A violent flurry followed by a merciful act: the Batavian constantly surprises. It’s as though he gets pleasure out of being unpredictable.
The fight is over. I realize I’ve been gripping the arm of my chair as though my life were in jeopardy.
‘Bravo. Bravo,’ Titus says clapping his hands together. Two lictors pull the Praetorian to his feet and help him out of the warehouse. ‘We have a deal, Nerva. Ptolemy will see to the price.’
I walk arm-in-arm with Titus back to the party. He whispers, ‘Dear Sister, I’m never one to believe rumours, especially scandalous rumours aimed at my sister and a famous slave. But you are not helping by sighing whenever said slave’s physical well-being is put in jeopardy. Yes?’
My cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger. I know better than to act like that. Titus is right. I can’t bring myself to admit what happened. Not aloud. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s fine,’ Titus says. ‘Other than me, I don’t think anyone saw. Tomorrow, when the Batavian fights, perhaps you should take a walk.’
Gaius
20 August
The Puetoli market
A stage has been set up at one end of the market. A poet stands on at its edge, reciting bawdy poetry. A crowd has gathered to watch. Zosimus and I stand on the periphery. When the crowd laughs uproariously at a punchline that ends with the words, ‘Me arse,’ we roll our eyes.
Near the edge of the market, I spot the blue-eyed, dark-haired slave that Marcus had been talking to the other night. The girl who spat at me. She’s walking toward the warehouses. I feel compelled to catch up to her, to explain myself, to tell her I am sorry that I interfered, that I only meant to help.
‘Come along, Zosimus,’ I say, pointing at the girl.
I can tell Zosimus disapproves of chasing a slave girl across a party, but he does as I ask.
We hurry after the girl. Rather than head toward the city centre or the pier, as I had expected, she takes a turn into a dark alleyway.
We reach the mouth of the alleyway and I hesitate.
‘What’s wrong, Master?’ Zosimus asks.
Why would the girl head down this dark alleyway? Am I only going to repeat my blunder from before?
My caution has unnerved Zosimus. ‘Maybe we should head back to the party?’ he says.
I peer around the corner.
Walking towards us is the girl. She is with Senator Sulpicius and his doctore. They are moving quickly. I’m not sure why, but I feel compelled to hide.
‘Quick, Zosimus,’ I whisper, ‘over here.’
I drag Zosimus from the mouth of the alleyway and down behind a crate.
Sulpicius, his doctore, the girl and another slave carrying a torch walk past.
Zosimus is about to say something, but he stops himself. He feels the same urge I do to remain unnoticed.
Sulpicius is grumbling at his doctore. ‘Everything is arranged.’
‘What do we do in the meantime?’
I can’t hear Sulpicius’s response.
The three of them walk to the market.
‘Should we go back, Master?’ Zosimus asks.
Before I can reply, I hear a noise down the alleyway. I am again taken with the instinct not to move. I put my hand on Zosimus’s shoulder and put a finger to my lips. ‘Shhhh.’
Three more figures emerge from the alleyway. Their distinctive trousers and Median robes give them away, even before I see their faces.
Parthians.
It is Arshad, the leading emissary, and his translator, the man who wears a Scythian cap. They are accompanied by one of their slaves carrying a torch.
Were the Parthians meeting with Sulpicius? The idea seems so strange that I immediately doubt it. I must be wrong. Maybe the Parthians were passing through the alleyway, as Sulpicius had, from some other location.
After I’m certain no one else is going to emerge from the alleyway, I stand and drag Zosimus down the alleyway to investigate. It ends after thirty paces.
‘A dead-end,’ Zosimus says.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘which means Sulpicius was meeting with the Parthian emissaries. And it appears that meeting was done in secret.’
*
I find Uncle Pliny admiring a giraffe, which is being led through the market. He whispers in my ear, ‘You missed quite the show, nephew.’ He sees my inquisitive expression and adds, ‘I will tell you later.’
‘I have something to tell you as well.’
‘Do you?’ He puts his beefy arm around me. ‘That’s my boy. Never a moment wasted.’
I describe what I saw.
Uncle Pliny frowns. ‘The mystery thickens by the day, doesn’t it? A Parthian hostage attacked in the streets of Baiae, days before the Parthians’ emissaries are expected. And those same emissaries are meeting in secret with Senator Sulpicius, who recently returned from the east. Meanwhile, Senator Ulpius, an imposter, has Caesar’s ear, and is pleading for an army to march east, to Parthia. And Sulpicius hates Ulpius.’ He shakes his head. ‘There are three elements – Ulpius, Parthia and Sulpicius. They seem connected until you look at it closely, and then it all falls apart.’
My head spins trying to make sense of it all. ‘What now, Uncle?’
‘Every problem has a solution, nephew. We press on until we have the answer.’
Domitilla
21 August
The Villa Piso, Baiae
Morning, the crack of dawn. Pink skies and August’s oppressive heat, even at this hour. My flamingo-pink silk stola sticks to my ribs like a wet cloth.
