David

by Barbaree Deposed

  The two priests start again, pushing and pulling, groaning as though they’re relieving themselves on the temple steps.

  The ram doesn’t move.

  I can feel the vigour with which I began the day slowly start to seep from my bones. Seneca teaches that anger is the most dangerous of all the passions, that it robs a man of reason and harms the man who wields it as much as the target. Lately, after these last few years confined to the capital, I’ve wondered whether he was wrong, whether it is frustration – not anger – that is the most damaging. At least, as Aristotle says, anger can help focus the mind in order to work towards a result. Frustration, on the other hand, sucks the life from you, one day at a time.

  The priests pause again to catch their breath. The ram nibbles on one of their togas. Behind me, someone suppresses a laugh. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Allow me, cousin,’ I say to Sabinus.

  I walk towards the ram, drawing the sword at my hip. With a nod of my head, I signal for the second priest, the one overseeing the ram’s arse, to move. I draw the sword back and swing. Using the broad side of the blade, I hit the animal firmly on its backside. Startled, it trots up the temple steps. Roles reversed: the ram drags the priest with the leash up the steps and onto the portico.

  I retake my place beside cousin Sabinus and the procession starts again.

  We climb the temple steps, thirty or so, and pass between two grooved marble columns – two of twelve that ring the Temple of Concord’s massive rectangular porch. It’s darker here, in the pediment’s shadow, a dusk-like grey, broken only by the hearth’s fiery glow. Dozens of temple slaves mill about, naked from the waist up. Smoky tendrils of incense waft through the air: rosemary, frankincense and others I can’t place. The temple’s doors sit slightly ajar.

  The portico continues to fill. Conversations – none higher than a whisper – overtake the quiet.

  Cousin Sabinus takes his leave and heads to the altar.

  Flames crackle and spit. Behind me, a senator lets out a sacrilegious chuckle.

  I turn and scan the crowd looking for Plautius. His letter was dated four days ago, plenty of time for him to make his way from Baiae to Rome. Plautius has always had a flair for the dramatic, but his letter has piqued my interest. I would like to hear what he stumbled upon in the south. But behind me, amongst a sea of burgundy-hooded priests and bareheaded attendants scattered across the portico, the temple steps, and spilling out into the forum itself, I see many of the city’s elite, but no Plautius.

  ‘Good morning, my prince,’ a voice over my shoulder says. I turn to see Senator Eprius Marcellus. In the morning’s grey light, old Marcellus is all divots and curves: bent back, gaunt cheeks, protruding brow. With his weathered, scaly skin and narrow eyes, he looks more snake than man.

  ‘Marcellus,’ I say.

  A young temple slave slips by on padded feet.

  ‘Do you think it will be long before we resume?’ Marcellus nods his head towards the hearth. Cousin Sabinus and another priest are arguing in whispers. The former is pointing at the ram, the latter at the hearth. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but it’s obvious they’re arguing about what step to take next. The pause between procession and sacrifice is slowly shifting from acceptable to mildly embarrassing.

  ‘Resume would mean the ceremony has stopped,’ I say. ‘It hasn’t.’

  I can feel the eyes of the other men on the portico. It’s a familiar sensation in Rome: a room full of eyes, watching and weighing, noting every gesture, recording every little tic. If only I could have held my soldiers’ attention like this on campaign. Jerusalem would have fallen in a day.

  ‘It seems ironic, doesn’t it?’ Marcellus asks.

  ‘What does?’

  ‘To make the god of beginnings wait for his rites to be performed.’

  Most men in this room are terrified of me. Rightly or wrongly, they see me as the Emperor’s attack dog. Very few would dare talk to me the way Marcellus does, or make a joke at the regime’s expense. Marcellus, however, is very rich and very patrician. He simply doesn’t have it in him to bow and scrape to a provincial like myself, someone who can’t trace his origins to one of Rome’s founding, patrician families, no matter what office my father currently holds. He was once a great friend to our family. Father relied on him, especially during the regime’s early years, after Nero’s suicide and the civil wars that followed. But the relationship has become strained. His cousin Iulus was implicated in Baiae, but the rot began before that. It’s hard to pinpoint when or why.

