‘A story I have heard myself,’ Uncle Pliny says. ‘Here in Italy. Were you able to learn anything new?’
‘Most of the people I spoke to told the same story,’ Scipio says. ‘Olive oil, pirates, ransom. And, like I said, the people of Hispalis admire the family. They don’t want all those games and public works the Ulpii pay for to stop.’
Scipio leans forward.
‘But not everyone?’ Uncle Pliny asks.
‘Not everyone. Not if you look hard enough. There is an old man the locals call Vermillion.’
‘Vermillion?’
Scipio nods. ‘On account of a birth mark, a red splotch across his face. I’d been asking questions for two weeks, up and down Hispalis, paying for information when I needed to. A few times, people said, “You want the real story? Find Vermillion.” So I went looking for him. He’d been a slave with the Ulpii for years, and continued on in the house once he was freed. But after the brothers escaped from the pirates, or their ransom was paid, and they returned to Hispalis, Vermillion was dismissed. A misunderstanding, he said. They thought he’d been stealing from the family while the brothers had been missing. But he swears to Jupiter it wasn’t true.’ Scipio shrugs. ‘He’s angry about his dismissal. I would be too, if I was living hand to mouth by the river because of a misunderstanding.’ He shrugs again. ‘He was happy to talk. He said the wool had been pulled over everyone’s eyes.’
‘And what did this freedman, Vermillion, have to say?’ Uncle Pliny asks.
‘He said Lucius Ulpius isn’t Lucius Ulpius.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He says the man who was his master, Lucius Ulpius Traianus, isn’t the man who returned five years later.’
‘I’m still not following,’ Uncle Pliny is frustrated.
‘Vermillion said his former master, Lucius Ulpius, left and never returned. A different man came back. He says that with all of the scars the new man had, and his bandaged eyes, and because the real Lucius had been gone for so many years, no one in the Ulpii’s house could tell the man claiming to be Lucius wasn’t actually Lucius. Or they didn’t want to notice. It was probably a great relief to have their patron, or a man claiming to be their patron, home.’
‘Let me understand this: the freedman’s contention is Lucius Ulpius is an imposter?’
Scipio nods.
‘And what? The other brothers are in on it as well?’
‘Yes. And likely the nephew too,’ Scipio says. ‘Vermillion claimed the boy is a fabrication. No one had heard of the younger Marcus Ulpius until the brothers returned.’
‘What did the Ulpii have to gain by letting an imposter join their family?’
‘The family was rich before, but nothing like they are now. Vermillion says before he was dismissed, he saw chests filled with gold and jewels. He says Lucius Ulpius could buy and sell the emperor himself.’
Uncle Pliny frowns. ‘Let’s not get carried away. I’m not sure a freedman living by the river is a sound economist.’ Uncle Pliny – who cannot stand a mystery – shakes his head. ‘But why? Why would one man pretend to be another?’
‘Debts is what I figure,’ Scipio says.
‘Your contention,’ Uncle Pliny asks, ‘is that Lucius Ulpius had debts that made him pretend to be another man? But didn’t you also say he’s so wealthy that he could buy and sell the emperor? If he has coffers like that, then why didn’t he just pay his debts?’
‘I didn’t say his debt was one that could be paid with coin, did I? Maybe he got the wrong girl pregnant. Maybe he killed a man. Or two.’ Scipio sips his wine. ‘Like I said before: with the Ulpii, there are more questions than answers.’
Uncle Pliny leans back in his chair and strokes his beard. ‘Who is this man?’ he mutters to himself. ‘Who is Lucius Ulpius?’
Domitilla
19 August
The Villa Piso, Baiae
A Praetorian announces that Senator Ulpius is here and would like to speak with me.
‘Lucius Ulpius?’ I ask. Given his blank stare, I add, ‘The blind one?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘Very well.’
I receive Ulpius on the eastern terrace, a half circle of tufa bricks, the colour of a goose egg, with a view of Baiae’s man-made lake and, beyond the jetty, the bay itself. It’s bordered by a wall, about three-quarters my height. On the other side is a massive saltwater pond, stocked with red mullet and other saltwater delicacies. Dark shadows dart beneath the green murk.
