality. ‘I come with a warning, Cathal ap Dugald. The Argento Rìgh’s patience is at an end. He has convinced himself that the Romans will not come and that he needs you no longer. They will come for you tonight.’
‘How many?’
Gwlym shrugged. That was not his affair. ‘Enough.’
Cathal called for Colm. ‘We will have visitors tonight from across the water. Where will they come, do you think?’
‘They have canoes downriver,’ the guard said thoughtfully. ‘But that would mean they’d have to cross the palisade. So from the west, I would say, through the marshes.’
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