The Exiled

by David Barbaree

  Virgilius’s eyes widen in alarm, but he otherwise maintains his composure. ‘I will convey the message, Mistress.’

  When he returns, Virgilius opens the doors wide and extends his arm. ‘This way, Mistress.’

  The office is nearly as Father left it: a massive desk, inlaid with porphyry, overrun with papyrus; couches arranged in front; a floor of black and white ceramic stones, depicting a massive black one-eyed fish.

  Titus is sitting behind the desk, dressed in a purple tunic, like a king. Like Nero. His dog Cleopatra hurries to greet me, her tail swinging back and forth. The room is filled with a dozen freedmen and soldiers.

  I crouch and scratch the underside of Cleopatra’s chin.

  ‘May we have the room,’ Titus says and the army of Imperial administrators files out of the office.

  ‘Congratulations, Sister,’ Titus says, when we are alone. ‘You have the honour of being the first to blackmail me as Caesar.’

  Once seated, I spot something new: a statue of Father. It has the old general’s thick neck and receding hairline. The marble of his cuirass and cape are painted red and blue. The paint is fresh, with a sticky sheen. Perhaps Titus misses Father after all, in his own way.

  ‘It is not blackmail,’ I say, ‘if our interests are aligned.’

  ‘How would my interests be served if you tried to ruin my reputation?’

  ‘There would be no need to,’ I say, confidently. ‘I knew you would see me once my message was delivered.’

  ‘So it was a bluff?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘A bluff involves a certain level of guessing, of closing one’s eyes and hoping a certain outcome is achieved. I knew what you would do.’

  Ptolemy, Titus’s young secretary, scurries into the room. He pours us each a cup of wine from a decanter. He dilutes mine with seawater, a ratio of nearly one-to-one. To Titus’s cup he adds only a drop. As a boy, Titus thought strong men drink strong wine. I’m not sure he ever grew out of the notion.

  ‘You are the one who should apologize,’ I continue. ‘You refused to speak with me in some silly attempt to appear important. You used your sister as an example. It was arrogant, unnecessary . . . ’

  Titus puts his hands up in defeat. ‘Alright. I’m sorry. But it wasn’t meant to send a message. I’m overwhelmed with work. And I thought you were coming to complain about your engagement. But I have learned my lesson. The Augusta will not be deterred. You are Father’s daughter, and I should not forget that.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I swirl my wine, savouring my brother’s mea culpa. ‘I am glad to hear it. But you don’t give me enough credit, Titus. I am pleased with the match.’

  ‘You are?’ Titus looks dubious. He thinks I’m laying a trap.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be? Cerialis is relatively young – he’s a child compared to the last man Father paired me with. He’s had success as a general, so he must have some intelligence. He has his hair. Or most of it, anyway. Is Cerialis pleased with the match?’

  Titus laughs. ‘Yes. He’s no idea he’s marrying a blackmailer and bully.’

  ‘Don’t warn him,’ I say with a smile. ‘I want it to be a surprise.’

  It is a relief to laugh with Titus, to once again be on the same side.

  ‘I’m glad you approve of the match. Because I haven’t left you much time to get used to it. The wedding will take place in two days.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘It was part of the agreement with Cerialis. Other men had been embarrassed by the long engagements Father set up, only to have him back out at the last moment, once Father had the concession he was looking for. I promised Cerialis this time it would be different.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, thinking of all that must be done in the meantime. ‘That is not much time. Who should I speak with about the arrangements?’

  Titus looks confused. He picked the date and the man. What else is there?

  ‘I can see I have some work to do. Will all of our family be in attendance?’

  Titus grimaces, as if he’s just picked at an open wound; his face hardens. ‘Vespasia is not to attend.’

  ‘Titus, she is my sister.’

  ‘She made her choice. Her duty is to the gods now.’

  *

  Ptolemy pokes his head through the door and says. ‘Admiral Secundus is here, Caesar. He insists on speaking with you.’

  ‘Of course,’ Titus says. ‘Send him in.’

  ‘Shall I escort your sister back to her room?’ Ptolemy asks.

  I stare at Titus defiantly.

  To avoid any further arguments, or – possibly – because our rift has started to heal, Caesar says, ‘No, she may stay.’

