I disagree, but there is no point arguing.
‘Will you be accompanying us tonight?’ I say, trying to change the subject.
‘No,’ she says. ‘The sea is quite rough.’
I glance at the sea, which is as calm as it has been all day.
‘I should go, Mother.’
She waves her hand, dismissing me, without taking her eyes off the dinghy.
*
The eleventh hour. Our ship casts off under a waning sun. Black-headed gulls cry overhead. Our captain marches back and forth across the deck issuing instructions. Below deck, drums begin their constant, undulating beat. The marines take up their oars – thirty or so on either side of the ship – and power us forward, one stroke at a time. Uncle Pliny, never idle, is near the bow dictating a letter. Spartacus furiously marks his wax tablet trying to record every word.
We clear the jetty of the Imperial harbour and enter the Bay of Naples. The sea is calm, the wind non-existent.
Misenum sits at the westernmost point of the bay. I lean against the ship’s railing and watch it slowly diminish, until it begins to resemble the other cities along the coast, clusters of red-tiled roofs and white-stone walls, separated by green forests and vineyards cut into the steep coastline, like the seats of an amphitheatre. Baiae, our destination tonight, is the next city along the coast. Further east is Puteoli; then Naples, Herculaneum, Pompeii, and Stabiae. Vesuvius looms over the bay. In this light, it resembles a black spearhead aimed at the sky.
I approach Uncle Pliny at the bow and tell him what Mother told me about Caesar visiting the Sibyl. ‘Did you know?’
‘Of course. But he wasn’t Caesar yet. Vespasian was still alive.’
‘Are you concerned?’
‘Concerned? About the predictions of an impressionable girl, manipulated by charlatans? No, I’m not worried. And you shouldn’t worry either. I haven’t spoken with Caesar about it, but he is not one to get conned by such nonsense. He has a strong mind.’
‘Why would he bother to visit the Sibyl then?’
‘Tradition demanded it,’ Uncle Pliny says with a sigh. ‘As you know, the Oracles are kept in Rome.’ He puts up his hands in protest. ‘And please do not ask me to explain why our great empire still consults a thousand-year-old book of verse to determine our nation’s fate. It is pure nonsense, let us leave it at that. Anyway, as you also know, those famed Oracles predicted great misfortune for the empire if or when “the last of the Trojans crosses the Euphrates”. The phrase was written by swindlers a thousand years ago. Men who knew that if you made a prediction vague enough, it will inevitably come true – to a weak mind, that is. Thus, when the False Nero was spotted near and possibly across the Euphrates . . . weak minds, or devious minds looking to undermine our newly proclaimed emperor, pointed to that one line in the Oracles and said, “By Jupiter! We are doomed!” The priests charged with interpreting the text did what any sensible man in their shoes would have done. They said the Oracles were “inconclusive” and suggested consulting the Sibyl herself. And by that they meant, “Please make this someone else’s problem”. And so, to placate Rome’s superstitious soul, Caesar went. As I understand it, she gave imprecise warnings in verse on how to avoid disaster, which Caesar conveyed to the Senate. And that should be the end of it.’
‘Nevertheless,’ I say, ‘the predictions sound . . . troubling. Even if we do not put stock in them, others might.’
‘Yes,’ Uncle Pliny says, ‘that is the true problem.’ He fiddles with his carnelian ring. ‘If your mother is gossiping about it, you can bet the whole of Italy will soon be.’ He shrugs. ‘But there is always some disaster on the horizon. The people will gossip, whether they have cause or not. I am not concerned, so long as Caesar is not taken in by such lies.’
*
Our captain bellows. Oars slice into a tranquil sea. The sun continues to set and the sky turns from pink to a dark purple. Fires are being lit in the homes and colossal villas that populate the bay, and soon little pinpricks of light begin to dot the coast.
We draw closer to Baiae. The luxury and wealth that sets it apart from its neighbours gradually comes into view. There is the dome of the baths, a solid piece of concrete unlike anything in Rome, let alone in Campania; and the villas – white-walls and red-tiled roofs, like any other on the bay – but larger, more pristine, organized adeptly, row after row, as the coastline rises steeply, with each arch of the colonnades aimed at the sea.