  I say, ‘I doubt that Janus will care when the ram is cut.’

  ‘Well,’ Marcellus says, ‘I suppose I should take the word of a prince on issues of theology over a mere senator.’ The comment is meant to annoy, so I ignore it. Marcellus presses on. ‘Your father is not in attendance this year? I recall him attending last year. And the year before that.’

  ‘He is feeling under the weather.’

  ‘Well, I hope your father hasn’t found that he has grown too great for the Agonalia. It has a long history in Rome. His decision not to attend could be viewed by some as . . . distasteful.’

  ‘Some?’ A bolt of frustration travels up my spine. ‘I trust you do not share such sentiment. My presence – the emperor’s oldest son and prefect of the Praetorian Guard – should be honour enough for the Agonalia. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  I’d meant my reply to sound witty, a snappy retort, but I’ve missed the mark. It sounded petty, like spouses arguing in public.

  ‘Of course, Titus,’ Marcellus says. His expression is cold and impossible to read. ‘If you will excuse me.’

  He gives a slight nod before pushing his way through the crowd.

  That was a mistake – a mistake but not a fatal one. Marcellus will get over it. It’s too early to talk with that viper.

  I turn my attention back to the altar. Thankfully, temple slaves have taken over from the inexperienced priests, my hopeless cousin included. One slave is tending the hearth; another two are collaring the ram.

  ‘Good morning, Titus.’

  Another voice over my shoulder. I turn to see Cocceius Nerva. The senator is short, nearly a full foot shorter than me, and with a large alp of a nose, which today is sticking out from under his priestly hood.

  ‘Nerva,’ I say.

  ‘Was Marcellus giving you a hard time?’ Nerva’s voice – as always – is calm, controlled and a touch too quiet. It’s an ingenious way to counter his height disadvantage: it requires his interlocutors to, as I am doing now, lean forward or even crouch to hear what he has to say.

  ‘Isn’t he always?’

  ‘I have to hand it to him,’ he says. ‘The confidence he must possess to annoy you, the great general.’

  ‘Politics is a different animal. In Rome, he’s the seasoned veteran.’

  ‘Still,’ Nerva says. ‘After Baiae, I’d have thought he’d proceed with a little more caution.’

  I don’t respond. What happened in Baiae is not something I wish to discuss. But Nerva – who has survived the rise and fall of six emperors – is expert in ensuring he does not lose favour with whatever regime is in power. Sensing my discomfort, he changes the subject seamlessly. ‘Any news from Thrace?’

  ‘Nothing of substance.’

  ‘Shouldn’t Cerialis have the False Nero in chains by now?’

  I smile. ‘I’m always surprised at the impatience of senators. Wars take time, even small ones. Cerialis is a force of nature. I don’t doubt that we will hear of his victory any day now.’

  Nerva bows in an exaggerated way to show defeat.

  I ask, ‘Do you know Lucius Plautius?’

  ‘Not well,’ Nerva says. ‘We’ve only met a handful of times. Where is he posted? Syria?’

  ‘He was,’ I say. ‘His term ended a few months ago.’

  ‘You must know him well from the war.’

  ‘I do,’ I say. ‘I received a letter from him this morning. He was in Baiae, but the letter was da
ted several days ago.’

  ‘The post is unreliable these days, isn’t it?’

  I study Nerva, weighing his tone. Is he asking for another appointment? Father has already been quite generous – though like Marcellus, he is not as close to Father as he once was. This is what Rome has done to me. I worry that evil lurks behind every comment. If a man says, tomorrow it will rain, I think he’s plotting murder. If he says it will be sunny and temperate, I think the murder is already done and the blade wiped clean.

