Nero says, ‘Cassius, I spared you your life once. Don’t make me regret it.’
Cassius stops flailing. He squints trying to see Nero in the torchlight.
‘Who are you?’ he asks.
Nero steps forward and bends down. He removes the fabric covering his eyes.
‘My beard is longer . . .’
Cassius keeps squinting, leaning forward.
‘. . . and my eyes are gone . . .’
Cassius whispers, so softly I almost don’t hear it: ‘No.’
‘Yes,’ Nero says.
‘But you’re dead,’ Cassius says.
‘I most certainly am not,’ Nero says. ‘There is less of me, but I am otherwise alive and well.’
Beside me, Pollux says to Castor: ‘Who is he, anyway?’
‘Who do you mean? The blind fellow or the one they dragged in?’
‘Oh, never mind.’
Nero steps closer to Cassius. He says, ‘Come now, Cassius, you don’t believe everything you heard, do you?’
‘How?’ Cassius shakes his head. ‘How did this happen?’
‘As a matter of fact, I was hoping you might be able to offer some insight into how events unfolded.’
‘Me?’ Cassius says ‘Nero, I . . . I had nothing to do with whatever happened to you. I’ve been banished to this godsforsaken island for three years, long before your fall. I spend my days fighting off –’ he looks at Spiculus ‘– rogues from other towns.’
Castor and Pollux start talking again. Their voices are all I can hear.
‘Wait? The blind fellow is Nero? The Nero?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘You dolt! The Emperor.’
‘The cripple? You’re joking. I thought the emperor was Claudius.’
‘Claudius was the emperor nearly twenty years ago. Nero was after him. Don’t you know anything?’
I turn and whisper, ‘Shhhhh!’ And then put my eye back to the crack in the hut. I hear Cassius say, ‘It was her. She worshiped the cult; she worshipped the Black Priest. Not me. She tried to kill you once and I’m sure she tried again.’
‘Lepida?’ Nero says. ‘Nonsense. She wasn’t a true believer. Not like you.’
‘No, you had it backward. You had it backward then and you have it backward now. It was Lepida who was a true believer. When she got caught, she blamed it all on me.’
‘Who else?’ Nero asks. ‘I want their names.’
Spiculus pulls out his dagger and steps toward Cassius.
‘No, no,’ Cassius says. ‘I’ll tell you everything. The eunuch. It’s the eunuch who is to blame. Halotus. He and Lepida had something on every one of them, Torquatus, Tullinus. Please. Please! Tell him to put the dagger away.’
‘And who was the Black Priest?’ Nero asks.
‘I’m not sure. A senator, I think. Lepida only mentioned the name once or twice. But she never said who. All I know is she was scared of him. The only thing that bitch was ever scared of.’
And then all I can hear is Castor and Pollux arguing behind me. They start to push each other until they go over in a heap and wrestle on the ground.
Spiculus (who must have heard and left the hut) is soon standing over them. He pulls Pollux off Castor and shoves him so hard that Pollux sprints for ten yards before falling to the ground. Spiculus points away from the hut and says to Castor, ‘Go,’ and Castor gets up and runs. Spiculus turns and sees me. ‘Go, Marcus.’ His voice is easier than the one he used for Castor and Pollux. ‘This is not for your ears.’
I follow the other two into the woods away from the hut. Spiculus watches me go.
NERO
15 March, dawn
Three miles inland, north-west coast of Sardinia
Spiculus leads me into the hovel that held me my first night on the island, the one the bandits call ‘the Jail’. I hear the merchant Ulpius shuffle around on the sand.
‘Well?’ he asks.
‘I have negotiated your release,’ I say. ‘You will keep up your end of the bargain?’
‘I will owe you my life,’ Ulpius the merchant says.
‘Some men have poor memories.’
‘True enough,’ he says. ‘But there’s more in it for me than paying back my debt. I’m a merchant, you see, and my aim is profit. I’m very picky when choosing partners. For twenty years, I’ve pointed at particular men and said, “You have what it takes. You are going to thrive. I want to be in business with you.” And this is what I have done with you. I’ve spent more than three years in this jail. You spent a matter of hours. Two days in the camp and you seemed to be running it. You’re as smart as Minerva and just as resourceful. I’m tying myself to you for my own sake. One can only imagine what you’ll do in Rome.’