And then there is the city’s design itself. Baiae is situated on the Bay of Baiae – a bay within a bay. The coastline curves naturally, into a half-circle, culminating in Punta Epitaffio, a finger of mountainous rock that juts out into the sea. Through the ingeniousness of Roman engineering, this natural half-circle is completed artificially, by a cement pier and what might technically meet the definition of a break wall, but is thicker than any break wall – thick enough that built upon it are more villas. The coastline, together with the break wall, creates a man-made lake that, no matter the state of the sea, is perfectly tranquil. The only entrance to the lake is a long, narrow jetty, just wide enough for our ship’s hull and churning oars to pass through. Two fires are lit on each arm of the jetty, to aid visibility after sunset.
The flames roar as our ship glides past.
Once we are inside the break wall, our ship slides along the water, as smooth as a barge upon Lake Coma.
The Flavians have three Imperial villas at their disposal in Baiae. Tonight, we are headed to the Villa Piso, named for the family that once owned it, which sits below the Punta Epitaffio, on the eastern end of the city. A purple canopy marks where guests are meant to disembark. It’s flanked by two burning tripods. As our ship waits its turn, the crew crane their necks hoping to see if they can spot anyone famous stepping onto the pier. They exchange excited murmurs about the Batavian, the legend of the beast hunts. Is it him? Can’t be. He’s not tall enough. I find myself craning my neck to spot the living legend of the arena.
The crew turns their attention to the ship that floats into line behind us. It’s manned by gladiators, dressed for the games, as though they were to enter the arena at any moment: loincloths, or short tunics, sword belts, bronze greaves over heavy padding; manacles from wrist to shoulders. Some are even wearing the helmets of the Myrmillo or Thracian class.
I ask Uncle Pliny who would arrive with such a guard? ‘I’m not sure,’ he says, frowning. ‘Someone who feels the need to intimidate. Or a showman, trying to raise excitement in advance of the upcoming matches.’
When the pier is free, our oars power us to shore with three quick churns. A dull thud marks the end of our journey, as the ship nudges against the pier. An Imperial valet takes my hand and helps me step ashore and escorts us along a colonnade lit by torches. We enter a peristyle surrounding a tiny grove of lemon trees. The sun has set, and the sky’s purple hue is nearly drowned out by torchlight. The garden is buzzing with men and women, dressed in their finest silk and weighed down by gold wrapped around their wrists and fingers, and dangling from their necks.
Uncle Pliny accepts two cups of wine from a slave and hands one to me.
‘Remember,’ he says. ‘We lack the pedigree and wealth to become intoxicated at a dinner like this. We are mere knights working in the service of the emperor. You may drink two cups. Make them last.’
I can see most of my hunting party from this morning, mingling amongst the guests. The Parthian hostages, Barlaas and Sinnaces, are here. Domitian as well. He is across the room, surrounded by his entourage of patrician young men. They are laughing in the way young men drinking wine will laugh, loudly, and with a certain arrogance. Individually, some of them are tolerable. But together they are unbearable. Besides Domitian, Valerius and Catullus are the worst of the lot. Both are from rich families that, because of their close association with the Flavians, wield considerable power and influence in Rome.
‘Admiral!’
We turn to see Virgilius, the newly appointed Pre
fect of the Praetorian Guard. He greets Uncle Pliny with an embrace. The old soldier is thin and bony, with a thick mop of white hair and matching beard.
‘I hear young Gaius did well today,’ Virgilius says.
Uncle Pliny gives a knowing smile. ‘I’ve no doubt,’ he says, ‘no doubt at all, though I hear old Barlaas was the true hero of the day.’
We turn and stare at the Parthian hostages across the room.
‘True,’ Virgilius says. ‘He is quite the shot. Thank the gods that bow will never again be aimed at Roman necks.’
‘It’s strange how the boy is dressed,’ Uncle Pliny remarks. ‘Like a Roman.’
I noticed this as well. Whereas old Barlaas is wearing a traditional Parthian dress – a long Median robe, trousers tucked into riding boots, and a dagger at his side – the younger Parthian is dressed like a Roman. He is wearing a short tunic and jacket, made from expensive silk, and he is clean shaven.
‘A man dresses according to the task,’ Virgilius says. ‘He dons armour before going to war, a toga before addressing the senate.’
Uncle Pliny nods. ‘Quite so.’
