The boar rears once more before charging the rest of our hunting party. It goes from standing still to a furious sprint before I can draw a breath.
Frozen, unable to move, I am overcome with one thought: a goring would be an exceptionally painful way to die.
I shut my eyes.
I curse Fortuna and the twists of life that brought me here. The pestilent summer that sent all of Rome’s elite south to the Bay of Naples; Uncle Pliny’s direction that I hunt this morning and make friends with Marcus Ulpius; Mother failing to intervene like she usually does.
And then I hear the release of an arrow and a dull thwap as it buries into hide and flesh.
I open my eyes and see the boar dive snout-first into the dirt and slide to a stop at Barlaas’s feet. The old man’s bow is empty.
After a moment of breathless silence, the men begin to laugh.
I look down at my crotch, hoping the urine that I’m quite certain escaped isn’t visible. Thankfully, whatever crept out has blended into my sweat and dirt-polluted tunic.
Sinnaces is excited. He all but says the shot was a victory for Parthia.
‘It was luck, boy,’ Barlaas says, with obvious disgust for Sinnaces. ‘Fight a war and you’ll see. You can’t fell anything that big with one arrow, not without the help of the gods.’
Nine Fingers inspects the dead creature. ‘I think you’re being modest, Barlaas.’ He wiggles the arrow, which is buried deep into the animal’s hide. ‘This seems more skill than luck. It was quite the shot.’
Barlaas refuses the compliment with a snarl and a string of Parthian curses.
‘Do you know the rule, Gaius?’ Domitian asks me with a smug smile. He pushes his black bangs from his eyes. ‘Last one to the kill has to drag the corpse back to camp.’
The men laugh.
Gods, I hate hunting.
*
Uncle Pliny – admiral Secundus, master of the Misenum fleet, author, scientist, historian, advisor and confidant to two emperors – is asleep at his desk. With the sun up, his back straight and a book open in front of him, he has the appearance of a man hard at work. Except that his eyes are closed and he’s snoring.
Uncle Pliny’s office is overrun with books. They are strewn across the desk, on top of tables and chairs, on the floor, on top of other books; a few have even crept out onto the balcony. When he is called away to Rome, as he often is, the household staff will spend an entire day mining papyrus, cataloguing and returning it to the Roman knight or senator who’d given up hope that the text lent to admiral Secundus would ever be returned. The staff have a long-standing joke that while it takes them a month to remove books from his office, Uncle Pliny, upon his return, can fill it again in less than an hour.
Across the room, half-hidden by curtains of translucent cream-white silk, there is a long balcony looking out onto the Imperial harbour and, beyond the jetty, the Bay of Naples. On the pier below, the admiral’s fleet busies itself under the afternoon sun. Saws buzz; marines laugh; a ship’s rigging tightens and slackens with the roll of the waves.
I take a seat in front of the sleeping admiral. He is a bear of a man, all chest and shoulders, belly and white whiskers, ruddy cheeks and two paws laid flat on the desk. His fingers are empty save a carnelian ring on his left ring finger. In the afternoon light, the red stone looks purple, nearly black.
Uncle Pliny’s secretary clears his throat. On cue, Uncle Pliny opens his eyes. He’s startled at first – his eyes widen like a lunatic’s – but he quickly recovers. He takes a deep breath and calmly says, ‘Thank you, Spartacus. That will be all.’
His secretary bows and leaves.
Uncle Pliny’s work ethic outpaces his physical stamina. He wakes before sunrise, works into the evening, and sleeps less than four hours a night. He does this with strict regularity, no matter how much wine he’s had or how far he’s travelled that day. The pace is impossible to maintain, especially in one’s fifty-sixth year. Out of necessity, he often pauses for short, apparently satisfying naps throughout the day. It’s a strange routine, but after performing it for so many years, Uncle Pliny and his secretary have become oblivious to its strangeness.
‘And how was the hunt?’ Uncle Pliny asks.
‘Awful.’
‘You didn’t catch a boar?’
‘No, we caught a boar,’ I say. ‘A remarkably large one according to our guide.’
Uncle Pliny strokes his foam-white beard, a signal he is about to engage an adversary in a debate, like a gladiator raising his sword.