‘And your brother? The one still alive,’ Spiculus asks. ‘The soldier? Will he play the part?’
‘He is my junior by seven years. He will do as he is told. And he will see the advantage.’
‘And the likeness?’ Spiculus asks. ‘He resembles your brother? The one who died?’
I feel their eyes on me.
‘It’s close enough. His wounds will fill the gap.’
Good answers, all of them. Answers I can take solace in; answers we can move forward with.
It was good fortune meeting this merchant. Provincial origins, a missing brother – there is much to work with, useful holes for a cripple to fill. And it is good to have my story set before heading to Carthage. If I am right – if we really are about to discover a fortune – the world will want to know my name.
‘Let him out.’
As Spiculus is unlocking the merchant’s cell, a sullen voice croaks, ‘And what about me?’
‘Yes, Cassius?’ I ask. ‘What about you?’
‘How long am I to remain a prisoner. I gave you the answers you required. I am an innocent man.’
‘You answered my questions,’ I say, ‘and I am grateful for your assistance, Cassius. But if you were freed, how long would you wait before trying to profit from the knowledge that I am alive? You’re desperate to get back to Rome and this would be your ticket.’
‘So I’m to remain a prisoner?’ Cassius is despondent. ‘For the rest of my days?’
‘You’re alive, Cassius,’ I say. ‘It is a generous gift. You’re just too stupid to know it.’
Cassius starts to weep.
Ulpius the merchant is beside me now; I can hear him dusting the sand from his tunic. ‘Ready to go,’ I ask.
‘Lead the way, brother.’
XVIII
Two Prisoners, Two Stories
A.D. 79
TITUS
7 April, dawn
The carcer, Rome
We follow the stairs down. The air is cold and wet. Virgilius leads the way with a torch. He’d taken Caecina here himself, sometime late last night. We decided to give him the night to fester. Regulus will have arrested Ulpius by now, and taken him to a different jail, outside the city walls. We thought it best to keep the two separated. Cracks in their story will show more easily, if they are not given a chance to confer.
The carcer is nearly as old as Rome itself, built by its fourth king, a subterranean prison dug into the side of the Capitoline, beside the Temple of Concord, where men are left to rot before their death. It has held some of Rome’s greatest enemies, Jugurtha, Vercingetorix, Caratacus. Now it holds Rome’s most recent.
We reach the upper level, which is a rectangular room, dark and empty, surrounded on all sides by cold stone. In the middle of the room is a circular hole, two men wide, with prison bars sealing our prisoner down below. Virgilius and I walk to the hole and look down. At first Caecina is out of sight. We call for him and he slides into view.
Caecina holds his hand to shield his eyes and squints. This is the first light he’s seen in hours: it likely feels like the sun, rather than a lone torch. After his eyes adjust and he sees who stands above, he smiles disdainfully.
Somewhere, water drips.
‘
Confess,’ I say, not wasting any time. ‘Name all of the conspirators and we will permit you to open your veins in the privacy of your own home.’
‘Confess?’ Caecina asks, incredulous.
‘Yes. Confess.’
Caecina laughs bitterly.
Virgilius says, ‘The prefect is offering a window of mercy. But it is closing fast.’
‘Confess to what?’ Caecina asks. ‘The charges have not been named. And I cannot guess what you have trumped up. If it’s for what I’ve actually done, the laws of Rome are run roughshod.’
‘Well, let’s start with what you’ve actually done. Start with what you admit.’
Caecina harrumphs. ‘Why play the part honest if the play is a comedy?’
He acts the victim well enough. It’s how he survived the civil wars, how he tricked those who had a knife to his throat, again and again.
‘What do you know of Torcus?’ I demand. ‘The god of the marsh.’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,’ Caecina says.
Virgilius looks at me. Give him time to stew.
Virgilius is right – all prisoners soften with time. But I need answers quickly. Whatever Plautius discovered – it was planned months ago. The gods know how much time we have left.