‘And,’ Virgilius continues, ‘a young man, off to a dinner party, hell-bent on bedding a young Roman woman – he too must dress the part.’
Uncle Pliny holds his belly, chuckling. His laugh builds until it becomes a wheezing cough. His eyes begin to water from the strain.
I often marvel at Uncle Pliny’s conversational range. He’s as comfortable speaking with a priest in a temple as he is with a soldier in the barrack. He is like an actor, who can play any part, comedy or tragedy. And his range is best on display during a dinner party. He goes from conversation to conversation with ease. He seems genuinely engaged and happy to speak to whoever happens to grab the famous admiral’s arm.
This is a skill one is born with, I think. Try as I might, I cannot replicate it. I am comfortable with my books and little else. Every moment of this party will feel like torture.
Virgilius’s observation was humorous, but I wonder if it’s off the mark. Despite his attire, something sets Sinnaces apart. He doesn’t quite belong with the other young Roman men. He is neither Parthian nor Roman; he is lost somewhere in between.
When he’s recovered, Uncle Pliny asks Virgilius: ‘And where is Caesar? Surely he will be here in time to welcome the Parthian emissaries.’
‘Not to worry, admiral,’ Virgilius says. ‘Caesar will be here soon.’
Uncle Pliny raises his eyebrows. ‘And were you with Caesar when he met the Sibyl?’
Virgilius looks at the ground, not wanting to meet Uncle Pliny’s eyes. ‘I wasn’t allowed in, but I spoke with him afterwards.’
‘And?’
Virgilius shakes his head. ‘Caesar was . . . The Sibyl’s words disturbed him, though he won’t admit it.’
‘Caesar wouldn’t fall prey to those charlatans, would he? The priests in Cumae are notorious frauds.’
‘I wasn’t in the cave,’ Virgilius says, ‘so I don’t know precisely what happened. But if you saw Caesar’s face when he came out . . . Anyway, it can’t be a coincidence, can it? The False Nero has crossed the Euphrates. Just as the Oracles predicted.’
Uncle Pliny laughs. ‘Merely because a brigand with red hair crosses the Euphrates doesn’t make him Nero. Riddles can predict anything, so long as the man reading them ignores his reason. What happened in Cumae was smoke and mirrors. I will convince you of this, my friend,’ Uncle Pliny says. ‘Maybe not today, but I will.’
Virgilius nods. ‘I am of no consequence. It is Caesar you will need to convince.’
‘I intend to.’
Their conversation shifts to less compelling issues: taxes and provincial administration.
My eyes wander.
I watch our host, Caesar’s sister, Domitilla, across the crowd. Her distinctive nutmeg curls are pinned up, away from her shoulders, exposing her long neck, as smooth and unblemished as Egyptian marble. She is wearing black, still mourning the death of her father. Most say her sister Vespasia is the beauty of the family, but I would disagree. I have to consciously peel my eyes away, so I do not stare too long.
Behind her, on the far side of the garden, is Marcus Ulpius. He’s speaking to a slave. She’s pretty, I suppose. Tall, with black hair and blue eyes. Marcus is gesturing angrily. She’s staring at him with an icy glare. Unbelievable. He’s yelling at a slave in the middle of a dinner party. I knew my first impression was correct: the boy is a brute.
*
Later, after a quarter of a cup of wine, a woman greets Uncle Pliny with a hug. Her cheeks are painted a chalky pink and her hair is curled and pinned above her head into a teetering beehive.
‘My dear Rectina!’ Uncle Pliny says.
‘When are you going to visit my new villa?’ she asks, batting her eyelashes in a manner that, if it were anyone other than my uncle, I would think she were flirting.
‘You’ve a new villa?’ Uncle Pliny asks.
She swats his arm. ‘Oh, you wicked man. I wrote to you earlier this summer. It is on the sea, near Oplontis.’
A man rumbles over and interrupts the conversation. He grabs Uncle Pliny by the shoulders.
‘Admiral Secundus!’
He is large and heavyset, with broad shoulders and a wider belly; cheeks perforated with old scars; and blue, nearly white eyes.
Rectina rolls her eyes and says, ‘Pliny, you will remember Senator Sulpicius Peticus.’
