The Fox says, ‘You are the Hunchback’s freedman?’
Icelus peeks his head out. He looks at the Fox, then at the other two soldiers. ‘I . . . am.’
‘Your master is no longer a usurper. I have a message I wish for you to deliver to him.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then I cut your throat.’
Icelus looks up at the roof, like he’s thinking. Then he stands up and pats the dust off his thighs. He smiles. ‘Well, I suppose I should accept then.’
The Fox waves his hand and one of the soldiers unlocks Icelus’s cell. The rusty hinges screech as the door swings open. Icelus steps out and says to the Fox, ‘Where to?’
The Fox ignores him. To one soldier, he says, ‘Stay on the door by the road until I have you relieved. Save for the boy –’ he points at me ‘– no one enters without my say-so.’ Then to Icelus, he says, ‘We will send you to your patron. But first the prefect desires a word.’
They walk to the door. Icelus is smiling. He winks as he walks past me.
The Fox is the last to leave. He pauses at the door, turns back, and says, ‘Nero, I will see you again soon enough. May the gods take pity on you for all of your crimes.’
With that, the Fox walks out, leaving me alone with the new prisoner.
I stare at him for ages. He’s in the same spot where the soldiers dropped him, face down, his arms spread wide. I don’t think he’s moved. Is he dead?
I didn’t ask the question out loud but he answers it anyway: he moans. Then he starts to move, wiggling slowly, like a worm. He raises his head, showing me his face. A rag – sopping wet and stained a purply-brown – covers his eyes and a thick line of dark red stains each cheek. It looks like he’s been crying tears of blood.
I bend over and start spitting out my breakfast. A puddle of retch collects on the bricks.
‘Water,’ the prisoner says. He rolls over on to his back. ‘Water.’
I feel better after retching. I’m still scared, but I begin to feel sorry for him. I’ve never seen anyone this bad before. Prisoners always come with cuts and bruises, but never anything like this. Can I bring him water? The Fox said not to give any special treatment, but water isn’t special. Everyone gets water.
I go to the cell door and stick two fingers into the keyhole. I feel the latch I’m looking for and flip it up. Click. Then, with a tug, the door swings open. The rusty hinges screeeech. Once the door is open, I fill a cup with water and bring it back to the cell. I kneel beside the prisoner and I’m about to speak when I suddenly realise that I don’t know what to call him. The Fox said he’s a liar and a criminal. But then he called him . . . he called him the most famous name in the world. But it can’t be him. It can’t be the man Master and Mistress pray to every night and worship like a god. He wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t look like this. Would he?
‘I . . . I have water.’
The prisoner’s head darts around, trying to see who is talking. I put my hand on his shoulder, letting him know it will be OK. With one hand, I hold the back of his head. With the other, I bring the cup to his lips. Propping himself up on his elbow, he puts his free hand on the cup. Together we tip the cup and water pours into his mouth. He drinks all of it, every last drop. He’s out of breath when he’s done.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
I help drag him to his bed, which is just a pile of hay in the corner. He sits, pressing his back against the wall. He gestures for more water. I fill the cup and sit down beside him. He puts his hands on the cup and we raise it to his lips. He takes a sip.
I stare at his face. Under the bloody rag, he has bruises, big and dark and purple, and his beard is sticky with syrupy blood, so red it’s almost black. I think again of the name the Fox gave him. Is this really him? On the other side of the circus, there’s a lake. Caesar’s lake. Beside it, there’s a statue as tall as a giant. It’s supposed to be the Sun God, but everyone says it looks like the Emperor. Like Nero. I look closely at the prisoner’s beat-up face and coppery beard. I try to match his face to the statue. But I can’t. There’s too much blood, too many bruises.
He asks, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Marcus.’
‘You are a slave?’
‘Yes.’
He nods.
‘You are . . . Caesar?’
‘Yes.’
The prisoner tries to lie down but he can’t do it himself, so I grab his shoulders and help him down on to the hay.
He says, ‘Thank you, Marcus. You are a kind boy.’