I leave Baiae in a litter, on the shoulders of slaves, hidden behind sheets of translucent white silk. Jacasta sits beside me. We head east, first along the coast, and then across the Herculaneum road, a narrow bridge over the sea, and into the heart of Puteoli. We hear the screech of black-headed gulls and the gentle lapping of waves against the cement pier. Then, once inside the city, we hear the clamour of the crowd, pulsing with the sense of excitement only the games can inspire. Bets are placed. Wine is sold. Near the arena we hear the unmistakable sound of someone being slapped and a fight breaks out.
Soldiers clear space and my litter is lowered to the ground. The silk sheets part; I present my hand and a Praetorian helps me to my feet.
The crowd has been watching the litter expectantly.
‘Look, the Augusta!’
‘The emperor’s sister! Here!’
Soldiers hold their spears perpendicular to the ground and push the throng backward.
As I’m making my way to the gates of the amphitheatre there is a commotion behind me.
Someone calls out my name.
I turn to see two soldiers holding a man by the arms. He is poor, fifty or so, dressed in black, save a bright green cap. His beard is thin and matted.
‘Who is he?’
I had asked Jacasta, but it is the maid with the one eyebrow who answers. She emerges from the entourage of servants that followed my litter on foot. ‘Mistress,’ she says, ‘that is the undertaker who begged to speak to you. Plinius Pinarius.’
The undertaker’s expression is sad and expectant. It would only take a moment to speak with him. But what kind of precedent would that set?
‘Mistress,’ Jacasta says, ‘we must get you inside.’
‘I can speak with him, Mistress,’ the maid says.
Jacasta – instantly territorial – is about to take on the task herself, but I wave my hand. Let her do this.
The maid goes to the undertaker. Because they are a distance away, with a raucous crowd in between us, I can’t hear what is said. The man speaks; the maid nods, says something in reply, and then hands him something. He smiles and nods his head vigorously. He rushes off, disappearing into the crowd.
‘That was well done,’ I say when the girl comes back. ‘What did you say to him?’
‘It was nothing, Mistress. He was only after money. I promised him a gold coin if he stayed away. He won’t bother you again.’
‘Excellent
. Well done indeed,’ I say. ‘What was your name again?’
‘Livia, Mistress.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Livia. I shall not forget it this time.’
Jacasta, still frowning at Livia’s success, takes my arm and together we walk under the arched entryway of the arena.
‘I’m not sure about her, Mistress,’ she says.
‘Oh, honestly, Jacasta. You have nothing to worry about. No one will ever replace you.’
Gaius
21 August
The amphitheatre, Puteoli
The amphitheatre is an oval of sand, surrounded by cement seats. Today it will be full, nearly thirty thousand people, cheering and drinking and carrying on as if this is the best day of their lives. And maybe for some it is. Games thrown by Caesar himself, in the flesh, do not happen every day, not for those who live outside the capital.
Uncle Pliny and I make our way to our seats. Overhead rectangular strips of purple canvas – the crowd’s protection from August’s unforgiving sun – catch and lose the breeze like the sail of a ship.
Uncle Pliny points at Domitian and his entourage. They are not sitting in Caesar’s box, but in their own separate section. Sinnaces and Marcus are there as well.
‘See what you can find out,’ Uncle Pliny says. ‘Make sure the Parthian drinks his fill. Loosen his tongue.’
I take a deep breath.
‘You’ll do fine,’ he says, slapping me on the back. ‘Soon they will be drunk and ready to brag if asked. But remember: don’t drink too much yourself. You need your wits today.’
I nod in agreement and descend the stairs to Domitian’s box. At the entrance, two guards put their hands on my shoulders, barring my entry.
Catullus, yells: ‘Look! The philosopher Gaius Caecilius is descending from the heavens to join us mortals.’
Nearly to a man, the group smiles; some – those already drunk – laugh.
‘You have it wrong, Catullus,’ Domitian says, ‘young Gaius isn’t a philosopher. He is a lawyer. A young Cicero. He’s obviously here hunting for a juicy brief.’
Catullus nearly falls off of his chair laughing at a very poor joke. He seems to be the drunkest out of everyone.
‘I’m here to watch the fights,’ I say. My voice sounds as anaemic as I feel.
‘Never,’ Catullus says, still doubled over.
‘Prove it,’ Domitian says. He tosses a skin of wine. ‘Drink!’
I stare at Domitian a moment. Surely, he’s joking? Domitian, who is several years my senior, is too old to act like this. But no, he and his friends wait for me to drink the skin of wine. Uncle Pliny warned me not to drink. But, equally, he would be disappointed if I couldn’t even make it into Domitian’s section, let alone get valuable information from Sinnaces.
I pop the cork and squeeze a draught of wine into the back of my mouth.
Domitian and his friends begin to sing; some cheer. And despite not liking a single one of them, their cheers are welcome; they push me past the point I would normally stop, and I keep drinking until the skin is empty. When I’m done I double over, coughing; I nearly retch.