‘You don’t measure success by the very task you set out to do?’
‘Chasing down and murdering some lonesome beast was not why you forced me to leave this morning. Was it?’
Uncle Pliny smiles. ‘Quite so.’
‘You said that hunting was good training for the soldiering I’ll soon need to complete, and that it would help foster my connections. And you specifically instructed that I cosy up with Marcus Ulpius Traianus, which I understood to be a euphemism for forming a friendship with him.’
‘Ah,’ Uncle Pliny says, ‘I see. I take it you are no better prepared for the life of a soldier?’
‘Not in the slightest.’
Uncle Pliny laughs. He knows my strengths and weaknesses. While he tries to improve the latter when and where he can, he knows I won’t have the career as a soldier that he did. One wouldn’t know it to look at the aging, heavyset admiral, but Uncle Pliny was an excellent soldier, an accomplished rider, and could throw a javelin as far and straight as anyone. Unfortunately, I do not possess his physical traits. I have always been slight of figure, on the shortish side, and as coordinated as a new-born foal. I’ve no proficiency with weapons – spears, swords, shields. I’m hopeless, no matter how much I train. I’m meant for study, not the life of a soldier, though custom will require I spend at least a year in the legions.
‘And what of the other objectives we set for today? Did you foster better social connections?’
‘I have the same connections that I did when I left this morning,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t know how to measure their improvement.’
‘I see.’ Uncle Pliny’s smile is waning. ‘I take it, then, that you’re no closer to forming a bond of friendship with young Marcus Ulpius?’
‘No, I am not,’ I say. ‘And I think you should extinguish any hope this will happen.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Firstly, he does not like me. He may even despise me. I’ve no idea why or what I’ve done to offend him, but his dislike for me is palpable, with no chance of diminishing. Secondly, I do not like him. He’s a bully and a brute. The only thing worse than an arrogant patrician, is a provincial arrogant patrician. They’re just as rude and condescending, but with a greater tendency to violence. Thirdly, he’s mad.’ I describe the scene with the boar. ‘The gods alone know what Marcus was trying to prove. He seems intent on killing himself.’
‘Is there something wrong with emulating the Romans of legend?’ Uncle Pliny asks. ‘Perhaps he’s a young Romulus.’
‘Perhaps. I wouldn’t be surprised if he murdered his own brother.’
Uncle Pliny’s smile is gone. He is about to scold me, but – thankfully – something occurs to him. He grabs his stylus and wax tablet. ‘Before I forget, what breed of dog did you use today?’
Uncle Pliny’s insatiable quest for knowledge requires that he record and understand everything. It is only a matter of time before he publishes a five-book treatise on hunting dogs.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say.
‘Well, were the dogs swift and used for cornering the beast? Or were they larger, with strong jaws, used to bring the beast down?’
I try to recall what exactly the dogs did. ‘Both I think.’
‘Can you describe the colour and pattern of their coats?’
‘Um. Brown?’
He sets his stylus aside and straightens his carnelian ring. His frown of frustration is fleeting, yet difficult to stomach. I hate to disap
point him. I worry he thinks: well, if you’re no soldier, if all you have is your wits, shouldn’t you be smarter than this? More observant? More learned?
He circles back to the Ulpii.
‘You understand why I want you to forge a relationship with Marcus Ulpius?’
‘Because you are obsessed with his uncle, Lucius Ulpius, who has seen a swift and dramatic rise. In less than eight months he rose from an obscure provincial, newly arrived to Rome, to arguably the emperor’s closest advisor.’ I wince, immediately regretting the description. Hastily, I add, ‘after admiral Secundus, of course.’
Uncle Pliny swats at my comment with his bear paw. ‘Pah! I wouldn’t be so sure of that. I have always been close to Caesar. But this Ulpius seems to have surpassed me. He helped expose the plot hatched by Marcellus and his ilk – I will grant him that. But he has his own agenda. Mark my words. And I am going to find out what it is.’
