I grimace and Uncle Pliny shakes his head. ‘What about the other boys here your age? The connections you make at this age will serve you well for the rest of your life.’
‘Please don’t make me talk with Domitian or any of his friends. I can’t stomach it. Not tonight.’
Uncle Pliny slaps me on the back. ‘Don’t force my hand, Gaius,’ he says ominously.
‘What does that mean?’
Uncle Pliny winks and strikes up a conversation with a passing senator.
*
At the end of the evening, the gods alone know what hour, Uncle Pliny and I exit the villa to the street rather than our waiting barge along the pier.
‘Where are we going, Uncle?’
He hands me a skin of wine. ‘Drink.’
As I’m taking a small sip, Uncle Pliny puts his hand under the skin and lifts it up. I’m immediately overwhelmed with wine, stronger than anything I normally drink, lemon-tart. I throw my head forward coughing.
‘I thought I wasn’t to drink more than two cups,’ I say once I’ve finished coughing.
‘That was at the party. Now you need some courage. You’ve more learning to do tonight.’
His smile is more ominous than his words.
Prefect Virgilius joins us on the street. ‘Is he drunk yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Uncle Pliny says.
‘Why do I need to be drunk?’ I ask, frustrated that I’m the only one not in on the joke. I yearn for my bedroom, to be alone reading Cicero or Livy.
Young men empty out of the villa. A few I recognize as Domitian’s hangers-on. They move with the swaggering confidence that comes with wine, coin and patrician lineage. Several howl like wolves before heading off into the night.
‘Come along,’ Virgilius says.
I issue a barrage of questions as we follow the howling young men through the dark streets of Baiae, but I receive stoic silence in reply. My worst fears are realized when we come to a stop outside a brothel.
The group we followed press between two large men and through the front door.
‘Uncle,’ I say, my eyes on the brothel, ‘you can’t be serious.’
‘Think of tonight as an extension of the task you were given this morning. This is another thing young men do. You need to befriend these patrician scions.’
I want to fight this but I also do not want to let Uncle Pliny down.
‘Are you coming in?’ I ask.
‘Certainly not,’ he says. ‘I’m going to dictate letters to Spartacus here’ – he points at his secretary – ‘until you’re finished.’ Spartacus produces his wax tablet, which he is never without. Uncle Pliny slaps me over the shoulder. ‘Go. But don’t rush. I have more than enough to do while I wait.’
Virgilius takes me under his arm and drags me into the brothel.
Inside, there is a middle-aged woman sitting on a chair in front of a closed door. She is holding a wax tablet in one hand, a silver stylus in the other. A man is standing beside her, occasionally looking over her shoulder. They look like two merchants going over their inventory. The walls are decorated with mosaics of satyrs exposing large phalluses, and sexual acts, between men and women, men and men, women and women, in a variety of poses that look more like a wrestling match than what I understand to be intercourse. There are three couches. One is occupied by a man who is snoring loudly. A skin of wine is strewn on the floor beneath his open, drooling mouth. I recognize him as a senator who often calls on Uncle Pliny, a zealot for Stoic ideals.
Most of the young men we followed inside have disappeared. Valerius and Catullus are on a couch, each with a woman on their lap. While I do not give a fig what either of them thinks of me, I had expected surprise that I joined them, and to gain a bit of respect for the effort. But neither notices me.
Without looking up from her tablet, the woman asks, ‘Preferences?’
Virgilius answers, ‘Eastern. Dark. Tall.’
The woman uses a stylus to mark the wax. ‘Room fifteen.’
Virgilius follows the man through the door.
With her eyes still on the wax tablet, the woman says, ‘And you?’
I don’t say a word because – well – I’ve no idea what to say.
She looks up. She is confused, but then seems to recognize something in my appearance. Something humorous. She smiles. In a softer tone, she says, ‘Don’t worry, young Lord. You are in good hands here at The Satyr’s Cock.’ She escorts me through the door and down a long dark hallway. Strange noises emanate from beyond closed doors: laughing, moaning, a fleshy slap. She stops at a closed door. She knocks three times before swinging the door open. Inside, there is a woman, standing in front of a side table, pouring a cup of wine. She is wearing her robe in a scandalously loose manner.
