NERO
8 October, depth of night
City jail IV, Rome
It will be a cold day in Elysium before I give the man who cut out my eyes half of Dido’s treasure. I didn’t obsess over the cipher for years, consumed by the mystery, night after night, only to see another man profit from it in the end. Anyway, I’m not even sure if I cracked the code. The epiphany came only weeks before the coup, so I didn’t have time to confirm whether my conclusions were correct. And I’m not sure how word got around. I must have bragged in the middle of some drunken stupor, and now Terentius thinks it incontrovertible fact. Thankfully, weeks before my fall, gripped by paranoia, I committed the details to memory and then burned the cipher and all of the work I did to unlock it. So Terentius needs me. Doryphorus thinks he is our only chance to escape this prison and Rome. But I disagree. We do not need to give in. Not yet. Anyway, even a painful death would be more enjoyable than making that bastard a rich man.
Stories continue to swirl like sparrows. A new, particularly damning rumour is beginning to take root. Some are now claiming on the night I was taken, I ran from the city and took shelter in Phaon’s villa with a gaggle of friends. (How convenient that the owner of said villa is now dead.) There – after I had decided all was lost but couldn’t muster the courage to raise a blade – I had a friend cut my own throat. Epaphroditus.
My former freedman has now moved to the top of the list. No friend of mine would allow his name to be used in such a way. No friend of mine would let such lies circulate unanswered.
Doryphorus says the man is in hiding. He fears reprisals of the kind Phaon faced, for the wrongs he did while I ruled.
I was angry when Doryphorus told me. I know lies are part and parcel of Roman politics, and this type of rumour is to be expected. So why then did I erupt like Mount Etna when I heard this particular claim? Is it because the story somehow has a strand of truth? I too raised a sharp edge to my throat and contemplated death, but ultimately pulled back. Am I, like the Nero at Phaon’s villa, a coward as well?
I have pondered this question all evening and come to the following conclusion: no, I am not a coward; I am simply not as Roman as I could be. My temperament has always been more Greek than Roman. To me, death is not all; I think it stupid to forgo life unnecessarily. My cock does not get hard when I hear the stories of Roman bravery every young boy is told. Stories such as the soldier travelling to Carthage to die by torture because he promised to. I have always thought: run, you idiot.
I’m not afraid to die. It’s only that my priorities are different. First I seek revenge. That, at least, is very Roman of me.
Galba is a week away. Doryphorus and I have devised a plan, a way to escape, but it is too soon to carry out, and I am still too weak to travel. Can we wait until after Galba arrives in Rome? Terentius wants Dido’s treasure, so he will keep me alive for the time being. Or am I wrong and Galba’s executioners will soon be at my door?
Time will tell.
MARCUS
8 January, A.D. 69, sunset
The Quirinal Hill, Rome
Galba arrived in Rome three months ago and the city already hates him. He’s old and mean and decimated marines after they asked him for the coin Nymphidius had promised them. I didn’t know what decimation was before Nero told me. Lots are drawn by an entire legion and one out of every ten men is killed. I didn’t leave Master Creon’s for two days afterwards because I was worried something might happen, like after Nero fell and people fought in the streets. But nothing’s happened – not yet at least. Nero thinks it’s only a matter of time before senators or the army move against Galba. ‘They’re missing me,’ Nero said, ‘and who can blame them.’
Nothing has changed since Galba came. I keep going to Nero every day, taking my lessons. I was worried Master would ask why Galba – who he thinks bought me – hasn’t sent for me to come live at the palace. But Master doesn’t care about anything other than wine and coin.
*
This morning Master said, ‘You are coming with me to dinner.’ But it’s not until we are walking through the cold, dusty streets, as the sun is setting, with our cloaks wrapped twice around us that I learn we are going to Otho’s.
‘I’m in a tough spot here, Marcus,’ he says as we’re walking. ‘You’re Imperial property now. No one is to touch you. You heard it straight from the horse’s mouth, like I did. But we’re attending the home of one of Rome’s most powerful men. And Otho has shown an interest in you, and he is a man used to getting what he wants.’
He says Otho’s name and I think of the way he held my chin; my skin crawls.