Earlier this year, a group of senators and soldiers led by Senators Marcellus and Caecina tried to overthrow Vespasian Caesar and seize the Principate. Most of the conspirators were arrested or killed. Marcellus is currently on trial in Rome. Lucius Ulpius, Marcus’s uncle – a blind, eccentric senator from Spain – was instrumental in exposing the plot. He has grown considerably closer to Caesar as a result. Uncle Pliny says he is only concerned that Ulpius may have ulterior motives. But, though he will never admit it, I think Uncle Pliny is also concerned that his own importance is diminishing next to Ulpius’s rising sun.
‘Anyway,’ Uncle Pliny continues, ‘Ulpius may have helped save Vespasian’s life, but little good it did. Poor bastard. Though’ – Uncle Pliny tilts his head, offering, as he often does, a counter argument to his original thought – ‘I suppose it’s better to die of natural causes, by the will of Fortuna, rather than by poison at the hands of your enemies. It certainly allowed a smooth transition of power, from father to son.’
Vespasian Caesar held the Principate for ten years. He passed away two months ago. His son, Titus, succeeded him. Uncle Pliny breathed a sigh of relief that the throne passed to Titus without violence, without a civil war. Plans had been put in place for Vespasian’s death and Titus’s ascension. But in politics nothing is certain.
‘And,’ Uncle Pliny continues, ‘you are wrong about Ulpius. I’m not obsessed with him. I am merely curious about his past.’
‘Curious? You have a book on him, in which you record every detail that you uncover.’
‘I have a book on a good number of men. I may even have one on you,’ he says with a smile. ‘But “book” is the wrong word. It is a list of facts that I do not want to forget.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but how many spies have you sent to Spain to investigate?’
‘Spies? What spies? I sent a friend to Spain for a variety of reasons, one of which was to make inquiries about Ulpius. The answers he provided did not make sense so I sent someone else. But this is nothing new. I am in the service of Caesar. And it is my job to ensure Ulpius is friend rather than foe.’
‘But hasn’t Ulpius proved his loyalty to Caesar?’
‘No.’ Uncle Pliny shakes his head. ‘In order to demonstrate one’s loyalty, one must be honest. And Lucius Ulpius is not honest. He tells stories rather than the truth – stories that do not add up. And he is hiding something. I just don’t know what.’
‘I see. Hence your direction to cosy up to his nephew, Marcus?’
‘Precisely. I am focused on the elder Ulpii, and you the younger. Together we will unearth the truth.’ Uncle Pliny starts to rummage around the papers on his desk. ‘Now that we are clear on the impetus of our endeavour, let us return to the substance. Are you certain you have the measure of young Marcus?’
‘Quite certain.’
‘Is that so? One’s first impression is rarely the correct one.’
‘I suppose this is one of those rare occasions then.’
The admiral stares at me a moment. How many soldiers have buckled under that gaze? I brace myself, waiting for him to commence another debate, but he doesn’t. There was a time I would have considered his silence a victory. But I’ve seen Uncle Pliny pull this manoeuvre before. He hasn’t retreated. He is only gathering his forces and searching out more favourable ground.
He changes the subject. ‘Who else joined the hunt?’ he asks. ‘Were the Parthian hostages there?’
‘Yes, Barlaas and Sinnaces.’
‘Old Barlaas is never one to miss a hunt, is he? Did they discuss the Parthian envoy?’
‘Not that I heard. The others were more interested in the civil war.’
‘Oh? And what did old Barlaas have to say about that?’
‘You know what he’s like. He said it was a stupid question. That he knew as much about the civil war in Parthia as we did.’
‘Yes, that sounds like Barlaas.’
‘Will he play a role when the Parthian envoys arrive?’
‘A role? He will certainly play a role, but not to the extent the emperor would like. Normally, Rome’s hostages would be paraded in front of Parthian emissaries to demonstrate our power. Barlaas, however, is too stubborn and has too much pride to control. He will ultimately buck if Titus shows him too much whip.’
‘And how many Parthians will there be?’
Uncle Pliny can see my excitement. ‘Calm yourself, young Gaius. The Parthian envoy will not be like the ones you’ve read about. This is not Prince Tiridates, marching across Italy with five thousand archers on five thousand Nisean steeds, swallowing up the countryside as they go. We are expecting a small party representing their king.’
‘And which king is that again?’