He doesn’t say another word. He just curls up on his new bed of hay and falls asleep.
II
A Hand in the Forum
A.D. 79
Eleven years later . . .
TITUS
9 January, cockcrow
The Imperial palace, Rome
Ptolemy whispers in my ear, ‘Titus,’ and I open my eyes.
It’s too early yet for the sun, so a lamp is in the boy’s hand. Amber light dithers along marble columns; drapes of Tyrian purple look an empty, bottomless black. I always forget how winter does this: paralyse the night until it bleeds into the day.
Once I pull back my sheet and sit up, the room comes alive. Slaves materialise out of thin air, drawing back curtains, beating dust from a rug of hide; braziers are lit. One stands ready with my belt. Another clutches the wool cloak I wear most mornings at my desk, as I read and attend to state business.
On campaign, I had two slaves, maybe three, attending to my needs. I grew used to such conservatism. I’ve tried to apply these values to my life here in the capital, amid the extravagance. It hasn’t worked. I often find myself sending slaves away to other parts of the palace, to my sisters or brother, to my father, or even my daughter who the gods know has more than enough hands waiting on her. Yet they always return – they or others like them. The one holding my belt is new, I think. She’s young, with chestnut hair, and thick eyebrows that meet above her nose.
I take breakfast in my study, as I review the letters and official dispatches that arrived during the night. The governor of Mauretania calls the province a backwater. He would like to return to Rome before his term is up. Would I put in a good word with the Emperor? (No, likely not.) In Asia, measures were taken to supress a cult, one of the newer superstitions from the east. The proconsul believes the followers of Christus are particularly seditious. (Aren’t they all?) Cerialis writes from Thrace. The letter is more than two weeks old, which means the winds were poor or our Imperial service continues its decline. Tomorrow, Cerialis will finally move against the latest False Nero and his army. (Father will be pleased. We’ve let that wound fester far too long.) The eunuch Halotus writes again to request a meeting. He claims I summoned him to Rome and he would like to know why. I don’t recall making such a request, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain. I have better ways to spend my days than with Nero’s chief poisoner. I write on the letter itself ‘no’ and instruct Ptolemy to personally deliver it to the eunuch. The astrologer Balbilus writes to say that a comet was possibly observed the night before last. This is Balbilus’s third inauspicious report in a month. He and I will have to talk.
‘Is that all?’ I ask Ptolemy.
‘One more, sire,’ the boy says. He walks towards me, unrolling the letter. ‘It only just arrived.’
‘Who from?’
He reads: ‘Lucius Plautius. He is in Italy.’
Strange. I didn’t know Plautius was in Italy. Father had granted him a respectable post in Syria, a favour to his demanding aunt. Has his term ended already? I put out my hand. I’ve time yet before the ceremony begins.
5 January (from Baiae)
Dear Titus Flavius Vespasianus (prefect of the Praetorian Guard):
I should start with the good news: I am in Italy. I’d meant to keep this a secret. After all my years away, toiling in the east, sweating under the desert sun, rubbing elbows with barbarians – tamed barbarians,
but barbarians nonetheless – I’d yearned to sneak back to the capital unannounced and surprise those I hold dear. I’d hoped to see the look of joy form spontaneously as I walked into so-and-so’s atrium one evening. But I have bad news as well – information that concerns the Emperor – so I have spoiled the surprise. I will explain all of this in a moment. First, however, I hope you will permit me a few cathartic words on the state of the Empire.
I had expected to feel a shift once I’d returned to Italy; a sense of morality, something tangible I could feel growing in the soil or floating in the air. I’d looked forward to this more than Italian wine, or its temperate sun, or its tart, mouth-watering lemons. Civilisation was what I was truly homesick for. However, since touching my foot to Miscenum’s cement pier, I’ve bore witness to such debauchery and vice that I feel as though I’ve entered a Greek port, brimming with unruly sailors and pirates and whores, rather than the jewel of the Empire, a mere day’s ride from the capital.