  A bell finally rings and cousin Sabinus begins a low, steady chant. Two priests attend to the ram, the same two who had tried but failed to bring it inside. One dribbles wine onto the ram’s head. The second follows with a cake of spelt, crumbling it in his hands. White crumbs fall like flakes of snow before embedding in the ram’s wine-soaked fur. The priests step back and the slaves step forward. One grabs the animal’s chest, the other its back legs. An older slave with a white beard and protruding ribs stands directly behind the animal. He grabs the ram’s chin and pulls it up, exposing the neck. He brandishes a knife with his free hand and, in one swift movement, he slits the animal’s throat. Thick, dark-purple blood pours out of the animal’s neck and splashes onto the temple floor. A puddle collects at the ram’s feet. Cousin Sabinus flinches and momentarily suspends his chanting.

  Gods, please tell me no one saw our new pontiff swoon at the sight of blood.

  The ram’s body relaxes as the last whispers of life run from its limbs. The old slave with the knife runs the blade along the animal’s chest and belly. The skin silently parts, revealing the animal’s pink insides; ribbons of steam twist up into the cold air. The slave cuts off a piece of flesh and hands it to one of the priests, who then tosses the meat onto the bright, burning coals in the hearth.

  Cousin Sabinus resumes his chanting but in a softer voice than before – so soft that it’s difficult to make out the words. At least now no one will hear if he makes a mistake.

  The old slave with the knife begins to pull the animal’s insides out of the cadaver and onto a silver plate. The wet, slapping sound overtakes cousin Sabinus’s chanting. A haruspex walks to the altar and begins inspecting the entrails. His colleague takes notes, pressing his stylus into a wax tablet. The temple slaves begin carving up the ram’s carcass, which will be handed out to the poor in the forum later today.

  When the haruspice are finished, a bell chimes again marking the end of the ceremony. The crowd takes its time in exiting the temple. Many forgo a quick exit and casually resume discussions amongst themselves. Nerva takes his leave. I stay where I am, hoping to avoid conversing with another senator. I’ve had my fill for the day.

  Suddenly there is a commotion somewhere in the crowd, and an excited hum travels from one man to the next. I watch as the throng – first in the forum, then on the temple steps – slowly parts, making way for an invisible traveller. Eyes are aimed down. A few look indignant, others amused. Finally, materialising from a break in the crowd, I see a mutt – bulging ribs, brown hide with spots of black – casually trotting up the temple steps and onto the portico. The animal arrives unmolested at the altar and stops.

  She’s holding something in her mouth. Saliva drips from her bared teeth.

  The throng mutters.

  ‘A stray,’ someone says.

  I signal to a slave to remove the dog. But before he can reach it, the animal turns, faces the crowd and opens its mouth. Whatever it was carrying drops to the temple floor. The slave bends down to pick it up. He stops. His eyes widen, filled with terror. I walk towards the dog. Before I reach it, I realise what it dropped; so too does the crowd. The men talk excitedly. One man cries out; others laugh. I hear the word ‘omen’.

  Once I reach the dog, I squat to take a closer look.

  Lying strewn on the portico is the hand of a grown man, severed at the wrist, palm up, with its fingers curved towards the gods. My eyes fix on the signet ring – the thick, gold ring of a senator or knight – glistening with the sheen of the dog’s saliva.

  *

  The ring spins on my desk: a gold, mesmerising blur. The revolutions slow and it begins to wobble, like a drunk at the end of the night, before finally toppling over. I pick the ring up and hold it to the lamp’s flame. The ring’s inscription has been scratched away with a series of frenzied scores, making it impossible to read; any clue of its former owner now buried and lost. This, of course, I already knew. But frustration and a lack of a better idea compel me to check again. Once I’m finished, I place the ring back on the desk and spin.

  The mutt interrupts my train of thought with a whimper. I look down at the bear hide spread out on the floor. She is curled up on top, sound asleep. Her leg muscles twitch as she dreams. She is somewhere else, chasing game. A hare, maybe. Lucky girl. She has no idea the trouble she’s caused. Soon the whole city will be talking about her – if they aren’t already.