  Secundus arrives painted with sweat – on his brow, his back, the underside of his belly – and he is breathing heavily. He looks as though he’s run to Misenum and back. Virgilius is with him.

  Titus stands and hugs Pliny. ‘Old friend!’ After they have exchanged pleasantries, Titus asks, ‘So what is so pressing?’

  ‘I wish to speak to you about the attack on the Parthian hostage Barlaas.’

  ‘Ah, that,’ Titus says dismissively. ‘Do we need to? Virgilius has already described the incident in detail. It’s a strange tale, certainly. But I’m not sure why you are so concerned about it?’

  Most would be discouraged by Titus’s response. The admiral, however, is not most men. He finds it interesting. ‘Strange,’ he says, stroking his beard. ‘Earlier this year, as Prefect, when charged with keeping your father safe and in power, you would have taken this type of news on the edge of your seat. You’d have gone straight to your father to warn him. You’d have questioned Barlaas yourself. Men would be rounded up. Interrogations would follow. Blood would be spilt. But now that you are emperor . . . You take the news as your father would have. You dismiss it.’

  Titus smiles. ‘I’m happy to give the admiral new puzzles to solve. But we have more pressing issues than a botched robbery, don’t we?’

  Pliny and Virgilius look at each other – the exchange is brief but obvious.

  ‘Are you referring to the Sibyl’s . . . predictions?’ Pliny says, choking on the last word.

  Titus ignores Pliny’s reference to the Sibyl. ‘The False Nero is becoming an embarrassment and possibly dangerous. I have held the Principate for less than two months. My position remains tenuous. Having a man in Parthia, claiming to be Nero – it undermines my position as emperor. It’s worse than it was with Father. Father won the civil war; he took the Principate by force. I was handed the throne.’ Titus holds up a piece of paper. ‘Have you heard the latest? The governor of Bithynia says there are now rumours the False Nero has been welcomed by King Artabanus. Apparently this king has a man in his service, a former hostage here in Rome, who knew Nero. He has confirmed the False Nero’s legitimacy.’

  Pliny must have heard this already: rather than gape, as I am, he is composed.

  ‘Mere rumours,’ Pliny says. ‘And Artabanus will not win the war. The boy Pacorus will. And it is Pacorus’s emissaries we are to meet tomorrow. Through his emissaries, King Pacorus will recognize you as the legitimate emperor of Rome. In a few months’ time, no one will care what a ragtag army in the wilds of Hyrcania said or did.’

  ‘We should send an army east,’ Titus says.

  Pliny and Virgilius look at each other again. Titus sees it this time.

  ‘What is it?’ he says. ‘What are you two on about? Do you think I put too much credence in the Sibyl?’ He stares at me, to see what my reaction is. Is he embarrassed? This is very unlike my brother the general. ‘Out with it,’ he says to Pliny. ‘Tell me your concerns.’

  Pliny is reluctant to speak his mind; he sighs.

  Finally, Pliny says, ‘It is . . . unwise to act on the ravings of a starved girl in a cave. What you witnessed was a show. A persuasive show, yes; one that has persuaded many Roman leaders for a thousand years. But a show nonetheless. The attack on Barlaas, however, could constitute a real threat to the em
pire and the Imperial family.’

  ‘Ulpius agrees that we should send an army east,’ Titus says.

  Virgilius swears under his breath.

  ‘The Spaniard is not to be trusted,’ Pliny says. ‘He has his own agenda.’

  ‘I disagree,’ Titus says. He points at the paper on his desk. ‘If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have much to get through.’

  ‘But we need to discuss the reception of the Parthian emissaries tomorrow,’ Pliny says.

  ‘Do we?’ Titus says. ‘Ulpius says I should not receive them on the road. Caesar can meet a king. But to receive the king’s subjects – the Parthians will view it as weakness.’

  ‘Ulpius is not shy giving Caesar advice, is he?’ Pliny says, under his breath. Then, in a louder voice, he says, ‘Who then will receive our guests tomorrow?’

  Titus points at me. ‘Take Domitilla and Domitian. I will meet the emissaries in the evening, in Puetoli, at the reception.’

