The Exiled

by David Barbaree

  Unexpected and unwelcome, judging by his expression. I suppose Sinnaces and I are more acquaintances than friends.

  ‘I came to see how Barlaas is faring.’

  Barlaas’s hollering culminates in the sound of glass smashing. I picture some poor soul – his doctor, or maybe a slave – narrowly avoiding a missile-like vase before it smashes against the wall.

  ‘As you can hear,’ Sinnaces says, ‘Barlaas is . . . himself.’

  ‘And Manlius?’

  ‘He is awake, but a fever has taken hold. He knows not where he is.’

  ‘Will he live?’

  Sinnaces shrugs. He does not seem to care for the centurion like Barlaas does. ‘The doctors are tending to him. You would have to ask them.’

  ‘And how are you faring?’

  ‘I was not attacked.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  We stand awkwardly in silence. Finally, after a regretful gulp, I say, ‘Are you going to the baths this afternoon?’

  His brow furrows. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Well . . . we could walk together.’

  ‘You are going to the baths? In Baiae?’ Sinnaces’s confusion grows. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you there before.’

  ‘I normally attend my uncle’s personal baths in Misenum, but . . . not today.’

  Sinnaces looks horrified. Is arriving with me such an embarrassing proposition? Surely, I have higher social status than a Parthian hostage. Don’t I?

  I can feel Zosimus shifting his weight from foot to foot; he’s wishing he were anywhere but here. It’s a sad day when your slave is embarrassed for you.

  I think of Uncle Pliny, the bear of a man who is rarely insulted or deterred.

  ‘Well, Sinnaces,’ I say, with a smile, ‘shall we walk together?’

  *

  Sinnaces is not as forthcoming as I’d hoped. As we walk to the baths, I press him about the visiting Parthian emissaries. But if he knows anything, he does not give it away.

  ‘And do you know when the emissaries are expected?’

  ‘Your uncle is admiral of the Imperial fleet and a close advisor to the emperor. Shouldn’t you know more than I?’

  From a neighbouring apartment, liquid of some kind is thrown from the window and it splatters on the street. We glance up to see where it came from, but the windows are all empty.

  We step around the puddle and continue along the road. We are not even past the puddle before it starts to evaporate in August’s brutal heat.

  ‘I was only curious if you’d heard anything different than I had.’

  Sinnaces stares at me as though I were the foreigner. ‘How would I have heard anything different? Because they are Parthian?’

  His incredulity seems genuine. Either he doesn’t know anything or the Parthian emissaries weren’t involved in the attack on Barlaas.

  I press on, not wanting to disappoint Uncle Pliny. ‘Do you know who attacked Barlaas?’

  Rather than look secretive, Sinnaces looks hurt. ‘He would not tell me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t take it to heart,’ I say. ‘He seems a private man.’

  Sinnaces changes the subject. ‘Who did you have last night?’

  ‘Pardon me?’ I can feel my cheeks reddening.

  ‘Your whore. What was her name?’

  ‘I . . . Umm . . . I didn’t realize you attended that establishment as well?’

  ‘I arrived after you. All anyone could talk about was young Gaius, the little lawyer in training, attending the whore house. Out with it. Who was she? Or was it a he?’

  I think of Red sitting beside me on the bed, her robe revealing her shoulder.

  My cheeks are an inferno.

  ‘I’d prefer not to say.’

  Sinnaces shakes his head in frustration. ‘Fine. We’re almost there anyway.’

  *

  After a brief sojourn in the hot room, Sinnaces and I enter the gymnasium. It’s as I feared. Domitian and his hangers-on are all here, including Valerius and Catullus. The young men are taking turns wrestling, with a slave acting as referee. A semicircle of spectators has formed. Domitian has somehow procured a seat, like a king holding court.

  Sinnaces does not feel as I do. He sees the group of young men, smiles and makes his way over. He speeds ahead of me, as though to distance himself, so it is not obvious we arrived together.

  Marcus is here as well. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk across the gymnasium. I was afraid of this. He’s going to fixate on me after our encounter last night, when I interrupted him manhandling that poor slave girl.

  A match has just ended. Two young men pick themselves off the floor. One looks discouraged, the other as though he’s captured Gaul. The referee holds up the latter’s hand and half the crowd cheers, the other hollers abuse.

