David

by Barbaree Deposed

  Theseus frowns. His feelings are hurt; he thought we were friends.

  Marcus takes over. ‘You’re working for Domitilla now. That’s the way your loyalty lies. That’s fine.’ He puts his hand on my shoulder, like I’m his long-lost friend. ‘Something is in the works, something aimed at Caesar and his family. When you know we are on the same side, come to us. We both have information the other does not.’

  With that, they saunter off.

  *

  I emerge from the sewer in a daze, amazed that I’m still alive. It’s not safe to go to mine, so I head to Red’s. I pay the man at the front and he takes me to her room. I knock on the door and peek in. She’s asleep, so I slink into the room and and lie beside her.

  She starts to stir and I say, ‘Not looking for anything other than a place to rest. Mine’s not safe.’ She doesn’t say anything, but she throws her leg over my thigh. When she presses her face into my shoulder, I know she’s happy I’m here. Her hot breath warms my cheek, which, like the rest of me, is still cold from the sewer.

  There is a throbbing in my chest that will wake the room.

  She kisses me, a little dab just shy of my lips. It feels different from the ones she’s given me before, softer, sweeter. Another follows. I don’t move, not wanting to spoil the moment. I hold my breath, to the point where I feel faint. She kisses me a third time, then a fourth. I am a statue, afraid to move. And I don’t, not until – practical woman that she is – Red hitches up my tunic and grabs my member.

  We make love, quietly. After I finish, she keeps me inside her, kissing me.

  I fall asleep, thinking: this is the best day of my life, even if I had a knife to my throat for most of it.

  *

  The next day, it’s near hour two when I make my way to the palace, a smile to end all smiles on my face. On the way, I see Chickpea, an old friend from the legions, named for the chickpea-sized mole on his nose.

  ‘Ho! Calenus,’ he says over the racket of the cattle market.

  He goes to shake my hand and I pull him in for an embrace.

  He looks at me sideways. ‘You’re mad! Have you time for a cup?’

  ‘I do, indeed.’

  Moments later we’re under the awning of a market stall, bent over the bar.

  Chickpea says, ‘Lucky fellow, that Plautius. No?’

  I’d forgotten: a decision was supposed to be reached yesterday, while I was indisposed.

  ‘The ruling was in his favour then?’

  ‘By a hair,’ he says, ‘two votes to one.’

  I feel buoyed by this. It’s good for Domitilla. ‘A fair result,’ I say.

  ‘Fair?’ Chickpea shakes his head. ‘Justice for the rich, I’d say. A poor man would have stayed in his chains. It wouldn’t matter how he got there.’

  ‘Another reason why it’s better to be rich.’

  Chickpea nods.

  *

  Later, when we stand to leave, I see Nerva’s slave Appius, the king of the portico, making his way down the road towards us.

  ‘Ho!’ I yell over the chatter of the crowd. ‘Appius.’

  He walks over, sceptical. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while. I thought you might be dead.’

  ‘I’ve been working for the palace these days.’

  ‘Have you now?’ Appius is vaguely impressed. He looks Chickpea over, wondering if he’s from the palace as well. To me, he says, ‘You called me over to brag then?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Nerva owes me coin.’

  Appius feigns shock; eyebrows raised. ‘And you want me to pay you, do you?’

  ‘Why not?’ I ask. ‘You carry your patron’s purse around for him.’ Realising I need him on my side, I add, ‘And you’ve always been fair, Appius.’ I turn to Chickpea. ‘Wasn’t I just telling you that? That Nerva’s man Appius is one of the fairest in Rome?’

  Chickpea doesn’t miss a beat. ‘This is the man? You said he was taller.’

  It can’t be more than the third compliment Appius has had his entire life. He nods, leans towards me, and says, ‘Listen, you come by this afternoon and speak with Nerva. He’s always in a good mood after the baths. If you’re owed it, I’ve no doubt he’ll pay.’

  I slap Appius on the back. ‘See! One of the fairest.’

  Appius disappears into the crowd. I thank Chickpea for his quick thinking. He waves away the thanks. ‘It was nothing.’

  *

  At the palace doors, I tell the guards, ‘Phoenix,’ the password Domitilla gave me, and one of them says, ‘Wait here.’ He comes back with Domitilla’s redheaded girl Jacasta.