‘You have until tomorrow,’ I say to Caecina. ‘Then we put your slaves to torture. Their blood will be on your hands.’
I follow Virgilius up the steps.
*
The building is two storeys of terracotta brick surrounded by a sea of green. Regulus – my patrician, entitled military tribune – and three soldiers are waiting out front.
Regulus grabs my horse’s bridle as it slows to a stop. ‘Prefect Titus,’ he says. ‘Ulpius is inside.’
‘Good. Did he say anything when you arrested him?’
‘No. He took it quite phlegmatically.’
A sign of guilt, perhaps?
‘We treated him delicately, as you’d asked,’ Regulus says. ‘He already has a visitor.’
I step down from my horse. She’s spent from the run and panting heavily; her black nostrils open and contract with a violent flourish.
‘A visitor?’
‘Yes,’ Regulus says. ‘Normally, I’d never allow such a thing, but Ulpius is, as you know, a cripple. It seemed indecent to stop a visitor.’
This is my fault. I told him to treat Ulpius differently. I only meant for him to arrest Ulpius in a civil manner, not to give the cripple free reign.
‘Who?’ I ask. ‘Who is visiting him?’
‘The man’s nephew. The younger Ulpius.’
*
I can hear laughter as I near the top of the steps. I enter the room and find the boy, Marcus, sitting on a three-legged stool in front of the cell and Ulpius sitting – as Caecina did, as I suppose all prisoners sit – with his back against the wall, cross-legged.
Their laughter tails off when they see – or, in the elder man’s case, hear – my arrival. Virgilius follows me inside.
Anger doesn’t cloud my judgement as it did with Caecina. I can play this with more tact. I ask Virgilius, ‘Do you know what I’m wondering?’
‘What’s that?’ Virgilius asks.
‘Who is more likely to laugh: the guilty or the insane?’ I ask. ‘I’m quite certain innocent men don’t laugh after they’ve been arrested.’
The elder Ulpius pipes up. ‘We are merely nostalgic.’
‘Nostalgic?’ I ask. ‘I don’t understand. You have been arrested before?’
‘What do you care of past crimes?’ Ulpius asks. ‘This seems of the more recent variety.’
I shake my head. It will be tiring questioning this eccentric. He talks in circles.
‘Where were you before your arrival in Rome?’ Virgilius asks.
The boy answers, ‘Spain, with stops in Marseilles and Civitavecchia.’
I point at Ulpius. ‘Let him answer.’
Ulpius says, ‘Oh, best to let Marcus give you the answers you’re looking for. I could have been in Antioch for all I know.’ He points at his rag-covered eyes. ‘I’ve no way to corroborate. If someone says, “We are in Spain,”’ who am I to argue?’
I exchange a look with Virgilius. Are these two having fun?
I say, ‘You have been arrested on charges of treason.’
Ulpius tilts his head considering the charge. ‘Yes, that seemed the likeliest explanation for bringing me here.’
The man’s lack of fear is infuriating. ‘If you do not answer my questions we will put your slaves to torture.’
Ulpius mutters something to the boy. I know four languages, but the tongue is not one I know. The boy gives a derisive snort.
A spasm of frustration travels the length of my arm and I automatically clench my fist: someone is plotting to poison Caesar and possibly his entire family, and yet these two are laughing at the thought of it.
‘What do know you of a plot to poison Caesar?’ I demand.
Ulpius says, ‘You’re right, Marcus.’
I look to the boy. ‘Right? Right about what?’
The boy says, ‘My uncle and I had been discussing history. The Empire’s obsession with poison.’
Ulpius says, ‘Great effort is made to sniff out plots against the Emperor – arrests, interrogations, torture. Marcus once posited: why not simply round up those who make poison? Ask them your questions.’
What nonsense. The man is casually chatting about the Empire’s history, rather than pleading for his life.
Virgilius catches my eye. Leave him for now. Let him think on this a bit longer.
‘Do you want my advice, Titus?’ Ulpius asks. ‘You are letting circumstance dictate character. Wise rulers make rather than react to circumstance.’