  The admiral smiles. ‘A fine idea.’ He stands. ‘Until tomorrow evening, Caesar.’

  I stand with Pliny and Virgilius but linger after they leave. ‘I didn’t know you visited the Sibyl?’

  Caesar scowls.

  ‘What did she say, Titus?’ I ask. ‘This is not like you, Titus. To be . . . devout.’

  ‘It was nothing, sister. My aims would be the same, with or without the Sibyl’s visions.’

  *

  Pliny is waiting for me in the receiving room. Together we walk down the dark hallway, toward the pier. ‘You’re concerned for my brother?’

  Pliny smiles. ‘Always.’

  ‘You don’t trust Ulpius?’

  Pliny shakes his head. ‘The man is a liar.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but that doesn’t necessarily mean that he can’t be trusted. He was instrumental in exposing Marcellus.’

  ‘I disagree.’

  We continue down the hallway.

  I ask, ‘You think Titus has taken the Sibyl’s words to heart?’

  Pliny shrugs. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it? He cares little about the attack on Barlaas. Yet the False Nero, on the other side of the world, is a threat he cannot countenance. Your brother was never a superstitious man. But perhaps the Sibyl has seduced him.’

  At the pier, Pliny’s ship is ready to depart. When the captain spots the admiral, he bellows orders.

  We stop at the gangplank.

  ‘I wonder,’ Pliny says, ‘if, as emperor, acknowledging every threat to the Principate would lead one to go mad. Indeed, one could say that happened to Nero, dealing with the hint of a threat as if it were a knife to his throat – he became more violent, the threats more real.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I say.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Pliny says. ‘Threats to the Principate cannot be ignored.’

  I put my hand on Pliny’s shoulder. ‘That is why Caesar is lucky to have you. Together we will keep our eyes on the visiting Parthians.’

  Pliny nods.

  ‘Get some sleep, admiral,’ I say. ‘We need you sharp tomorrow.’

  ‘Sleep?’ Pliny looks confused.

  ‘Yes, sleep. Or write, exercise by the light of the moon. Whatever it is that you do to stay vital – go do that. There is nothing more to be done in Baiae tonight.’

  II

  The Emissaries

  A.D. 79

  Gaius

  20 August

  A clearing, north of Neapolis

  The Parthians enter the field on horseback. The beat of a kettledrum drowns out the screaming cicadas. There are three emissaries, riding the famous Nisean breed, as beautiful and elegant as their legend claims. Two dark bay and one midnight black. They are accompanied by a dozen soldiers and slaves. Riding in the rear of the column are four Roman soldiers, the Parthian escorts since landing on Italian soil.

  This morning, Uncle Pliny and I left Misenum at an ungodly hour. We rendezvoused with Prefect Virgilius, Domitilla, Domitian, and four dozen Praetorians in Baiae. Ulpius was there as well, along with Marcus, and their two freedmen, the one-eyed Theseus and the man always whispering in Ulpius’s ear, Cyrus. Senators and knights of varying importance were also invited, and both Parthian hostages. Uncle Pliny and I watched as Barlaas mounted his horse, his doctor pulling at his robes and ranting that Barlaas was too ill to be out of bed, let alone ride a horse. Barlaas looked exhausted, his complexion ashen, but he would not be deterred. He scared the doctor away with a swift kick to the ribs.

  As we marched to Neapolis, Uncle Pliny reminded me of the task at hand. ‘Remember, Gaius,’ he whispered, ‘we must watch the Parthians closely.’

  We rendezvoused with the emissaries of King Pacorus two miles north of Neapolis.

  Now four mounted Parthians are riding out to the middle of the field. They are followed at a distance by the four Roman soldiers who escorted them across Italy. Uncle Pliny, Virgilius, Spartacus and four Praetorians ride to meet the emissaries. Trumpets drown out the dull sound of their horses’ hooves on the sun-baked field.

  The parties converse. Spartacus waves his hands as he translates.

  The sun seems to grow stronger as we wait. My exposed arms and the back of my neck sizzle in the heat. Globs of sweat drip down my back.

  ‘Jupiter’s cock!’ Domitian whines. ‘How much longer is this going to take?’