  ‘Mistress Domitilla has gone to call on a friend this morning.’

  ‘Well, I have news,’ I say.

  She says, ‘And?’

  ‘It concerns Valerianus and that rich Spaniard everyone talks about. Ulpius. It’s a good story.’

  ‘Well, tell me and I will tell Mistress.’

  ‘I’d rather say it to her directly.’

  She smiles. The girl is as plain as they come, but she has a good smile.

  ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Come back to the palace this afternoon. Mistress will have returned by then.’

  I turn to go but she says, ‘Wait,’ and grabs my arm. She produces a thin gold necklace and a little velvet bag. ‘Mistress was confident you would not let her down. She asked that you take this necklace as a token of her appreciation.’

  I take the necklace and trace my thumb along the intricate threads of gold. It feels like embroidery, but with metal instead of string. I’ve seen necklaces like this before, but only at a distance; I’ve never felt one in my hands.

  ‘And here –’ she hands me the velvet pouch ‘– you should have enough there to rent your own lodging. Mistress will not want one of her bodyguards sharing an apartment with a dozen riffraff.’

  I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. ‘Bodyguard?’

  ‘Oh, has she not told you yet? You are to be Domitilla’s personal bodyguard. She would like a man she can trust. You may not be a Praetorian – Mistress doesn’t care what happened in your past, but you clearly cannot be a soldier again. Still: the personal bodyguard of Caesar’s eldest daughter is a worthy achievement.’

  I can’t believe it, the turn in fortune. I can’t believe it. My arms are shaking and my mouth is open like a fish. I think: collect yourself, Calenus.

  I stand at attention. ‘I will be back this afternoon.’

  *

  I head straight for Nerva’s after the palace. I’m suddenly flush with coin, but every little bit helps. Also, fortune is on my side today. Why waste it?

  Appius greets me at the door. The compliment I’d paid him this morning has worn off. He looks confused at my presence. ‘Oh, Calenus,’ he says. ‘Of course. Come along.’

  We find Nerva alone in his study, behind a long desk. He’s so short his shoulders are barely higher than the wood.

  ‘Come to beg for more coin, have you?’ he asks.

  I take a seat across from him. ‘Only what you owe me.’

  Nerva frowns. ‘I see. And how much is that?’

  ‘Ten sesterces.’

  Another frown. He unwinds a roll of papyrus and begins to read it. He may pay me, but he will make me wait first.

  There are noises behind me – feet slapping on marble, the clearing of a throat – and Nerva looks up. His face changes – only slightly, but even the smallest change to Nerva’s stony bust is news. I turn back to see who’s behind me.

  Appius is standing in the atrium, on the threshold to the office, with his head down, reading a wax tablet. Beside him is a girl – the girl with the one eyebrow, the one I followed to the Spotted Pig and who met with Montanus. Our eyes meet. If she recognises me, she doesn’t show it. I collect myself as best I can before turning back to face Nerva.

  When I turn back, the change in Nerva’s face is gone. He is back to plain, unreadable Nerva again. Calmly, he says, ‘Not now, Appius.’

  I fight the urge to turn back and watch the girl
go.

  Nerva says, ‘All right, Calenus. Let’s get you what you’re owed.’

  He stands, walks to a cabinet behind the desk and pulls open a drawer. His back is to me and he fumbles in the drawer for a moment. He returns with a change purse, and then, on his desk, counts out ten sesterces.

  Nerva is as rich as Midas, but he’s always reluctant to hand over coin. The girl, that look on his face – my hackles are raised. I should leave. Right now. But the coin – my coin – is right there on the desk.

  ‘Here you are. As promised.’

  He picks up the stack of coins and takes a step toward me, but then two coins fall from his hands. He puts the remaining coin back down on the desk and then nods towards the fallen coin. ‘Quickly, Calenus. Before I take them back.’

  I bend down to pick up the coins. Out of the corner of my eye I see Nerva take a step closer. As I’m raising my head, Nerva is there, only a few inches away.

  And then I feel a sting in my neck . . .

  The pain grows, from a bee sting to an inferno. I put my hand to my neck and, when I pull it away, it’s painted red.