‘What do you know of ruling?’ My retort has an edge to it. This cripple is getting under my skin.
Ulpius shrugs. ‘More than most. You know the Empire had such high hopes for you. A child of character, they said. There was a story I heard once, of a young Titus Vespasianus, who, as a mere boy, to protect his friend, stood in the path of Caesar. What happened to that boy, I wonder?’
The cold hand of the past touches me on the shoulders. I see Britannicus, my friend, Claudius’ son, eight or so, lying on the marble, sobbing. I see his older, spoilt step-brother, Nero, standing, arm raised, with a cruel, twisted smile poisoning his lips. He is holding a wooden sword, the type gladiators train with. I stand between them. My eyes are closed, waiting for wood to collide with a yet-unknown part of my body.
I am quiet for too long. Virgilius raises a snowy eyebrow. You’re letting an old cripple get to you?
I point my finger at Ulpius, as though he can see it. ‘You have the night to think. In the morning, I want answers.’
*
Once we’re outside, Virgilius looks around. ‘The boy.’
We left Marcus with Ulpius. I was too distracted to notice.
To Regulus, I say, ‘Go. Get the boy out. Drag him out if you have to.’
Regulus and two soldiers go inside. Soon we hear muffled shouts; then silence. Moments later, the boy calmly walks out of the jail. Alone. He stares at me contemptuously as he walks to his horse.
Regulus comes rushing out of the jail, minus his helmet. He is growling with rage. He rushes for the boy.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Virgilius stepping forward. His instinct is to stop Regulus, before he seriously harms the boy. But my intuition says differently. I’ve calmed down since Ulpius’s comments; my mind is clear. I now see the boy differently, and I want to know him better. I grab Virgilius by the arm and give him a look: let this play out.
Regulus rushes at the boy, sword raised. The boy stands his ground before – at the very last second – casually stepping aside, as Regulus’s sword swings down through the empty air. The boy crouches and grabs Regulus by the ankle. He stands, bringing Regulus’s foot with him, and then Regulus – already off balance – falls face first to the grass. The boy pounces. He g
ives two heavy thumps to the back of the soldier’s head, flips him over, and then hits the tribune three times in the face.
I let go of Virgilius’s arm and he quickly moves to intervene. He rushes to the boy and picks him up in his arms, smothering his wild, flailing fists.
The boy is screaming. I’m not sure when he started; it goes and goes. I see him differently for the second time today. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone, let alone a boy of seventeen, so filled with rage. He looks as though he wants the world to burn.
The other two soldiers finally come out of the jail, roughed up but alive. Thankfully.
Regulus is on his feet. His face is bloodied and his hair is tousled like a child after a nap. Bruises will follow. He pulls out a dagger hidden in his boot. ‘Hold that little shit still,’ he says as he wipes the blood from his mouth.
‘Stop!’ I say.
Regulus is incredulous. ‘He will pay for what he has just done.’
‘You should pay him,’ I say. ‘Give him silver and beg him to never speak of this again. You let a boy best you. Twice, by the looks of it.’
‘You can’t be serious. He must be punished for this . . . for this indignity.’
‘You forget yourself, Regulus. You have let a child get the better of you. You’ve no one to blame but yourself. I will have to think about what punishment you should have. Of course, that’s in addition to the ten lashings for speaking back to your superior officer.’
Regulus looks at the boy, then me. He growls in outrage, but keeps his mouth shut.
To the two soldiers, I say, ‘Take Regulus back to camp. Have a centurion whip him. Ten lashes. Tell them why. If I don’t see bloody welts on his back, I will find you and give you three times as many as he’s due.’
Regulus’s shoulders slump; his eyes slicken with a glossy sheen like he’s about to sob. This will be a difficult embarrassment for him to live down. But he left me no choice. I won’t have anyone question me publicly, especially one of my own soldiers.
Regulus walks in defeat to his horse. The two soldiers follow.
The boy is still in Virgilius’s arms, but he is no longer struggling.
How do I handle this? I don’t want to give him a beating; nor do I think it would have any effect.
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