‘A virgin,’ my guide says. ‘Be kind.’
The half-naked woman considers me a moment. She sips her wine. ‘Maybe send Achilles in as well. Just in case.’
‘Good idea.’
Speechless, I watch as my guide pushes me fully into the room and shuts the door behind me.
While I am unsure of what to do or say, the half-naked woman is preternaturally calm. She moves to the bed. The lamplight flickers golden hues across her plunging neckline. She is not young, but neither is she old. Beautiful, certainly. She has a warm confidence that I find comforting yet thrilling.
She pats a spot on the bed beside her.
Meekly, I obey and take a seat. She hands me her wine. I gulp down two mouthfuls.
‘And what is your name, young man?’
‘Gaius Caecilius,’ I say, croaking like a frog.
‘A pleasure.’ She holds the cup of wine and takes a small, seductive sip. ‘You can call me Red.’
*
Uncle Pliny, Virgilius and Spartacus are waiting for me on the street.
‘Well?’ Virgilius asks.
My cheeks burn like a funeral pyre. I stare at the street.
‘Leave him be,’ Uncle Pliny says. He puts his arm around my shoulder. ‘Talk of it only if you want, nephew. Come. We should be getting back.’
‘What about the others?’ I ask.
‘I’d prefer a quieter walk to the pier,’ Uncle Pliny says. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
We make our way down the dark, narrow streets of Baiae. All we can hear is the crackle of our torches and Uncle Pliny’s laboured breathing.
Suddenly we hear shouts ahead. The voices are muffled at first, but quickly grow loud and violent.
Uncle Pliny and Virgilius exchange a look and hurry their pace. I try to keep up.
A man shouts: ‘Roman dog.’
Another cries out in pain.
We round the corner and see shadows twenty paces away. Dark shapes surrounding a figure on his knees. Blades glint in the moonlight.
Prefect Virgilius yells, ‘Stop!’
The black shadows freeze and then disappear into the night.
They leave behind a man lying on the street.
Virgilius rushes to the man’s side.
It’s Barlaas, the Parthian hostage. He has been stabbed, close to his hip; blood stains his green Median robe. He appears to be wearing armour under his robe, yet the blade still made it through. He is moaning and his face is contorted in pain.
Virgilius is pressing down on Barlaas’s wound, to slow the bleeding.
We notice another shape, ten paces away, splayed out on the ground. Uncle Pliny hurries over. ‘It’s the centurion,’ he says. ‘Manlius.’ Uncle Pliny puts his ear to the centurion’s chest. ‘He’s alive.’ Then Uncle Pliny touches the centurion’s scalp and holds up his blood-stained hand. The centurion’s blood looks black in the moonlight. ‘Barely.’
I can see a look of relief cross the old Parthian’s face.
‘What happened?’ Virgilius asks.
Barlaas shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘There’s too much blood to say it was nothing,’ Virgilius says.
Barlaas pushes Virgilius’s hands away. He tries to stand, though
he is too weak and staggers; he falls back to the road. ‘It was nothing,’ Barlaas pants. ‘Thieves looking for coin.’
Uncle Pliny sends me back to the Imperial villa for help. I run off without a word.
A quarter of an hour later, I return with four Praetorians, half a dozen slaves, and two doctors. Barlaas and Manlius’s wounds are dressed, then they are put onto litters and carried back to their villa.
Barlaas won’t say anything more of what occurred, no matter how hard Virgilius presses. The doctors insist on letting Barlaas sleep, and Uncle Pliny and Virgilius eventually relent.
Virgilius walks us back to our ship. I do my best to match their stride and listen.
‘Thieves after coin?’ Virgilius says, incredulous.
‘It doesn’t seem likely.’
‘He was wearing armour. Did you see? What man wears armour to a dinner party.’
‘Someone expecting an attack on a dark street,’ Uncle Pliny says.
‘He’s hiding something.’
‘Yes, obviously. But what?’ Uncle Pliny says. ‘He’s been a hostage here in Italy for nearly thirty years. Aside from his stubbornness and constant complaining, he’s never caused a problem.’
‘Manlius may have more to say when he wakes up.’
‘If he wakes up.’