  The room trembles . . .

  I fall to the ground.

  Nerva stands over me. He meets my terrified gaze. ‘A waste,’ he says as he wipes the blade on his tunic; a dark blot pools on the vermillion cloth, just below his ribs.

  Liquid trickles from my mouth. Blood. My blood.

  ‘I’m sorry, Calenus,’ he says. ‘But I can’t have you interfering and undermining years of careful planning. I’m well placed now. I won’t let some soldier with a schoolboy crush get in the way.’

  Nerva squats down. He pats my pocket and pulls out my change purse. I’m too weak to stop him. Inside the pouch he finds the gold necklace. He holds it up to the light. ‘Hm.’ He pockets the necklace and stands up.

  ‘And I’m sorry you won’t be around to see how I pull it all off. Marcellus and his cult will come and go . . .’

  My neck throbs; I try to breathe – all I want is to take a fucking breath – but I can’t; it’s like sucking air from a stone.

  ‘. . . but I will be Rome’s constant, like the Capitoline, like the Aventine.’

  He steps over me and calmly calls, ‘Appius!’

  The burning churn in my neck eases. The room dilutes. My eyes shut. I sink down into a wave of warmth.

  Red. I think of Red.

  I hear Nerva say, ‘Clean this up.’

  The world slips through my fingers . . .

  XXVII

  Dinner at Ulpius’s, Part II

  A.D. 79

  SPICULUS

  11 January, cockcrow

  Outside the home of Eprius Marcellus, Rome

  Marcus and I use a wagon and a mule for cover. In the morning, before the sun rises, we park it out front of Marcellus’s home and remove the wheel, crack a spoke, and lean it against the wagon, giving it the impression it cracked all on its own. We’re dressed in simple tunics, unwashed and rumpled, with hooded cloaks. When we’re finished, I say, ‘What do you think? Just two delivery men trying to fix their cart.’

  ‘It will work for now,’ Marcus says. ‘But we’ll need something different if we don’t get him tonight.’

  The sun rises and the street starts to fill. The day is uneventful for the most part. In the afternoon a vigiles gives us a hard time. But after Marcus hands him a gold coin he smiles and tells us to take our time.

  Around hour six we see him. It is the first time in six years.

  Halotus emerges from the alleyway beside Marcellus’s home. Even after all this time, he still has the same round belly that juts out, skinny arms, long legs, small head and wolf-like eyes. Marcus and I busy ourselves with the cart. We pretend to talk about the broken wheel, but our eyes are fixed on Halotus.

  Marcus sighs. ‘He was right. Damn it. He’s always right. Not only did the letter work, he came straight to Marcellus. I suppose we’ll have to listen to Nero say “I told you so”, but at least we know where Halotus is staying.’

  I say, ‘Just because Halotus is staying with Marcellus, it doesn’t mean he is the Black Priest or involved in Nero’s fall.’

  ‘Nero will disagree.’

  ‘Halotus’s guilt is obvious. With Marcellus, we still don’t know.’

  Six months ago, Nero paid the Spanish governor for a letter he had in Titus’s hand, and then paid a forger to match it, and the seal, and commissioned a letter to Halotus, recalling the eunuch to Rome. Marcus and I were sceptical it would work. We were wrong.

  ‘If he was here before us,’ I say, ‘we need to be careful. If he’s spoken to Titus, he could know he was tricked to come to Rome. His guard could be up.’

  Halotus returns after dark. The streets are empty. We call him over on the pretence of helping us with the wheel. As Marcus distracts him, I wrap my arms around him and Marcus quickly stuffs a rag in his mouth and then a sack over his head, and we drag him into the covered portion of the wagon and tie him up. Then, as if all is well, we attach the wheel and drive the cart back to our new home on the Aventine. ‘I fear Nero will want to do something dramatic,’ I say. ‘He has waited a long time for this.’

  ‘Yes,’ Marcus says, ‘that is a fair bet.’

  *

  Nero chooses the Tarpean Rock. He says it’s fitting because this was how traitors were killed during the republic. We go under the cover of dark. We take Halotus in the wagon to the foot of the Capitoline and then we drag him up the hill’s steep slope and walk him to the Tarpean’s ledge.

