‘Mainly. But there are Greeks, Jews, Syrians, brigands. All sorts have flocked to him.’
Darius pauses. He is taking his time, unsure or unwilling to get to the point. I have never seen him like this. The satrap of Bactria is not usually one to drag his feet.
‘I should get back,’ I say, ‘before my absence is noted. Tell me, my dear. What do you need?’
Darius takes a deep breath, then nods, as if he’s finally come to a decision.
‘Our fortunes are tied to Artabanus. I am not asking you to do anything that will harm him or bring you dishonour. You are, after all, his wife now. But I fear others are working to improve their standing with our king. They are doing this to the king’s detriment.’
He means this, I’ve no doubt, but with Darius there is always more to the story. If I had to guess, I’d say what he leaves unsaid is that these men are working against his interests. Darius is concerned about losing his rightful place at the king’s side.
‘Tomorrow,’ he says, ‘there is a meeting with the foreigners. Your Greek is better than mine. And you speak Latin, a skill very few in our camp have. I need you there, listening, making sure I know everything that’s said.’
I do my best not to laugh at the absurdity of the request. ‘I would like to help you, my dear. I would. But please explain how a member of the king’s harem could attend a meeting between two armies?’
‘Other than me and Himerus,’ Darius says, pointing at my veil, ‘only the women of the harem know your face. None of the king’s wives will be in attendance tomorrow. I want you to attend disguised as my maid. Himerus will provide the appropriate attire. You will stand by my side and translate.’
The plan is one only Darius could devise: simple yet daring. But what he proposes would put me at great risk. If I were caught gallivanting about the camp dressed as a maid, my reputation would be ruined. At best, I would be thrown out of the harem, ostracised and left to survive on my own, the gods alone know how. At worst . . .
The king is unpredictable. Women have returned from his tent with swollen eyes or cut lips. Disproportionate replies to a harmless comment or innocent giggle. And then there is what he did on our march east, after Persepolis, after another noble family abandoned his cause. Furious, wanting someone to blame – someone other than the traitorous nobleman who was already halfway across the desert and out of reach – Artabanus blamed one of his secretaries, a distant relative of the fleeing nobleman. On the king’s command, a hole was dug in the desert and, under the threat of death, the secretary was forced to sit in the hole and wait as the king’s men shovelled dirt back in, burying the man up to his neck. He was left alone in the desert, sobbing, crying out for mercy, as our caravan resumed its march east. In the days since, I have dreamt of him, alone in the desert, carrions pecking at his eyes, peeling back the flesh from his sunburnt face.
It was a reminder of a rule one should never forget: it is wise to avoid the anger of kings.
And yet I find I am not content to sit on my hands and wait for the war to finish and hope my new husband is the victor. I may be married to a king, but that does not mean I cannot plan for a world in which he is king no longer.
To Darius, I say, ‘I will do this for you, but on one condition.’
‘Anything,’ Darius says.
‘I am loyal to our king, as are you.’ I leave it unsaid that Darius had the luxury of choosing who deserved his loyalty, whereas I had no such luxury. ‘But we are at war. If the tide changes, I want you to promise you will look out for me.’
He smiles. ‘Of course. You needn’t have asked. You are my loving wife.’
‘I am not your wife and I need more assurances than that smile of yours.’
‘You have my word.’
I shake my head. ‘No, that is not enough.’
I look around his tent, searching for an idea. One strikes me as I stare at the satrap’s chest.
‘Your family’s amulet,’ I say. ‘Let me have it until the war is done.’
Hidden under his Median robe and silk tunic, hanging on a golden chain around his neck, Darius has an amulet, a massive stone of ruby set in solid gold, which has been passed down in his family, from father to son, generation after generation, for hundreds of years. Darius claims it was a gift from Alexander to his Bactrian bride. It is the satrap’s most prized possession. Our king may not survive this war, but Darius will. If I have Darius’s amulet, he will find me, and he will take care of me.
The satrap is annoyed; his smile darkens. He cannot believe anyone, let alone a woman and his former wife, is not content to take him at his word. He asks, ‘You doubt my loyalty?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You gave me away. I’d be a fool not to.’