Ulpius is waiting for me, sitting on a bench, leaning onto his staff. His back is bent, his eyes covered by a rag tied around his head. His hair and beard, originally copper-red, seem to grow whiter each time I see him. There is scarring around his eyes – burned skin that is bulging and mottled pink in colour. Senator Ulpius has a strange timeless quality to him. He could, up to a point, claim to be nearly any age. He could be forty or sixty-five. The injuries he’s suffered, combined with his many eccentricities and mysterious background – all of this gives Ulpius a sense of mystery. If you ask him about his injuries or his past, the answer, told with an ironic smile, is always shifting, like the ocean breeze.
Lucius Ulpius is an enigma.
Standing beside him are his two freedmen, the Parthian, Cyrus, who is constantly whispering in his patron’s ear, and the one-eyed behemoth, Theseus. Theseus is not particularly tall, but is built like the Servian Wall. A patch covers his bad eye. Today he is muddy from the knees down. A faint trail of footprints shows his route across the colonnade.
‘Lucius,’ I say, walking across the terrace into the cool of the colonnade. ‘This is a surprise. I thought you were waiting until Marcellus’s trial was finished before quitting Rome.’
‘The trial’ – Ulpius briefly lifts his bum, as a sign of respect, before flopping back onto his chair – ‘or Marcellus himself. And I kept my word. Marcellus is dead.’
His voice is flat. One wonders how much death this man has experienced to describe it so.
‘I see,’ I say. ‘How?’
Slaves swarm the balcony. A chair is placed by Ulpius and, as I take a seat, a table is placed between us; a bowl of plump, fresh olives is dropped on top.
‘The trial was going very well,’ Ulpius says, ‘for the prosecution, that is. Not for Marcellus. Indeed, the outcome was all but certain. But old Marcellus was not one to let others dictate his fate. After the prosecution delivered its closing remarks and court was adjourned for the day, Marcellus went home and took his own life.’
‘I’m surprised you are not more’ – I pause, looking for the right word – ‘pleased. Didn’t you have a grudge against Marcellus? Didn’t he try to kill your nephew, Marcus, many years ago?’
Ulpius considers the question and I’m once again struck by how different he is from anyone I have ever met. He lies to me often, I think, particularly about his past. Yet, in other ways, he is an open book. The more time I spend with him, the more skilled I am at determining what pages of that book he is showing me, and what he is holding back.
‘You have it right, my dear. I had a grudge against Marcellus. But after his death, with my victory finally realized, I feel . . . indifferent.’ He shrugs. ‘Have you ever wished a man dead?’
‘No. When I was young, I would often curse my sister’s name,’ I say with a smile. ‘But I have never truly desired another dead.’
He nods. ‘Your father was a good man. He kept you away from Rome for most of your life, away from the tragedies and intrigue. My father died when I was young. Of dropsy, they say.’
Such insight into Ulpius’s own past is unprecedented. The sense of irony that usually hangs over his every word is momentarily absent. I proceed cautiously. Any wrong move and Ulpius the sparrow will startle and fly away.
‘Fortuna is fickle,’ I say. ‘My mother, like your father, died when I was very young.’ I reach for an olive. I keep my eyes on the bowl. ‘What was your mother like? Did she keep you safe like my father kept me safe?’
&
nbsp; ‘My mother inflicted tragedies rather than avoided them.’
‘She sounds a formidable woman.’
‘She was indeed.’ He smiles. ‘She ate Caesars whole.’
‘Oh,’ I say, though I don’t understand the point. What interaction could a Spanish provincial have with the Imperial court?
The one-eyed freedman Theseus – who, up until this point, has stood as still as a statue – clears his throat. Cyrus, the Parthian freedman, whispers in Ulpius’s ear.
Ulpius laughs. ‘A figure of speech, of course. I’m not aware of her eating any emperor alive, though I cannot vouch for her actions before I was born.’
The sparrow twitches nervously. More questions about his mother and he’ll take to the air. I try a different tack. ‘Did Marcellus take your eyes?’
‘No,’ Ulpius says, seriously. ‘Three men took my eyes. Two are dead. The third has escaped me for many years.’
‘Who was he?’