How did we Romans let the Bay of Naples descend into an endless brothel and bottomless cup of wine? What would our noble ancestors say if they could visit Baiae today? What would noble Brutus, the man who banished kings and established a republic – what would he say at the sight of a senator in the arms of an Alexandrian courtesan, with her black eyes and artificial charms, while his wife and the mother of his children is miles away in Rome? What would dear Cincinnatus, the man who declined the ultimate power of the dictatorship because he preferred the country life, working his plough and tilling the dark Italian earth that he loved so much – what would he say at the sight of his descendants betting their ancestral homes on the roll of a single die, and then shrugging at an ill-fated toss because there is always more credit to be had?
And yet I know the extreme does not mark the whole. I look forward to my return to Rome. I know there are good, moral men in the capital; men who will help guide our Empire back towards the noble, wholesome values that made Rome mistress of the world. You, my dear Titus, are one of whom I speak. I often hear of the good you do every day in Caesar’s name. If you occasionally apply a strong hand, I know circumstances require it. Rome cannot fall back into another civil war. The months that followed Nero’s suicide were dark and destructive. Eighteen months of civil war, one man after the next grasping for power, taking the principate by force, until your father finally emerged victorious and brought peace to our borders. We must remain vigilant in order to ensure such evil does not happen again . . .
But I digress.
You are, no doubt, wondering why I’ve come to the Bay first, rather than Rome. The answer is simple: I am on the hunt for a summer home – an obvious necessity if I am to be resident of Rome once again. I’d sent my freedman Jecundus weeks ahead of me to secure a suitable residence. But his choice was terrible. It was too small, coldly designed and terribly outdated: frescoes in the old style, two-tone mosaics, et cetera, et cetera. It was, simply put, a calamity. In the end, however, there was no harm done. Just yesterday I sold the outdated abomination and purchased a home more to my liking. It is, in a word, perfect. It has all of the modern amenities, including a pond of lampreys and spectacular mosaics. The location is also exquisite: the breeze from the sea is pleasant, the temperature warm-to-moderate, and the view of the blue Tyrrhenian is stunning. It is a good distance from the orgies of Baiae and the barracks of Miscenum. The perfect retreat and only a day’s ride south of Rome. I look forward to having you visit.
But enough of myself: enough of the trivial concerns of a private citizen. I will now relate a story that – if correct – could concern the safety and security of the Emperor.
There is a woman here, introduced to me by my freedman Jecundus – a whore if you must know, whom Jecundus met after several weeks at sea – who claims to have information concerning some sort of plot against your father. Two weeks ago she told her story to Jecundus (I shall not pollute my letter with the ‘why’ and the ‘how’). Before I could track her down and have her explain the tale in more detail, she went missing. For days, Jecundus and I searched for her. But then, in the end, we happened upon her by chance – in the market, of all places. The woman was frightened when we confronted her, but in the end she proved quite forthcoming.
She calls herself ‘Red’. You are, no doubt, picturing an inferno of red hair on the top of her head; however, I assure you, the name is a misnomer. (Her hair is a common, muddy brown.) She has given herself the title on account of the passion to which every man who beds her will – so she says – inevitably succumb. It seems an effective method of trade. Many will hear her name and think, I’ll have to see what all the fuss is about. (As Jecundus can attest.) In fact, despite her low birth and occupation, she is not altogether uninteresting. In addition to her idiosyncratic adopted cognomen, she carries herself with considerable dignity during the day, as though she were patrician born, not a prostitute, without the slightest hint of irony. You should have seen her in the market when we confronted her, Titus. It was as though a slave had disturbed a king.
We had a long talk, she and I. It is difficult to sift fact from fiction, given her state of agitation. She is scared and recalls the incident with a growing sense of irrationality. In any event, this is what she says.