Darius pretends to consider my proposal, but we both know he needs me.
He nods, opens his robe and pulls out the amulet from underneath his tunic. He admires its golden radiance in the lamp light before dropping it into my hands.
‘Doubt no longer.’
*
The next morning, Himerus enters the harem, clears his throat, and – loud enough for every woman to hear – requests my assistance. He is the king’s eunuch and no one will question my absence so long as I’m with him.
He takes me to his tent and hands me a long, sleeveless tunic and headdress a maid would wear. The material is cheap and irritates my skin.
After I’ve changed, the eunuch holds up a cracked mirror. My arms and face will be exposed in public for the first time since I was a girl in Seleucia. It feels equally thrilling and improper. I pinch loose skin below my shoulder and, for a moment, long for the arms of my youth. But that girl – the daughter of a Seleucian nobleman, spoilt and silly – would never have had the resolve to do what I am about to.
‘Ready?’ Himerus asks.
‘Yes.’
*
The council is held in a clearing, a long rectangular table is placed in the middle of it. Poplars cast shadows under the mid-day sun. Somewhere, hidden from view, a mountain stream trickles downhill.
The foreigners arrive first. An acknowledgement, the eunuch whispers, that they are in the weaker position. Most are wearing dented armour, rusted mail, and faded rags that were probably once red capes. Some look like soldiers, at home in their armour; others like criminals, as comfortable as I would be in a cuirass. All of them have bad teeth and a worse smell that’s evident the moment we enter the clearing. I’m struck with how brutal they appear, dim-witted and mean. Father always said Romans were thugs, but it’s strange to see them in the flesh, living up to their reputations.
A parade of Artabanus’s soldiers, generals, noblemen, satraps, secretaries and trusted advisors enters the clearing to the rhythm of a kettledrum. While the foreigners look wild and unkempt, our king’s courtiers are immaculate: manicured beards of black, brown or silver, with matching hair, curled into swinging ringlets; some wear flowing Median robes over silk tunics; others wear armour of silver scales that rattles with each step.
The westerners are silent, their eyes wide.
They are impressed.
Darius does not, as I expected, take the seat in the middle of the table. This honour is given to the Toad. To Meherdates. He sits across from the commanding Roman, who, like so many of his comrades, has the nose of a drunkard, a massive crag that is a darker shade of red than his faded cloak.
It’s a surprise the Toad has been given command today. For as long as I can remember, he has always been an outcast, a grotesque shadow that stalked the halls of the royal court. Bald, gaunt, and earless as a fish, his deformities are a living reminder of the cruelty of the Butcher, King Gotarez. The Toad may have royal blood, but he is no better than a foreigner.
For centuries, our kings have sent hostages to Rome under the pretence of fostering peace when their true aim was to rid themselves of their rivals. This is what happened to Meherdates’s father. Seen as a rival to the throne, he was sent to Rome by King Phraates. And so Meherdates was born on Italian soil, and
raised under the Italian sun. Years later, when the Butcher was king, his cruelty sent the nobility looking for a suitable rival with royal blood. Secret emissaries were sent to Rome. They returned with Meherdates at the head of an army. But the Butcher defeated him easily. And when the usurper was dragged before the king – true to his name – the Butcher ordered Meherdates’s ears cut off, believing that with such deformities he would never rule. From that day forward, Meherdates was known as the Toad, a name he has grown into, with his grey skin, bulbous eyes, and earless head – a man so ugly that one could not bear to look at him, let alone follow him.
Yet he has command today. Further evidence the war is not going well and our king is in desperate need of friends.
After introductions are made in Greek, the Toad asks if they would prefer to speak in Latin. The Roman commander seems relieved.
This is what Darius was worried about. He knew the Toad would lead today and speak Latin, fluent after spending so many years at Rome.
Once he has the comfort of his native language, the Roman leader grows more confident and adopts a rougher demeanour. ‘Where’s your king?’ he demands.