‘Manlius is a good soldier,’ Virgilius says. ‘Better than good. There must have been a small army to bring him down like that.’ Virgilius’s lip curls in frustration. ‘This has to relate to the Parthian emissaries. The timing . . . it can’t be a coincidence.’
‘That seems likely,’ Uncle Pliny says, ‘but we cannot know for certain. Even if it does, if a few Parthians arrived early, under the cover of dark, and attacked Barlaas – this could be some tribal dispute that is no concern of ours.’
‘What are you suggesting, admiral?’ Virgilius asks. ‘Barlaas killed some other barbarian thirty years ago and his kin are getting their revenge now, on Roman soil.’
‘Perhaps. We know nothing for certain.’
Virgilius shakes his head. ‘This is not a dispute between men. It’s between empires.’
‘Likely,’ Uncle Pliny says. ‘In any event, we must be on guard while they are here.’
Uncle Pliny stops walking and grabs me by the shoulders. ‘Gaius,’ he says, ‘I have a new task for you, another to add to this summer’s growing list. I need you to learn as much as you can from the Parthians. Sinnaces, especially. He’s young and impetuous. He could give you valuable information. He’ll certainly tell us more than Barlaas. I don’t need to remind you that we owe everything to Titus and his family. And our fates are tied to theirs. We will investigate this attack and ensure the Imperial family is not in any danger.’
I nod my head in agreement. ‘Yes, Uncle.’
‘Damned barbarians,’ Virgilius says. ‘Lying cheats, every last one.’
Barlaas
19 August
Baiae, the Bay of Naples
I hate the fucking Romans. I hate their short hair and bald faces; I hate their crassness, their lechery, their bottomless appetite for sex, commerce and drink. I hate their accents – northern, southern, patrician, pleb – each is an assault on the ears, a dagger to one’s peace of mind. I hate the way they dress, the bright colours and exposed skin – arms, shoulders, hairless calves, five-eighths of thigh.
I hate Italy, every inch of it. I hate the oppressive heat of its summers, the sticky tentacles of humidity that clogs the lungs and suffocates the chest. I hate the filthy streets overflowing with even filthier poor. I hate the people: painters, bakers, soldiers, barkeeps, maids, chamberlains, cooks, butchers, fullers – crooks every last one.
Even this doctor – standing over me now, inspecting my wound – he stinks of wine and, no doubt, if I take my eye off him for a moment, he’ll rifle through my room and snatch anything of value that I haven’t nailed down.
After nearly thirty years, I’ve grown to hate the basic constituent parts that make a Roman Roman, the bricks and mortar of Roman-ness. I hate their hypocrisy, their façade of morality, while, underneath, at their core, they are as debauched as they come. I hate their scorn for harems, while they fuck whatever hole happens to be in front of them; or their disdain for kings, while they grovel at the feet of whoever happens to be named ‘Caesar’.
Most of all, I hate the Romans’ sense of superiority, the way every citizen – from baker’s boy to senator’s wife – spits out the word ‘barbarian’, with a curled lip and a queasy expression, whenever I enter the room. I hate how they are ignorant of my royal lineage; that I am a descendant of Mithradates himself, the Great Unifier; that I come from a nation as refined as theirs is vulgar, as cultured as theirs is pitiless.
I hate the fucking Romans.
And yet – when put to it, when my countrymen came knocking at my door, under the cover of darkness, offering me an opportunity, the chance to diminish that Roman pride I hate so much, to bring the kingdom of the Aryans glory at the expense of the Flavians – I hesitated.
Why?
Would Carenes, my old friend and fellow hostage, consider this a betrayal if he were still alive? He warned against growing too close to our captors. He saw the danger immediately, during our first month in Italy, after my brother labelled us traitors and banished us from the home of our birth.
It was nearly thirty years ago, after our coup had failed. Gotarez was king. His subjects called him the Butcher on account of his cruelty. The nobility had had enough. Carenes and I travelled in secret to Rome to find a suitable challenger for the throne. We returned with Meherdates, King Phraates’s grandson. We thought it was a master stroke. We believed that because Phraates’s kin had a better claim to the throne than Gotarez, the nobility would flock to his banner and victory would be inevitable. We were wrong. We were too preoccupied with pedigree rather than the qualities of a king. Meherdates was indecisive and stupid and unaccomplished in battle. Some joined his cause but most eventually abandoned him. Our forces were small by the time we met the Butcher in the field. He defeated us easily. Carenes and I were imprisoned. But the Butcher died before he could deliver his punishment.