‘Of course,’ Uncle Pliny replies. ‘Recently returned from Syria, isn’t that so?’
‘Indeed,’ Sulpicius says. ‘Indeed.’
‘Ah,’ Uncle Pliny nods his head with sudden recognition, ‘that was your ship filled with gladiators, wasn’t it?’
Sulpicius nods. ‘Yes, those were my fighters. I’m trying to whet the people’s appetite in advance of the games. Was your interest sufficiently piqued?’
Uncle Pliny shrugs. Rectina smiles at the admiral’s indifference.
‘When did you return from Syria?’ Uncle Pliny asks.
‘I’ve been in Italy since the Kalens. Just in time, I’d say.’
‘Oh?’ Uncle Pliny does not provide the look of shock Sulpicius had been searching for.
‘Yes. The emperor’s body is still warm and already his son is falling under the influence of disreputable provincials.’
‘And by that you mean?’
‘The cripple. Ulpius. The man is a liar. An imposter.’
This is nothing new. Senators are a jealous lot. They’re always vying to bring down their colleagues. I’ve seen this happen too many times to count, particularly with men like Ulpius, whose fortunes are rising. Uncle Pliny may have his own suspicions, but he is always fair, always judicious, and never abuses his relationship with Caesar. He responds as he normally does when a complaint like this is made: he takes Sulpicius by the arm and, in a tone that tells him, What you are about to tell me is the most important news I have heard all day, says, ‘tell me all about it.’
I excuse myself as Sulpicius begins to air his grievances. I decide to take a tour of the infamous Villa Piso. Uncle Pliny will forgive a short absence from the party.
*
I leave the peristyle and enter a long, wide hallway. The floor is a mosaic of little white and black stones. Niches hold statues of gods and busts of men long dead. I stop to admire the marble façade of Piso, the villa’s last owner before Nero acquired it, following Piso’s execution. Sunken cheeks are cut into the marble, dead eyes and a nose pointed at the ceiling. The paint is faded and peeling, revealing the marble underneath. No one has touched it up in many years. The neglect I understand, but it’s strange this bust was never removed. Piso plotted to kill Nero and take the throne for himself. I would have thought one of Nero’s first acts after acquiring Piso’s villa would be to remove the bust of the man who tried to kill him. Maybe it was removed and only restored when the villa passed from Nero to the Flavians. Or maybe Nero preferred to keep Piso’s bust as a reminder, a war
ning that Caesar must stay vigilant.
Rising above the hum of conversation in the garden nearby, I can hear the distinctive sound of two people arguing. It seems to be coming from down the hallway, around the corner. Curiosity gets the better of me. Convinced I will turn and go once I’ve had a look, I quietly walk forward and then peer around the corner. Once again, I see Marcus and the poor slave girl arguing. The exchange is heated. The girl is about to storm off but Marcus grabs her arm and holds her put.
Before I know what I’m doing, before I’ve had time to consider my actions – a disregard for repercussions that is very unlike me – I step around the corner, clear my throat and say, ‘Ex-ex-excuse me, Marcus. But I don’t think you should be manhandling the young lady like that.’
Marcus drops the girl’s arm and glares at me.
To the girl, I ask, ‘are you alright?’
Rather than thank me for intervening, the girl spits in my general direction and storms off. As she’s walking away, she says something to Marcus in a language I’ve never heard before.
Marcus watches her walk away.
Momentarily forgetting that I rudely intervened – motivated by genuine curiosity – I ask Marcus, ‘what language was that?’
Marcus stares at the empty hallway. He looks upset. Absentmindedly, he answers, ‘Aramaic.’
‘You speak Aramaic?’ I ask, surprised that Marcus is capable of speaking with anything other than with his fists.
His focus is no longer on the girl. ‘I do,’ he says with a sneer.
By the look of him, he might assault me right here, in the middle of a dinner party.
I try to placate him.
‘Listen, Marcus. Maybe it wasn’t my place to interfere, but it looked like you were being quite rough with her, slave or not.’
He shakes his head. ‘You patrician brats are all the same.’ With that, he storms off.
After a moment of stunned silence, I say aloud, though no one is around to hear it, ‘You are the patrician brat.’
*
When I return to the garden, Uncle Pliny takes me by the arm. ‘And how goes your cosying up to the younger Ulpius?’
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