Master keeps talking. ‘We are to discuss business, he and I, but you never know. He may see you and remember what Galba stole away. He may think, Who will know? And Marcus, you know, I am partial to that argument. If he does want to try what was taken away . . . why, the only way anyone will know is if you tell them. Otho will likely be emperor one day. This is a good opportunity for us both.’
Master stops walking. He bends down and looks me in the eye.
‘Who knows what will happen tonight?’ he says as he claws at my shoulder, digging in with his nails. ‘But if you screw this up for me, I will grind your bones into a white slurry and sup on it for dinner. Understand?’ He smiles, but he isn’t happy.
He doesn’t say anything the rest of the way.
*
At dinner, Master sits beside Otho. I stand close enough to hear them talk.
‘Your funds have been most useful, Creon,’ Otho says. ‘Most useful indeed.’
‘The soldiers were not reluctant, sir,’ Master says. ‘They required little encouragement to follow you.’
‘Yes,’ Otho says, ‘I’m not surprised. The Hunchback has proven himself quite inept. Not only cruel – I don’t need to list for you the needless deaths – but also his choice of heir. The Empire knows the younger Piso is a disastrous choice. If he had chosen me, if he had accepted my guidance these last few months in Rome . . .’ He waves his hand. ‘No matter. This is all in the past. Our path is set.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Master says. ‘The city is behind you. But . . . May I ask? Are you . . .’
Otho sighs. ‘Out with it, Creon. What are you concerned about?’
‘What about the legions in the north?’
Otho makes a noise with his tongue: tsk-tsk-tsk. ‘You mean the legions who refused to take the oath of allegiance to Galba, but have instead said they are at the disposal of the Roman people? Clearly they will fall into line once Galba is gone. Their refusal to swear the oath is further evidence we are in the right moving against Galba. The commander in upper Germany is a great friend of mine. And the commander in lower Germany – Vitellius’s boy – he is more interested in banquets and orgies than raising a problem for Rome. Do you know it took him two months to travel north to his post after he was appointed in November? I suppose when you banquet four times a day and debauch a virgin at least once, you move at a snail’s pace.’
Master waves his hand and I come over with a pitcher of wine. As I’m pouring, Otho notices me for the first time tonight.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘You’ve brought me young Marcus.’ He looks at me even though he’s talking to Master. My skin crawls. ‘You are sly, Creon. Very sly. I can’t recall what happened with my purchasing him before, but no matter. Leave him here tonight, will you? We can haggle the price another time. I will be generous.’
When Master nods, I want to retch.
Otho’s voice gets quiet again. ‘We will proceed in three days. There is a sacrifice to take place at the Temple of Apollo on the Palatine. I will need to attend; but I will make an excuse as to why I must leave. Then I will rush to the Praetorian camp where – if you have done your job and the money we have collected has done the trick – I am to be proclaimed emperor. The marines Galba decimated in October will escort me from door to door. Then we will find Galba – wherever he happens to be – and kill him.’
&n
bsp; ‘What about the younger Piso?’ Master Creon asks. ‘Galba’s heir.’
‘Oh, he will have to die as well. The dullard.’
*
I feel sick near the end of dinner. Every time Otho laughs, my legs wobble and my head swims. I remember what Nero told me when Otho almost bought me from Master. ‘Worn as the Appian Way,’ he said.
Master Creon walks to the door. I follow behind with watery legs.
Otho says, ‘Send me the bill for the boy tomorrow. Yes?’
‘I would be remiss not to say the Imperial palace – Galba, I think – currently has the boy on loan.’
‘What?’ Otho asks.
‘I’d explained this to your freedman in August.’ Master’s voice sounds like when he’s telling tenants they have to pay more rent. ‘You see Galba – or one of Galba’s men – has paid for the boy to visit the palace every day. I am contractually bound not to lend him out or let another lay a hand on him.’ He pauses, then says: ‘Contracts, of course, can be broken for the right price.’
‘You’re born for business, aren’t you, Creon,’ Otho says. ‘If he’s Galba’s boy right now, I don’t want to rock the boat, as it were, not until he is gone and the purple mine.’ He looks at me and says, ‘I will claim my prize after I am emperor.’