  There is a cold wind here, one that we didn’t feel in the forum below.

  Nero says, ‘Can he see me?’

  Marcus removes the sack over Halotus’s head. The rag remains in the eunuch’s mouth.

  ‘He can now.’

  ‘Hello, Halotus,’ Nero says. ‘It has been too long. The last time we did this, you successfully talked your way free. Today, I think we’ll keep you quiet. Yes?’

  Halotus’ pale eyes are oceans of terror. He tries to scream but it’s lost in the wet rag.

  ‘Stand him up,’ Nero says.

  Doryphorus and I pull Halotus to his feet. Behind us is an immense drop to the forum.

  Halotus starts to talk but it’s muffled by the rag in his throat. His voice gradually rises in intensity.

  The cold wind continues to blow.

  Marcus positions Nero in front of Halotus. Nero reaches out and touches Halotus’s face, confirming the eunuch’s position.

  Halotus is now screaming into his rag and struggling against my grip.

  Then Nero issues one swift kick to Halotus’s stomach and the eunuch steps back, only there is nothing but air behind him, and he falls quickly and quietly before splattering against the forum floor like a melon.

  ‘Cross him off the list,’ Nero says.

  Doryphorus takes out the worn wax tablet that has followed us across the Empire, with the names we have been pursuing for many years.

  Guilty

  Guilt unknown

  Terentius (centurion)

  Epaphroditus (chamberlain, telling lies)

  Venus (soldier)

  Phaon (chamberlain)

  Juno (soldier)

  Nympidius (Praetorian prefect)

  Halotus (chamberlain)

  Galba (False Emperor)

  Tigellinus (Praetorian prefect)

  Otho (covets the throne)

  The Black Priest

  Lepida (mistress)

  ‘And now?’ Doryphorus asks.

  ‘Next is Epaphroditus,’ Nero says. ‘Our dinner guest.’

  NERO

  15 January, first torch

  The home of Lucius Ulpius Trianus, Rome

  As Titus is giving his answer, some sprawling response littered with un-inventive Stoicisms (or, to be more specific, Seneca-isms, that’s how uninventive the man’s ideas are), Doryphorus leans into my ear and whispers, ‘Epaphroditus has drunk the poison.’

  He calls it poison, but I’m not sur
e it meets the definition. Poison kills. What Epaphroditus drank will put him to sleep for a short time; nothing more. At the moment, Spiculus is outside giving the same concoction to Epaphroditus’s slaves.

  Lepida is here, my first time in the same room with my former mistress in a decade. It is anticlimactic. I’ve wondered for years whether she played me for a fool; whether she was somehow involved in my fall; whether she seduced Caesar and convinced him she was nothing more than a victim of Torcus, not an adherent. I’d planned on learning the truth, and I will. But not tonight. Maybe the wind has gone out of my sails after waiting for so long to bring Halotus to justice. Or maybe my feelings for the woman linger just enough that I am reluctant to move swiftly. Either way, tonight she will escape my machinations. Marcellus will also avoid my reach for the moment, given his decision to decline my invitation to dinner. Spiculus, our collective conscience, refuses to move against him without certainty. It doesn’t matter. Tonight I have Epaphroditus. Apollo willing, he will tell me everything I need to know.

  Marcus is quiet and sullen throughout dinner. We received word just before sailing for Rome: the slave woman, Elsie, may be in Sicily. It’s impossible to know for certain; and I think Marcus will eventually have to be the one to go and see for himself. But I’ve told him he cannot go until we are finished here, until Torcus is routed out and destroyed. Marcus was furious. He swore and carried on. ‘We’ve waited six years, what’s another month?’ I insisted but I think it was Spiculus who swayed him in the end. Marcus often suspects I’m manipulating him, rather than being honest. Spiculus, on the other hand, clearly has never said anything he didn’t mean. Marcus trusts him.

  Marcus agreed to wait, but he has been particularly combative since arriving in Italy. The incident on the road from Ostia to Rome is one example – though, after our shared experiences together, we all hate soldiers and their arbitrary cruelty and tendency to prey on the weak. We likely would have intervened on behalf of that poor woman, being dragged behind that centurion’s horse, whether or not Marcus was itching for a fight.