  Catullus notices my arrival. ‘By Jupiter! Look who has his nose out of a book. Gaius Caecilius, as I live and breathe.’ He looks at Domitian to ensure he’s got the reaction he is looking for.

  I blush. I can feel the tide shifting, as the group recognize an opportunity to follow up on Catullus’s gibe.

  My heart starts to race. I think of Uncle Pliny. He’ll be disappointed. Rather than finding the information he needs, his hapless nephew turned into the butt of a joke. What would the great admiral do? He wouldn’t have blushed for a start, and he would have had a quick reply for Catullus, to shut him up, and the smell of blood wouldn’t be in the air.

  The crowd looks to Domitian to see what their prince will do. Domitian opens his mouth and is about to speak, when something catches his eye. His lips twist into a menacing grin.

  I turn to see what saved me. Walking across the gymnasium, fresh from the hot room, is our guide from yesterday, Nine Fingers. He is wearing a loincloth, with a towel casually thrown over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, Nine Fingers,’ Domitian calls out. His voice is sweet as honey.

  I remember the joke Nine Fingers made at Domitian’s expense yesterday. But our former guide is not alive to his peril: he smiles and makes his way over.

  ‘My Lord,’ he says, with a slight bow. ‘How is your afternoon faring? Are you wrestling?’

  ‘We are indeed,’ Domitian says. ‘I wonder, though: are you ready?’

  Nine Fingers looks confused. ‘Ready for what?’

  ‘For your match, of course.’

  Nine Fingers’ easy demeanour begins to crack. ‘Oh, no thank you, my Lord. I am too old to wrestle.’

  ‘Nonsense, a man like you – a hunter whose spear is never clean – you are a force to reckon with. But, in order to be fair, there must be odds.’

  ‘Odds?’ Nine Fingers now looks concerned.

  ‘Yes. Odds. You are after all the great hunter. The man whose spear is never clean. We need to make the fight fair,’ Domitian says. ‘Three against your one should do it, I think.’

  Without warning, Catullus surprises Nine Fingers and tries to get him in a hold. The crowd of boys erupts in cheers. Valerius and another young man grab Nine Fingers’s arms and hold them behind his back. Catullus hits Nine Fingers in the belly. It sounds like a wet slap.

  ‘My Lord,’ Nine Fingers calls to Domitian, ‘what offence did I cause?’

  Catullus is now holding a knife. The handle and scabbard are encrusted with rubies. It’s a rich man’s showpiece, not a soldier’s weapon. Still, the blade is made of steel.

  I am appalled at this – the violence, the meanness of it all. But what can I do to stop it?

  Catullus tests the blade with his thumb. The gesture is meant to intimidate.

  ‘My Lord, please!’ Nine Fingers cries out.

  ‘Oh, stop whining,’ Valerius says. ‘We are only having a bit of fun.’

  ‘Catullus . . .’

  The voice comes from somewhere in the crowd. It is calm yet loud and commanding.

  ‘. . . If you take one step closer with that little knife of yours, then I will cut off your hands . . .’

  Everyone in the crowd
looks about, trying to find who has spoken.

  ‘. . . and feed them to the dogs.’

  The crowd slowly parts around Marcus.

  Domitian’s entourage is suddenly quiet; the gymnasium has become a temple.

  The threat is hyperbole. Yet coming from Marcus it feels entirely credible.

  The change in Catullus is obvious. He was invincible a moment ago; now he’s uncertain. He doesn’t move and his mouth is slightly agape. Meekly, trying to save face, he says, ‘This is none of your business, Marcus.’

  I help Nine Fingers to his feet.

  Domitian sighs like an actor in a play. ‘And who are you again?’

  He knows who Marcus is. It was only yesterday that we were hunting together. He does this sometimes: to show his pre-eminence, he implies everyone else is forgettable.

  ‘Marcus Ulpius Traianus,’ Marcus says.

  ‘Ah yes. The Spaniard,’ Domitian says. ‘What is your interest here, Marcus? This man is only a freedman. A former slave.’

  Marcus stands between the man and Domitian. His face is impassive.

  ‘And that leaves him open to your abuse?’

  ‘Yes,’ Domitian says, blandly.

  ‘The next time you intend to treat someone like this,’ Marcus says, ‘because they are a slave, or a former slave, you come tell me. Send your errand boy.’ Marcus points at Catullus.