I grew up in Seleucia, a city equal parts Greek and Persian, one of the last bastions of the Seleucian empire. I learned Latin at the insistence of my father, who thought his daughter, a princess, should know, at a minimum, eleven languages. My tutor was a philosopher, banished from Rome. He taught me the Latin of the poets, as he called it, the Latin of the Senate, the Latin of the rich. But from time to time, when drunk or angry, he spoke differently. Afterwards, when he had sobered up or calmed down, he would apologize for speaking vulgar Latin, the Latin of the poor, which was unsuitable for the ears of a princess. There was a baseness to it, I recall, a lack of sophistication. It was so distinctive in character that I am able to recognize it now, after all these years, as it spews out of the Roman drunkard’s mouth.
It’s good our king is not speaking directly with the Romans. These barbarians have no sense of shame, sending a man like this to bargain with the king of kings.
‘Where is your king?’ the Toad demands.
‘We have no king,’ the red-nosed Roman says. ‘We’ve something better than that. A god among mortals.’
I whisper into Darius’s ear, translating everything I can.
‘What is it you want?’ the Toad asks. ‘What use do we have for a worn-out army a long way from home?’
‘Our interests are aligned,’ the Roman commander says. ‘We know Rome refused to acknowledge your king. We know your army needs soldiers.’
‘Get to the point,’ the Toad says. ‘What do you want? What do you propose?’
‘Kill the Flavians, restore the emperor, take back his throne.’
‘Restore who to the throne?’ the Toad asks. ‘What are you talking about?’
The Roman commander smiles. He turns and whispers in the ear of a boy behind him. The boy runs off.
‘Restore the emperor to the throne,’ the drunkard says. ‘The rightful emperor.’ He nods at a man walking into the clearing, flanked by soldiers.
The man’s face is hidden under a cloak. He approaches, slowly.
Once he’s behind the seated Romans, he stops, then drags the hood of his cloak back to his shoulders.
Red hair. Black eyes. Copper beard. And a crown of laurels.
‘I am Nero Claudius Caesar,’ he says. ‘Emperor of Rome.’
He speaks in Greek, so nothing is lost on his audience.
There are gasps on our side of the table.
The Roman commander smiles with pride.
‘Together,’ the man with the copper beard says, ‘we will destroy our enemies and retake our thrones.’
Gaius
18 August
The foothills of Vesuvius, Campania, Italy
Dogs howl in the distance. On the heels of a wild, dangerous and probably petrified boar darting through the trees.
At least I think that’s what we’re chasing up and down Vesuvius’s treacherous slope. This morning Uncle Pliny said, ‘you’re hunting boar today because that’s what young men do.’
Didn’t he? Or did he say deer? There’s not much difference as far as I’m concerned. I’d rather be back in Misenum, reading, practising my declamations, studying Livy – anything but running through the woods with a spear in my hands.
‘Gaius.’
I wonder what breed they are. The dogs that is. There’s a good chance Uncle Pliny will ask because he asks about nearly everything. He’ll be disappointed if I don’t know.
‘Gaius!’
I could ask someone in our party. But this is, perhaps, something I should know by now. They might laugh. I wonder—
‘GAIUS!’
A storm cloud of black shoulders and rough, prickly hide bursts through the undergrowth and, by a distance of maybe two spear lengths, barrels past me.
I watch the beast pass, my eyes wide and mouth agape. It’s close enough that I can feel a slight breeze spawned by its gait, and I’m vaguely aware that I’ve not made any attempt to stick it with my spear, the entire point of this sweaty, early-morning endeavour.
And then it’s gone, snarling dogs trailing in its wake.
Hidden cicadas, which had gone silent in the tumult, resume their incessant screeching.
‘Didn’t you know, Gaius?’ Domitian is standing to my left; he brushes his long black bangs from his eyes. ‘Statues make poor hunters.’
There is laughter behind me. Domitian’s hangers-on, no doubt, eager to please Caesar’s younger brother.