‘The one who will ultimately win,’ Uncle Pliny says. ‘Pacorus. The boy. Younger than you, I’m told. He holds the west, Mesopotamia and Seleucia. His position is strongest.’
Parthia is in the midst of a civil war, with three brothers vying for the throne. King Vologases I had ruled Parthia for nearly thirty years. Two years ago, as his health was failing, he named his youngest son Pacorus his heir. The two brothers, Vologases II and Artabanus, wouldn’t accept their father’s decision. Each raised an army and the civil war began. On Uncle Pliny’s advice, Vespasian Caesar refused to recognize any of the three until the winner was all but certain. We have had word from our contacts in the east that Pacorus is likely to win any day now.
After Titus was named Caesar, he invited Pacorus to send emissaries to Rome. Titus wants to ensure Rome’s main rival is friendly. A newly proclaimed emperor does not need a border skirmish or a war with a foreign power while consolidating authority at home. The meeting is also an opportunity for both leaders to fortify their position at home by recognizing the other.
Uncle Pliny looks at his waterclock on his desk, which is usually a sign he is ready for me to leave. As I stand to go, he says, ‘I will see you at the pier around the tenth hour or so?’
‘The pier? Why?’ I ask, unable to hide the look of terror on my face.
‘We have a dinner party this evening. Obviously.’
‘No. There can’t possibly be another one tonight. Can there?’
Uncle Pliny smiles. ‘You’ve forgotten where we are, nephew. On the Bay of Naples the socializing never ends.’
He’s right, sadly. In a matter of days, I’ve already been dragged to more dinner parties than the rest of the year combined.
‘Who is it tonight?’
‘The Augusta herself. And we are not about to decline an invitation from the emperor’s sister.’
All I can do is drop my head in dejection. Another evening lost.
‘Our ship will leave before the eleventh hour,’ Uncle Pliny says, enjoying my misery. ‘Please come of your own free will. I’d hate to have my sailors drag you to the pier.’
*
I’ve missed the baths, so Zosimus comes to my room with a cloth and bucket of fresh water. After peeling off my soiled tunic, he devotes a good quarter of an hour scrubbing away the bits of forest I brought home with me. He douses his h
ands in crocus oil, vigorously rubs them together, as though trying to start a fire, and pats my cheeks, my neck, and wipes the excess on his sides. When I’m presentable, I’ve only a short time to speak to Mother.
I find her sitting on the balcony, staring at the harbour, which, under the flagging light, is a cobalt blue. She’s watching a dinghy, manned by one sailor, slowly row from the pier to one of the two dozen anchored ships.
She gives me a passing glance and turns her eyes back to the dinghy.
‘Your uncle sent you off hunting today?’
‘Yes.’ Rather than sit and signal a long conversation, I continue to stand, leaning against the railing.
‘You needn’t have gone if you didn’t want to,’ she says. ‘I’m sure it was dangerous.’
‘It wasn’t dangerous,’ I say. ‘It was fine. Uncle Pliny was right. It was a good opportunity. A chance to learn skills I lack.’
‘You’re no hunter, though, are you?’
She keeps looking at the dinghy.
‘No,’ I say, ‘I suppose I’m not.’
‘And I don’t approve of you spending as much time as you do with the sons of senators. Your Uncle oversteps his class too often. It is not something you should emulate. We are equestrians, after all.’
I nod, half-heartedly, without formally committing to the proposition. It is an outdated view I don’t share.
‘We must be careful, Gaius. Titus Caesar sought the advice of the Sibyl. And she predicted great disaster for Rome.’
Mother is, in many ways, Uncle Pliny’s opposite. While the admiral is fearless, she is afraid of everything. Today it is hunting, the senatorial class, and a virgin priestess with oracular visions. But she is often a weathervane for gossip. I suppose this will be the new story circulating, that the Sibyl warned Caesar of a looming disaster.
‘Have you spoken to Uncle Pliny about this?’ I say. ‘I do not think he puts much stock in the Sibyl. The idea that a woman could accurately predict the future, by speaking with Apollo himself . . .’
Mother clucks her tongue. ‘Your Uncle laughs at the gods. One day it will catch up with him.’
The Exiled Page 3