  Domitian leans back in his chair. ‘Marcus Ulpius.’ He smiles. ‘Trajan. A name I won’t forget. You can be sure of it.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  *

  Back in Misenum. Uncle Pliny is at his desk, behind a stack of papyrus. I wasn’t able to learn anything from Sinnaces, so the day was a failure. I was certain Uncle Pliny would be disappointed, but he’s not. ‘Don’t expect the world in a day, my boy. It will take time. Keep at it.’

  I describe the scene in the gymnasium, still shaken by Domitian’s cruelty.

  Uncle Pliny shakes his head. ‘The gods help us if Domitian is ever emperor.’

  ‘What can be done?’ I ask.

  ‘Done? I’m not sure I understand the question. What is it you want, Gaius?’

  ‘Justice.’

  ‘Justice? And what form of justice would you suggest for the emperor’s younger brother? Imprisonment? Labour in the mines?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Uncle Pliny snorts, derisively. ‘I think it imperative you understand how this world works. Poor character and immoral acts do not necessarily lead to punishment. If you expect just punishment for every wrong committed you will live a long and miserable life. Domitian is the emperor’s brother. And our emperor cannot see his brother’s bad character. Actually, no’ – Uncle Pliny twists his carnelian ring – ‘that is not correct. Titus blames himself for Domitian’s bad character. While Titus was off with their father, waging war in Germany and Palestine, Domitian lived in a hovel in Rome, poor and alone. While Titus learned at his father’s feet, and earned his father’s love and admiration, Domitian only earned his father’s disappointment and scorn. Titus feels responsible for the man his brother became. I doubt he will ever punish Domitian or hold him to account.’

  ‘So Domitian has licence to do as he pleases?’

  ‘Of course! Any man can do as he pleases. Fortune decides what happens to him, not you or me. You need to look at the problem differently. You must understand that victory is not how you conceive it. Domitian’s poor character and immoral acts mean he has lost. This is true of any man. And those who act morally, according to their principles, they have won.’

  I shake my head. ‘That is philosophy, and not the satisfying sort.’

  ‘Domitian is one man,’ Uncle Pliny says. ‘His time will come. What does it matter if he lives a day or a hundred years? What matters are your principles and whether you follow them.’

  ‘Is that how you lived under Nero?’

  ‘Principles and wine.’ Uncle Pliny starts to chuckle. ‘Maybe more wine than principles.’

  I laugh as well.

  ‘And what do you make of Marcus Ulpius’s actions?’ Uncle Pliny asks. ‘Has your opinion of him changed?’

  ‘Not at all. He is brute.’

  ‘Oh,’ Uncle Pliny leans back in his chair. He scratches his beard. I sense that he may have found the favourable ground he was looking for. ‘Didn’t he rescue the hunter from humiliation or much worse?’

  ‘By coincidence only,’ I say. ‘He is always looking for a fight. If anything, the incident showed Marcus’s pride. His arrogance.’

  Uncle Pliny is smiling.

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘What is so funny?’

  ‘You’re jealous, my boy. Green with envy.’

  My throat thickens with anger. ‘I am not. That’s ridiculous.’

  Uncle Pliny, still smiling, reaches for my hand across the desk but I pull it away. ‘My dear nephew,’ he says, ‘you have many strengths, not the least of which is an intellect that Zeno himself would envy. But there are areas where you’ – he pauses, searching for the right words; words that will not offend – ‘fall short. In your mind’s eye, at least. Is it possible that you envy Marcus’s daring?’

  ‘Never. Marcus is a brute.’

  ‘A brute? Really? I think, if you were to examine your conscience, you would agree that you are exhibiting a lack of empathy, an inability to see the heart of your fellow man.’

  I shake my head. I can’t believe this. Uncle Pliny is taking Marcus’s side.

  ‘Empathy,’ Uncle Pliny continues, ‘is a vital weapon. Don’t forget that. Without it, you’ll be no better than Domitian.’

  My face is boiling with anger. I stand to go, but Uncle Pliny points at the chair. ‘Sit, nephew.’ He speaks with authority, but softens his tone. ‘Please. Please sit. I did not mean to offend. We will not end our day on this note. Tell me where you are with Livy.’

  I take a deep breath; I sit.