Master grumbles all the way home. I make sure he doesn’t see me smile.
*
The next day I tell Nero and Doryphorus everything I heard at Otho’s. They talk about it all morning. ‘This is our chance,’ Doryphorus says to Nero, again and again. ‘When the attempt is made on Galba’s life, the city will be chaotic.’ But Nero says he’s not sure if the time is right – whatever that means.
Later, in the afternoon, after my lesson is over and I’m sweeping out the cells, the door opens and Icelus walks in.
I almost didn’t recognise him. He looks better than when I saw him last. When he was a prisoner his tunic was torn and his beard mangy. But now he’s wearing a fresh red tunic – silk, I think – with gold stitching, and matching pants like the northerners wear, and his face is shaved smooth. But he’s still as wide as I remember, like an ox with his swishing steps.
He sees me and smiles. ‘Afternoon, pup. What’ve you brought me today?’
I’m too surprised to say anything. I never thought I’d see him again.
Icelus walks towards me. He says, ‘As talkative as ever, I see.’ He slaps my shoulder. ‘Well, good to see you all the same.’
‘And who are you?’ Doryphorus asks.
‘Icelus.’
‘Galba’s freedman?’ Doryphorus looks at Nero. ‘So Galba knows . . .’
‘Now, why would I tell him something like that?’ Icelus picks up the stool and places it outside the cell. He sits. ‘You can’t go assaulting the principate with information. Otherwise, they’ll drown in facts.’ Icelus produces an apple and starts polishing it on his tunic. He takes a horse-size bite. He starts chewing and, with a full mouth, says, ‘I think the prefect, Nymphidius, planned on bringing Nero here to Galba’s attention. He thought he could profit from it. How is anyone’s guess. Galba is not really one to negotiate. But I decided not to tell Galba and now the point is moot. Nymphidius is no more.’
Icelus swallows. Gulp.
‘It took me ages to find this place again.’ Icelus says. ‘Blindfolded when I arrived, blindfolded when I left. But I have my ways.’
He takes another bite of his apple. He looks at me suddenly. He says, ‘Feels like old times, doesn’t it, pup? You and me. Here.’
He winks at me. The wet-swirly sound of his chewing fills the room. Chomp chomp chomp.
To Nero, he says, ‘Galba is Emperor, but the city is not what I would call content. I’m feeling a bit restless myself. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with –’ he waves his hand at Nero and his cell ‘– all this; whether I tell my prickly patron or not. Now, before you go offering suggestions, I’ve actually got one of my own. Something that would make my decision easy.’
Icelus takes another huge bite from his apple. After three bites, only the core is left.
‘Dido’s treasure,’ he says. ‘You’ve got it. I want it. A deal can be made there, I think.’ He turns to look at me, and winks. ‘Cunts and coin, eh, pup?’
Doryphorus starts to say something but Icelus cuts him off.
‘This is where you protest like a virgin that wants it. “Not me! Not me!” And then I beg and plead, and I console, and I make you feel warm and cosy. “I’ll take care of you,” et cetera, et cetera. And then finally you relent, like you weren’t going to in the first place, like you had a choice. Let’s skip all that. I know you know where Dido’s treasure is. I want it. Let’s make a deal.’
Icelus stands up.
‘I don’t need an answer today. You’re my contingency. My alternative plan if things with Galba go south. You’ve got time to think about it. But not a lifetime.’
With that, Icelus walks out.
*
The next morning, Doryphorus visits Master Creon’s home before breakfast. He’s waiting for me in the atrium. Elsie brings me to him. She stands and watches, with her arms crossed.
‘We leave tomorrow,’ Doryphorus says. His voice is low enough that Elsie can’t hear. But she’s frowning anyway. ‘Nero asks that you accompany us.’
‘Go? Where?’ I ask.
‘That’s not for you to worry about, boy. If you choose to come, meet us by the river, at the docks of Scipio. We go by barge to the sea. If you aren’t there, we go without you. We don’t have enough coin at the moment to buy you out from Creon. So you’ll need to slip out on your own.’
If I get caught running away, I’ll be crucified. I’ve seen them do it to slaves. They stick you up on a post and leave you to rot, or stab you in the guts. Doryphorus guesses what I’m thinking.