Marcus Ulpius emerges from the hole in the brush made by the boar. He stops to catch his breath, bending at the waist, like a runner at the end of a race. Unlike Domitian and myself, who were straggling until the boar doubled back the way it came, Marcus was leading the charge through the forest. It’s difficult to tell from my angle, but I think he’s smiling. Later today he’ll laugh about this with his friends. Little Gaius Caecilius had the boar right in front of him but couldn’t be bothered to throw his spear.
Gods, I hate hunting. I’m not sure what’s worse: running through a forest in the blistering heat or spending the day with the entitled sons of Rome’s elite.
Zosimus hands me a skin of water. ‘Not your fault, master. No man could have turned and thrown his spear that quickly. I was impressed you kept your cool, being so close.’
‘Thank you, Zosimus.’
My tunic is cemented to my back with sweat. I pour water over my shoulder, hoping to dissolve the coagulate.
Sinnaces, the younger of the two Parthian hostages, steps into the clearing, bow in hand. He makes a comment about the bow being mightier than the spear, implying first-hand knowledge of warfare. But as the son of a Parthian hostage, born in Rome, he’s likely never left Italy, let alone fought in any war.
Our guide – a freedman everyone calls Nine Fingers, on account of his missing little finger on his right hand – is next into the clearing. He walks to Domitian’s side. ‘My Lord, was that you making fun of young Gaius? I see your spear is as spotless as the one he’s carrying.’
Domitian glares at Nine Fingers but says nothing. Caesar’s younger brother is quick to criticise, but cannot stomach a word of it from anyone else.
The older Parthian hostage, Barlaas, and the centurion, Manlius, are the last to step into the clearing.
Barlaas has the look of a barbarian hero gone to seed. He is tall, with wonderful blue eyes, and a thick manicured beard, equal parts black and grey. But his belly is wider than his imposing shoulders, and his breathing labours with each step.
Manlius, the centurion, is Barlaas’s physical opposite: short and stocky, he looks as though he were made entirely of stone, with cheek bones that could sharpen a blade. The centurion is charged with watching both Parthian hostages. But he has been with Barlaas so long, that they interact like a husband and wife, rather than a prisoner and guard.
‘You’re too slow, Barlaas,’ Manlius says, smiling. ‘The beast is lon
g gone.’
‘I was waiting for you,’ Barlaas says. ‘Are all Roman soldiers this slow at marching? It’s a wonder Rome has ever been east of the Euphrates.’
Barlaas is old – too old, I’d have thought, to be chasing a boar through the woods. But he is, like all of his countrymen, fanatical about hunting. And when he is not panting or holding his back in discomfort, one can see the young man he once was; the fluid grace with which he notches an arrow to the string of his bow and pulls it back to meet his ear; the way his bow seems an extension of his arm. Uncle Pliny says he was once a feared warrior in Parthia. But now, a Roman hostage for nearly thirty years, he can only use those skills hunting.
The men start to talk to each other as they sip water and catch their breath.
Marcus stands slightly apart from the crowd. Remembering Uncle Pliny’s instructions – not wanting to disappoint him – I approach Marcus and do my best to engage in a conversation.
‘Did you get close?’ I ask. ‘To the boar?’
With the charisma of a marble façade, Marcus says, ‘no,’ and nothing more. I continue for no other reason than I can tell Uncle Pliny I did my best.
‘That is a shame,’ I say. ‘Have you ever killed a boar before?’
‘Yes,’ Marcus says and walks away as though I were a leper.
Nine Fingers hushes the group and listens for the dogs. ‘Right,’ he says, ‘let’s resume before we lose the beast altogether.’
*
Hours later – exhausted, sore, down to my last drop of water – I’m the last to emerge into the clearing.
And only just in time to watch Marcus thrust his spear into the shoulder of a black boar the size of a small horse. It must be twice the size of the beast we saw earlier this morning.
I watch with the rest of our hunting party from a distance.
The dogs are ravenous, barking as though they’re possessed by the furies. The boar rears and its hooves stab the air. Marcus loses his balance. The boar whips its head around and its tusks collide with the shaft of Marcus’s spear, snapping it in two.
Marcus falls backward. Somehow – miraculously – he narrowly avoids being gored.
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