‘A soldier.’
‘Does he have a name?’
He smiles. ‘The Fox.’
I wait for him to say more, to give the man a proper name, but he leaves it at that.
‘And you continue to look for him?’
‘I do.’
‘To kill him?’
He shrugs.
‘Why? Marcellus’s death has not brought you any peace. Why would this Fox be any different?’
‘I promised the gods.’ Ulpius pops an olive in his mouth. He chews slowly. ‘And habit, I suppose. I’ve been doing this for so long. What else would I do? Anyway, my revenge has lined up nicely with your family’s interests. Has it not?’
‘I suppose it has. And now you and Titus are thick as thieves, aren’t you?’
‘Your brother can recognize a man’s talent.’
‘Oh? And what is your talent, Senator Ulpius?’
‘Scheming.’
I smile. ‘Yes, I must admit, you seem quite adept at that. And speaking of my brother, do you know when he is expected in Baiae?’
‘Soon,’ Ulpius says. ‘In time for your wedding.’
I am struck dumb, but only for a moment; then I can’t help but laugh. I have been engaged so many times that I have lost count. The only mystery is why Ulpius is telling me and not my own brother. Is this further punishment from Titus? Or is the will of Caesar best revealed through proxy, like the gods reveal theirs through prodigies?
‘Another engagement?’ I say. ‘Is that a good idea? You know what happened with my last engagement?’
‘Ah, yes, I had forgotten. I agree, old Marcellus was a poor match. This one is much better.’
‘It would have to be. It is easy to improve on calamitous.’
Ulpius laughs. ‘Such wit! General Cerialis is a lucky man.’
‘Oh, is it Cerialis this time? At least he is closer to my age than Marcellus.’
Ulpius pats my hand. ‘It must be difficult,’ he says, ‘to be imbued, as you are, with the power of the state, to be an extension of the empire itself. At least your new husband is a general. He will be off on campaign more often than not. If you don’t like him, you won’t have to see him very often.’
‘My husband’s best quality is that I will not have to see him very often?’
‘It could be worse.’
Before I decide whether this is true or not, we are interrupted by the heavy footsteps of a Praetorian entering the terrace.
‘Mistress,’ he says, ‘admiral Secundus is here. He has asked to see you.’
‘Of course. See him in.’
Ulpius cannot hide his jealousy. ‘Does the admiral call on you often?’
Caesar’s closest advisors are always measuring themselves against each other. This quest to outdo the other often extends to Caesar’s family.
The admiral sweeps onto the balcony and his massive frame bounds towards us. His secretary and young nephew Gaius Caecilius trail in his wake. Although they are related, Gaius is the physical opposite of his uncle. Gaius is soft-spoken, slight of figure and I’m certain a stiff breeze could knock him over. Pliny, however, is never quiet – even at rest his breathing sounds like a storm at sea – and I’m not sure anything could knock him over. Breeze, man, earthquake, act of god.
‘Ah, Ulpius,’ Pliny says. He has the same jealous unease Ulpius had a moment ago. ‘I thought you were in Rome.’
‘An incorrect assumption. Clearly.’
Pliny’s smile is disingenuous. ‘Do you know, senator, I recently have had men telling me of your wicked ways.’
‘Oh? And who was that?’
‘Senator Sulpicius for a start,’ Pliny says.
There is a visible change in Ulpius: he grows tense, like a cat when a dog enters the room. Sulpicius Peticus is a senator whose brother was put to death under Nero. He ran east after his brother was killed and I haven’t heard much of him since.
‘Has Sulpicius returned from Syria already?’ Ulpius asks. ‘A pity for Rome.’
‘Syria? You have travelled far, haven’t you?’ I say. ‘And what, Pliny, was Senator Sulpicius’s complaint of our dear friend Lucius Ulpius.’
Whatever Sulpicius said, Pliny will not repeat it. That is not Pliny’s style. He shakes his head and only says, ‘Nothing good. Some of it I almost believed.’
Looking to regain the upper hand, Ulpius says, ‘Did you hear that Domitilla here is engaged?’
Pliny’s look of surprise is fleeting but unmistakable. He isn’t surprised that I’m engaged – this happens as often as the seasons change. Rather, he is surprised – hurt, even – that Ulpius knew before him.