My younger brother, Vologases, was named king. If I was hoping for forgiveness from my kin, I was sorely mistaken. He had Carenes and I brought before him.
‘Brother,’ he said, as his men kicked the back of our legs and we fell to our knees. ‘You are a traitor, a slave to foreign power, and you are no longer welcome in this country. My advisors say I should kill you and Carenes for your support for the Toad. But I am sparing your life. I am sending you to Rome, where you will live out your days.’
I spat in reply and cursed his name. He was ten years my junior and the son of a concubine. I had more right to the throne than he did. But now, with the benefit of hindsight, I must admit, my brother acted the king that day. He could have killed me. His soldiers were ready, their hands touching the hilts of their daggers – eager to show loyalty to their new king. It was a magnanimous act to spare his brother and send him to live in Rome. It was also a show of strength. Look! Kings are not afraid of their older brothers.
We were kept under lock and key until terms were reached with Rome. Then an armed group of twenty men escorted us by land to Syria, then Asia, and then Greece, where we crossed the Adriatic. The winter winds came early that year, cold and terrifying. The waves tossed the ship like a toy until we landed in Ariminum, on the northeast coast of Italy. There we learned that Rome’s emperor, Claudius Caesar, was dead. He perished from natural causes, or he was poisoned by his treacherous wife, depending on who you asked. I remember thinking: good, if Caesar is dead, send us back. But my brother’s soldiers were undeterred. We waited in Ariminum, as negotiations were revived with Claudius’s successor, Nero, a boy of sixteen.
We waited for five months. Our chains were eventually removed (where would we run to?) and we were allowed to move about the city. Carenes and I would eat the strange Italian fare every night, complaining bitterly of ou
r new home. One day a handsome slave delivered a bottle of wine. A gift, he said, from our new master, the Emperor Nero. He stayed to uncork the bottle and serve us dinner. I recall my first sip even now. We make palm wine in Parthia. We import wine made from grapes, from Italy or Greece. For the most part, whatever crosses the Euphrates is foreign swill. This was something different. It was complex, but also light and airy, sunlight in a sip.
A smile enveloped my face. I said, ‘maybe it will not be so bad here.’
Carenes scrutinized me with his one good eye. He was old, even then, frail and insubstantial. Yet that piercing blue, nearly white, eye could level a legion. ‘We made a grievous error backing the Toad,’ he said. ‘He was not an Aryan, despite being the grandson of Phraates. He was born here, in Italy. He was Roman, a foreigner. We were blinded by our hatred for the Butcher, our desire to see him fall. We shamed our families and our ancestors thinking the Toad worthy of the throne. We can never undo what we did. But we can live with dignity until we die.’
He poured his cup of wine onto the floor.
He waited.
Without taking the second sip I desperately desired, I followed his example, pouring my cup out and then the bottle itself.
The slave was aghast. He quoted the price of the bottle and said he had no choice but to report what had happened to his master. Nero brought it up the first time we met. He was angry, demanding to know why we wasted his generosity. We were defiant. We did not like Roman wine, we exclaimed. We did not like anything about his damned country.
Rather than have us executed, as we expected, Nero laughed. ‘Well,’ he said with a shrug, ‘I thought I had expensive taste.’
Last night, my assailants asked the question: am I Roman or Aryan? But the question is poorly conceived. One’s lineage changes depending on where he stands. Snatch up a Roman and drop him in Dacia or Egypt, and he’ll say: I’m a Roman, through and through. But in Italy, ask a man where he’s from and he’ll name the city he hails from, maybe even the street. And if he’s from Rome itself, he’ll tell you the ward. He’ll genuinely believe Ward 16 is superior to Wards 2, or 5, or any other of the two hundred in the city. It’s the same in Parthia. Before my exile, I would never call myself Arsacid, or Parthian, as the Romans call us. I was Mesopotamian. God help you if you claimed I was from Persis or a backwater like Hyrcania.
The Exiled Page 5