  Uncle Pliny continues. ‘Where are you this time around? Is Hannibal still running wild in Italy?’

  *

  Half of an hour later, Spartacus floats into the room. ‘Master,’ he says, ‘Scipio is here to see you.’

  Uncle Pliny furrows his brow. ‘Scipio the philosopher or Scipio the Spaniard?’

  ‘The Spaniard. A merchant, I believe. I noted the hour, but he says you asked him to call on you the moment he arrived in Baiae.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Bring him in.’

  Spartacus leaves and returns with a man that waddles, rather than walks. His head resembles a sea urchin, small and round, with prickly black hair.

  ‘Scipio,’ Uncle Pliny says, warmly. He stands and they embrace. Uncle Pliny motions for him to sit.

  ‘I’m days ahead of schedule,’ Scipio says. ‘Are you impressed?’

  ‘Well, that depends. Do you have useful information?

  Scipio nods. ‘I do.’

  ‘Then I am impressed.’

  ‘But you may be disappointed. With Ulpius, there remain more questions than answers.’

  Uncle Pliny nods. ‘One needs the question first before the answer.’

  ‘You are a benevolent patron, as always.’

  Scipio looks around the room, expectantly. Reading the Spaniard’s mind, Uncle Pliny bellows, ‘Wine! Wine for our weary traveller.’

  Two slaves rush into the room, one is carrying cups, the other a pitcher of wine. It’s only after Scipio has taken a sip that Uncle Pliny prods him to begin. Leaning back in his chair, Uncle Pliny raises his hands, as though he is welcoming the information with a warm embrace. ‘Well?’

  ‘The Ulpii are merchants,’ Scipio says. ‘Olive oil.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Uncle Pliny asks. ‘I’ve heard that before. But I’ve also heard silk, spices, slaves. One man swore to Apollo the Ulpii made a fortune on cats. Such is the state of disinformation about Lucius Ulpius.’

  ‘I’m certain it was olive oil,’ Scipio says. ‘I saw their warehouse myself. Lucius – the blind one, your mysterious senator – his father had a respectable busi
ness. Small, though. Local. When he died, the two eldest took it over. They expanded. It continues to be based in Spain, in Hispalis, but the family’s tentacles have reached across the empire and beyond.’

  ‘And that’s where you learned this? In Hispalis?’

  ‘Yes,’ Scipio nods, ‘I spent nearly three weeks there. Asking questions. Interviewing whomever I could. But the Ulpii are respected.’ Scipio rubs his thumb against his index finger together. ‘They spend money, you see. On games, gladiators, on public works. Hard to find anyone to say a bad word about them.’

  ‘I see,’ Uncle Pliny says. His disappointment is obvious.

  ‘Hard, but not impossible,’ Scipio says with a wink. ‘There are three brothers, all handsome, the envy of the town. The youngest went to join the legions and the older two, as I said, went to work in the family business. After their father died, they travelled across the empire for years, only rarely returning to Spain, and never for long. So, the Ulpii are as much of a mystery to the people of Hispalis as they are to us.’

  Uncle Pliny twists his carnelian ring. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘And that was before the pirates,’ Scipio adds.

  Uncle Pliny snorts in reply. ‘You already have my attention, Scipio. No need to work so hard.’

  ‘You’ll not rob me of my fun, admiral. Six weeks at sea or on the road, rain or shine, from Hispalis to Misenum. I intend to tell the story the right way.’

  Uncle Pliny raises his cup of wine in the air. ‘Very well. Please continue. Tell it as you wish.’

  ‘About fifteen years ago, the two eldest brothers were at sea. Some say it happened in the Adriatic, some the Tyrrhenian. But all agree pirates were spotted in the distance. They tried to outrun them. But, inevitably, their slow merchant ship was caught. The two brothers were taken hostage. The pirates intended to ransom them for gold.’

  ‘And did they?’

  ‘Stories differ. Some say the brothers escaped. Others say the ransom was paid. One man claimed Lucius was a sorcerer and, after casting a spell, the pirates sailed the brothers home.’

  ‘I see.’ Uncle Pliny is frowning. He does not see much value in fiction. ‘And is this how they say Lucius Ulpius lost his eyes? The pirates took them?’

  Scipio nods. ‘The pirates cut out Lucius’s eyes and sent them to the younger brother, to show they were serious.’