The admiral has countless questions. To whom? When? Is there a dowry? Ulpius answers with obvious glee. Pliny has always been close with Titus, and he has always worked tirelessly for our family’s interests. He is right to feel aggrieved.
But there is only so much bickering between grown men that I can take.
With my right hand, I twirl the earring dangling from my left earlobe – a signal only Jacasta knows. On cue, she swoops in and tells my guests that my presence is required inside.
They both bow as I leave.
*
Evening, after the sun has set, one of my maids delivers a message. She has been with our family for a few months, I think, though I’ve forgotten her name. She is young and pretty, except for her one eyebrow – two thick, fuzzy arches that connect above her nose, like the wings of a bird on the horizon.
‘There is a man at the north door who requests an audience.’
‘Who is it?’ I ask.
‘His name is Plinius Pinarius. He says that he hails from your father’s home town of Reate. He says that he has important information for you. But he says he can only tell you this information, face-to-face. He says that he has been turned away twice before.’
‘Pinarius?’ I say. ‘I don’t recall a Pinarius requesting an audience.’
Jacasta growls with frustration. She prefers to have all requests filter through her. ‘The Augusta cannot be expected to meet with anyone who calls on her.’
‘Yes, of course,’ the maid says. ‘I only brought it to your attention, Augusta, because of what he said. I thought you should decide whether to speak with him.’
She hesitates, wishing to say more.
‘What is it, dear?’ I say.
‘He appears to be an undertaker.’
Jacasta gasps. ‘He shouldn’t be in the city walls, let alone meeting with the Augusta. He could pollute our Mistress with the contamination of death.’
I put my hand on Jacasta’s arm. She’s right, of course, but she is being dramatic. The man is not a leper.
‘What is your name?’
‘Livia, Mistress,’ the maid says.
‘Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Livia. But I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to meet with this man. This is a trick people often use to meet with me – one I’ve grown too shrewd to fall for. They say only I can hear what they have to say, but ultimately their information i
s never of any use.’
Livia bows and is about to leave when something occurs to her. ‘Mistress, I should also let you know I believe your brother has arrived.’
‘Has he? Strange he hasn’t asked to see me.’
Jacasta is glaring at Livia. She is, no doubt, furious that this information was brought to me directly. ‘Thank you, Livia. I will not forget what a good servant you are.’
She bows and leaves.
‘Let us call on Caesar,’ I say to Jacasta. ‘Whether he wants me to or not.’
*
Father rarely came to Baiae. What it has to offer – thermal baths, a beautiful view, leisure, relaxation, debauchery – did not appeal to him. He was at home among his letters, ledgers, official dispatches and proclamations. When he had to be here, he would hole up in the east end of the villa with a legion of clerks and secretaries and freedmen, counting and weighing coins, opening and sealing letters – the machinery of empire working all hours of the night.
This is where we find Titus.
The receiving room is empty save for two Praetorians guarding the entrance to Father’s—
No, this is Titus’s study now.
I tell the guards to move aside, but they do not obey. One opens the door a crack, slides through and returns with Virgilius, Titus’s right-hand man. He has replaced Titus as Prefect of the Praetorian Guard and – possibly – Caesar’s attack dog, though he is smiling when he pokes his head through the door.
‘Domitilla. How are you?’
‘I would like to see my brother.’
‘Caesar is quite busy.’
‘I am his sister.’
‘The burdens of office,’ he says, as though that should settle the matter. He adds, ‘Caesar has work that he must finish tonight. He knows you will understand.’
Is Titus still angry with me?
Whatever the motivation, I won’t stand for this. If I am to spend my days assuaging the hurt feelings of Caesar’s advisors and my nights hosting dinner parties, if I am asked to marry a man of Titus’s choosing – then I will be damned if I will be sent away like some household servant.
I smile at Virgilius, lean forward and whisper in his ear, ‘Tell my brother that I will wait. And tell him that for every quarter of an hour I am left waiting, I will divulge one of his secrets. To these soldiers or to anyone who cares to listen. I will start by listing his mistresses and the names of their clueless husbands.’
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