  Maybe I made a mistake taking the ring, but I had to think quickly. When I realised it was a senator or knight’s ring on the hand, lying there on the temple floor, I removed it before anyone noticed. I thought I would be able to determine the owner. I didn’t want the ring starting talk of a murdered senator – if that’s actually what happened. As for the mutt, I’m not sure why I brought her back to the palace. But she’s relevant somehow. Who knows, maybe she’ll shit out something useful.

  ‘Master.’

  Ptolemy is standing across the room holding a lamp. His face palpitates in a yellow shade.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. Regulus is here. He says you are expecting him.’

  ‘Send him in.’

  Moments later Ptolemy returns with Regulus. The young man looks immaculate, even at this hour: a fresh shave, stainless red cape, polished cuirass, the hint of lavender – every inch the patrician blue-blood I have resented my whole life. He has never seen a battlefield and yet, because of his connections, here he is, a military tribune in the Praetorian guard.

  ‘Titus,’ Regulus says. He stands at attention when addressing me, as he should, but he lacks the rigor one can only learn under the conditions of war. That pretentious purse of his would never last in the barracks.

  ‘What do you have for me?’

  ‘Exactly what you asked for,’ he says. ‘A list of every senator and a list of every appointment abroad.’

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘Tomorrow, be here bright and early. We’re going door-to-door.’

  Regulus looks incredulous. ‘Isn’t that . . . beneath us?’

  I ignore the question. I hold out my hand and Regulus hands me the two rolls of papyrus.

  ‘May I?’ he says, pointing at the seat across from me, on the other side of the desk.

  I stare at the young tribune, waiting to see if he has the gall to sit without my leave. He doesn’t sit, but he continues to speak, still brimming with confidence.

  ‘Can I speak freely, sir?’

  He takes my silence as leave.

  ‘It seems to me the party is at a bit of a crisis point. There are people out there disparaging your father. Disparaging Caesar. I don’t know what you have planned tomorrow by going door-to-door, but I’m not sure if it will be as effective as other avenues. I’ve been told that there are those who would talk. Well-meaning citizens who could provide us with information about our enemies.’

  ‘I think, Regulus, the word you are looking for is informer. You have informers waiting to provide us with information. You’re not suggesting that we use informers, are you? Or do I need to provide you with a history lesson?’

  Regulus thinks my questions are rhetorical. He just stands there with his mouth slightly pursed.

  ‘How old are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘Twenty-two. So that would make you how old during Nero’s last great purge, after Piso and his accomplices were discovered? Eight?’

  ‘Thereabouts,’ he says. ‘Maybe seven.’

  ‘And did you lose anyone during that
purge?’

  ‘My uncle.’

  ‘Your uncle. On which side? Was he of the Regulii?’

  ‘No. He was my mother’s brother. A Sulpicii,’ Regulus says. ‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at. My uncle was a traitor. He was in league with Piso, Scaevinus and all the rest. He provided them with money, information and who knows what else. Nero was perfectly within his rights to have him killed.’ Regulus’ voice is rising. He hadn’t planned on this becoming personal. ‘I’m surprised you’re acting so naive. Emperors occasionally have to take drastic measures. Otherwise, they’re done. It’s that simple. Nero did it with Piso and he held on to power; and it was his failure to do it again with Galba that guaranteed his downfall. If he’d done what was necessary, if he had found each and every one of Galba’s supporters and killed them, as was his Imperial right, then he’d still be alive and in power today.’

  The nerve of this spoilt shit. He speaks as though this is my first week on the job, as though I haven’t been fighting to keep Father in power for nearly a decade, sniffing out plots, stamping them out before they can bloom. He speaks as though it would be his throat slit in a coup – rather than Father’s and mine.

  I get up from my desk and walk to the wine. It’s airing out in a bowl on a side table. I have to step over the dog to get there. She’s still sound asleep, but her whimpering has stopped. Maybe she caught that hare. I dip two glasses into the bowl, and then pour seawater from a terracotta pitcher into the cups, diluting the blend. I only add a splash. Tonight we both need something strong. I hand one to Regulus and then motion for him to sit. I take a seat facing the young tribune.

  Now that I’ve calmed down, I can proceed with more precision. I start again.