‘If you’re a coward: fine. Stay here with your abusive master. It’s all the same to me. Our barge leaves at sunset. Be there or don’t. It’s up to you.’
Doryphorus leaves and Elsie comes over to me. She says, ‘What did he say?’
I tell her what Doryphorus said. Elsie pulls me close and squeezes me tight.
‘I’m going to miss you, child.’
‘I can’t go, Elsie. I can’t . . .’
‘You must,’ she says. ‘There is nothing for you here. You must.’
I start to cry.
XII
Dinner at Ulpius’s, Part I
A.D. 79
TITUS
15 January, sunset
The Aventine, Rome
Ulpius has taken over Piso’s old house on the Aventine, a behemoth of white stone from the days of the republic. After Piso was killed, another man – what was his name? Galarius? – occupied it for a few years before going bankrupt and killing himself. Now the property is considered bad luck, but I suppose that’s not something a new man from Spain would know before putting his money down.
Ulpius. He’s created quite the fuss since his arrival. Domitilla wasn’t the only one who received an elaborate invitation to dinner. Expensive gifts were presented to many of the capital’s great matrons. Tongues have been wagging ever since, opining on his origin, estimating the size of his coffers. We’ve had Spanish imports before, but none have captivated the city’s attention like this.
‘Shall I check ahead, sir?’
Ptolemy is beside me. Praetorians flank us, three a side, each with a torch lighting up the evening’s twilight. Ptolemy wants to go ahead and ensure I’m not too early: Caesar’s eldest son can’t be the first to arrive. It’s good having a slave who acts the snob. It allows you to pretend such things don’t concern you.
‘No, no. That’s fine. Let’s press on.’
The street outside is dotted with slaves conversing; empty litters sit side-by-side, like ships along a quay. I signal four Praetorians to wait out front. The remaining two follow Ptolemy and me up the walk.
The front door is elm, four men wide, with a bronze lion gripping
a ring in its mouth. Before we’ve ascended the steps, the door opens revealing the plump little Parthian, Cyrus. When, I wonder, does he apply that black gunk around his eyes? Does he take it off at night? Or does he wear it permanently, like a tattoo?
Inside, the atrium is awash with silk and Canusian wool, sage green, pomegranate red, Aegean blue; golden bracelets clink as the upper crust of Rome gesture and point; conversations swing between friendly banter and teasing chuckles; oil lamps waver and hiss; and the smell of roasting boar, rosemary and lemon peel spawns a ravenous growl from my stomach.
‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus,’ Cyrus whirls his arm. ‘Allow me to introduce your host, senator Lucius Ulpius Traianus.’
I follow the swing of Cyrus’ arm to a man, bent over a walking stick, with a thick beard, equal parts grey and copper, and a rag tied across his eyes. For once, it seems, the rumours were true: Ulpius is blind. His age is difficult to place. He could be anywhere from forty to somewhere in his sixties. He looks old – old or he’s lived a hard life.
‘May I also introduce the senator’s nephew, Marcus Ulpius.’
Cyrus points at a boy, seventeen or so, standing beside the elder Ulpius.
Neighbouring eyes watch intently as I meet our mysterious host.
‘We are glad you could join us, Titus,’ Ulpius says.
I nod, acknowledging the comment. ‘Senator, is it? I thought I had met every senator.’
‘Maybe now you have.’
‘You’ve come from Spain?’
‘Yes, from Spain.’
The boy surveys the crowd. Is he bored? He’s meeting the Emperor’s son and prefect of the Praetorian Guard, but by all appearances he is unimpressed, as though he has spent years in the presence of Caesar’s house. Is this adolescence or something more sinister? Then again: is there anything more sinister than adolescence?
‘Spain to Rome,’ I say, ‘a treacherous journey in winter.’
‘Only when compared to the other seasons,’ Ulpius replies.
Ptolemy clears his throat. He thinks the response impertinent. It was certainly odd, but I’m not sure if it offends me. Delicate questions begin to accumulate in my head. How did you lose your eyes? Where did your fortune come from? It is my business to know the answers, but now is not the time.
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