Seven days ago, she attended the home of a Pompeian knight by the name of Vettius. It was late when she arrived, well after sunset. He took her to the atrium. After drinking some unmixed wine, he had her disrobe. He was, I presume, about to begin, when there was a knock on the door. Concerned that it could be his wife – or so he said, what wife would knock on her own door? – he told the woman to hide behind a curtain. The material was such that with her eyes close to the fabric, she could see through it, while those in the dimly lit atrium could not see her. So, hiding behind the drapes, stark naked and shivering, she watched as four men burst into the room. Her knight tried to run, but two of the intruders caught him and held him to a chair; a blade was brandished and pressed to the knight’s neck.
The story becomes harder to follow at this point. I gather that the knight was asked a series of questions. He shook his head again and again, until he began to cry. One of the four, apparently not appreciating the responses, gave some signal to the others, and the knight was gagged and then rolled up in a carpet. Two of the men heaved the carpet onto their shoulders, and then off they went.
There is, of course, more. I would not waste the prefect’s time with the disappearance of a mere Pompeian knight. The whore swears on her life that amongst the questions put to the man, she heard the words ‘poison’ and ‘Caesar’. This is what she told Jecundus several days ago; and this is what she repeated to me. I pressed her for specifics, but she had none to give.
It is frustrating we do not have all the answers, but we are moving in the right direction. After some quibbling over price, she agreed to go with Jecundus and me tomorrow to the victim’s home. She is quite scared of what she knows, or what she thinks she knows, but she could not resist the promise of compensation. She is a whore, after all.
In all likelihood, it is merely a false alarm. I cannot imagine anyone foolish enough to cross the Emperor, especially after the hard line you took here less than a month ago. In any event, I will investigate and determine exactly what is going on. I aim to return to Rome in three days time, before the Agonalia. I shall tell you in person all that I have learned. Leave it to me. I owe you and your father much. I will not let you down.
Yours,
Lucius Plautius
I read the letter twice before yelling for Ptolemy. He arrives out of breath.
‘This letter is dated the fifth of January. Why am I only getting it now? Campania is a day’s journey away.’
Ptolemy shrugs. ‘It arrived last night.’
‘Has Plautius come to see me?’
Ptolemy shakes his head.
‘Have there been any more letters from him?’ I ask.
‘No,’ Ptolemy says.
‘Are you certain?’
; ‘Yes. That –’ he points at the letter in my hand ‘– is the only letter we have received from Plautius in months. Why? What’s wrong?’
*
The procession snakes its way through the forum in rows of two. Oxblood red togas mark the occasion. I alone stand out in my cuirass, polished steel embossed with golden hawks, wings spread wide. Buildings of cream-coloured brick and gleaming marble loom on either side. Somewhere the sun is rising, but it’s hidden by January’s cold, grey haze.
We haven’t moved for some time. Each man wages his own private battle to stay warm: shifting his weight back and forth, rubbing his hands together, or tucking his chin down into the folds of his toga. Some commit a small sacrilege by inviting an attendant slave to enter the procession to rub or hug their patron until the line starts to move again.
In front of me, at the head of the procession, one priest is pulling on a ram’s leash, trying to drag it up the temple steps. His colleague pushes on the animal’s haunches. They push and pull but the ram won’t budge. The animal’s victory is complete when both men have to pause to catch their breath, each bending at the waist like two runners after crossing the finish line. I’m reminded of a joke, one my men tell after too much wine: how many priests does it take? But I can’t recall the punch line.
‘Cousin,’ I say, ‘don’t you have a better way to get the animal to the altar?’
‘Of course, Titus, of course,’ Sabinus says without offering an alternative. He, like the other priests, wears the long folds of his burgundy toga over his head like a hood, the requisite reverence for the gods above. Despite the cold, his forehead and round, pink cheeks are spotted with a nervous sheen.
It was a mistake to name him pontiff. For years I’d warned against giving him any appointment, let alone one of the city’s most prestigious. But after Baiae Father insisted. ‘We need to close ranks,’ he said. ‘Only use men we can trust.’ This year he filled the colleges and Imperial posts with only those with proven loyalty to the party, particularly our relations, with no regard to capability. He chose loyalty over competence, which is fine in theory; in practice, however, the logic isn’t sound. What good is loyalty if the regime is a laughing stock?
David Page 2