  Domitilla shushes her brother. The young prince brushes his black bangs from his eyes.

  The party in the field finally gallops toward us.

  Of the four Parthians on horseback, two are tall, bearded and noble in appearance. Brothers, if I had to guess. Twins possibly. The third is shorter than his countrymen, his beard wild and unkempt, with mismatched eyes: one green and one brown. The twins and the man with the strange eyes are wearing the traditional Parthian armour, chain mail, with trousers tucked into riding boots. The fourth Parthian is obviously less important than the other three. He is not wearing armour, but a weathered Median robe that is too large for his small, bony frame. He is quite ugly, with an unhealthy pallor and severe expression – although most of him is hidden under his oversized robes and his green Scythian cap, a pointed hat that covers his head, the back of his neck and ears.

  Uncle Pliny introduces the short, dishevelled Parthian first, a sign that he is the one in charge. Arshad is his name. The brothers are Farbod and Farhad. The ugly old man is their translator, Atropates.

  Arshad speaks in a strange dialect and Atropates translates it into Latin. ‘We are honoured to meet the Augusta and the emperor’s brother. Pacorus, the second of his name, our king of kings, sends his greetings.’

  ‘Yes, well. Good,’ Domitian says. The young prince is out of his element.

  His sister takes naturally to the role. ‘I hope your journey was not a difficult one,’ she says.

  Arshad, via his translator, says, ‘may we converse in Greek?’

  Domitian shrugs.

  ‘Of course,’ Domitilla says.

  Arshad’s Greek is surprisingly good, though they say the influence of Alexander still lingers in Parthia. He describes their journey to Italy, across land to Syria, through Asia to Thrace, where they proceeded by boat. He complains of the heat, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘I do not know how Romans live in this heat. It is like a forge.’

  ‘The only way to escape the heat,’ Domitian says, ‘is through distraction. Tomorrow there will be an array of games to welcome you to Italy. You will have the true Roman experience.’

  Arshad nods. ‘Excellent. Will there be gladiators? We cannot leave Rome without seeing gladiators.’

  Domitian nods. ‘Oh yes. We have planned a spectacle like no other.’

  ‘We have brought a famed fighter from Sogdiana,’ Arshad says. He claps his hands and a giant of a man emerges from the emissaries’ cortege. He is not any taller than the Parthian twins, but he is wide and muscular. ‘This is the Sogdian Spear. One of Parthia’s greatest warriors. He wishes to test his skills against a Roman gladiator.’

  Domitian is amused. ‘You brought y
our own champion? Bravo.’

  ‘What of this Bat-av-ian?’ Arshad asks. He stumbles over the name, spitting out each syllable. ‘We have heard his name many times since landing in Italy. He is all the countryside speaks of.’

  I can tell Uncle Pliny is frustrated with the frivolous turn the conversation has taken. ‘The Batavian’s exploits have been in the hunt,’ he says, ‘not the gladiatorial fights. And we cannot speak for his owner, Senator Nerva.’

  ‘He will not fight our champion?’ Arshad asks. He whispers to the brothers and all three of them laugh.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we could arrange something,’ Domitian says.

  ‘Splendid,’ Arshad says.

  *

  On the march back to Naples, Uncle Pliny and Virgilius talk quietly. I ride beside them, trying to listen over the sound of hooves thumping the well-trodden path.

  ‘I spoke to the Roman soldiers who escorted the Parthians across Italy,’ Virgilius says. ‘I asked whether any of the Parthians could have been in Baiae two nights ago. Their officer said it wasn’t possible. He said they made camp five miles away, and they have had eyes on the Parthians the entire time.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’ Uncle Pliny asks.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Virgilius says. ‘Something was off about those men.’

  ‘What do you mean off?’

  ‘The legate in Ravenna was under orders to send his best men with the emissaries. If those men are his best and brightest . . .’ Virgilius shakes his head. ‘I will write to their commander to see what I can find out.’

  Uncle Pliny nods, then asks me, ‘what about you, nephew? Did you notice anything peculiar?’

  In all the of the excitement, I’d forgotten to watch Barlaas and Sinnaces. Uncle Pliny sees I’m embarrassed.

  ‘You didn’t watch them at all?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle.’