Uncle Pliny will be disappointed. He’ll say, ‘well, what about the tricks I’ve shown you?’ He’s always said: ‘Handle your drink or pour it out.’ And he means it. Not wanting to alienate his friends or superiors by refusing wine, Uncle Pliny will dispose of it secretly. It doesn’t matter where he is – at dinner parties, in the presence of the emperor. He’ll pour it out, back into the carafe or into the garden. Sometimes he’ll hand it to Spartacus who has to take it down in one clandestine swig. I’ve left several events where Uncle Pliny is dead sober and Spartacus is nearly unconscious.
But I couldn’t do that today, could I? Not with more than a dozen pairs of eyes on me.
Anyway, drinking the entire skin of wine has made me popular – or at least less ridiculed. As I make my way to sit beside Sinnaces, young men slap me on the back. One boy slides out of the way so I can sit beside Sinnaces. The Parthian hostage hands me another skin of wine. He’s smiling, and so am I.
It feels good that I am welcome here – this is not a feeling I am accustomed to with my peers.
But this victorious feeling is quashed, or at least diminished, when I see Marcus sitting behind me. He’s glaring at me, disapprovingly. Without thinking it through, aided by the wine and the sense of daring it provides, I look back at Marcus and wink. I don’t care what you think.
I try not to waste any time. As Sinnaces and I sip wine, I barrage him with questions. Do you know the Parthian emissaries? Their families? Will you speak with them directly? What do you make of the King Pacorus? But Sinnaces isn’t interested in my questions. He, like the other young men around us, points at women in the stands and describes them lewdly, or revels in the blood being spilt in front of us, as the animals we had admired last night are cut down on the arena floor.
These young men seem to have an endless lust for women and blood – though I’m convinced this is only when they are together. If you were to watch them at home, secretly, hiding in their closet or under their bed, they’d be different people: respectful, considerate, less lewd, less violent. But they have an idea of what a man is: dominant, strong, violent; and they all fight to show they are the embodiment of this ideal. That’s part of it at least. Domitian also encourages it. He is not a good man. But because his brother is Caesar, his hangers-on not only forgive his poor qualities, they emulate them.
The morning continues; I keep drinking wine.
I should slow down. But how?
Anyway, I’m handling my wine well enough.
The last animal to be slain is a panther. A hunter – wobbly legs, streaked with blood – sticks his spear into the beast one final time and collapses to the arena’s sandy floor.
The crowd roars.
An army of slaves enters the arena. They clear the carcasses, help the bloodied hunter hobble off, and sprinkle sand onto the various lakes and snaking rivulets of blood.
I decide to give Sinnaces one last try before we retire for lunch.
‘More wine?’ I say, brandishing a skin of wine.
Sinnaces peels his eyes away from the arena. ‘Yes, why not.’
I take a sip first. As I’m handing the skin to Sinnaces I say, ‘Did you mention you were kin of any of the emissaries?’
Sinnaces drinks; his sip transforms into a glug. When he’s finished, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Honestly, Gaius. How many questions will you ask me? Sitting beside you feels like a chore.’
A trumpet marks the end of the hunts.
We are halfway through the day and I’ve accomplished nothing.
What’s worse: as I stand to leave, I see that Marcus is watching me. He has a look on his face – an amused, patronizing smile – as though he knows what I was trying to do, and knows I failed.
Failing Uncle Pliny is bad enough. But having Marcus witness the whole affair . . .
Salt in the wound.
Barlaas
21 August
The amphitheatre, Puteoli
The executions start in the sixth hour. Criminals are chained to stakes hammered deep into the sand. They are all afraid, but it manifests in different ways. A few are quietly crying; others are muttering prayers. The largest of the lot urinates and warm piss cascades down his leg, staining the sand.
The Romans are cruel. Truly. In Media, I witnessed men killed in a variety of ways, many I’d like to forget. But never for sport. Even the Butcher, when he maimed or killed – it was for political ends. It had a purpose.
The lower sections of the stadium – where the rich sit – empties during the executions, as the well-to-do lunch outside the stadium. I am invited to lunch with Caesar, but I am in too much pain to move. The wound in my side is healing slowly – if at all – and pain radiates along my flank whenever I move.
I’d hoped to sit in peace, but peace may be something I never have again.
The trans
lator, the one who is calling himself Atropates, sits beside me.
I do not acknowledge him. I keep my eyes focused on the shivering convicts.
‘Do you enjoy the executions?’ he croaks. He looks older than the last time I saw him, and gaunter – though it’s hard to say for certain. Much of him is hidden under his oversized robe and Scythian cap.
‘Not particularly,’ I say.
He shakes his head. ‘No, that’s not the Barlaas I remember. The man I knew enjoys the sight of blood. When did you last kill a man?’
‘You should know,’ I say. ‘You were there.’
‘Ah,’ he says, ‘a long time indeed. Is that why you refused us? You’re old and out of practice?’
‘I didn’t refuse you.’
‘That’s true. But you didn’t agree either.’
‘And for that you tried to kill me?’
He is unapologetic; he shrugs. ‘If you are not with us, then you are against us.’
‘I could have given you up,’ I say. ‘But I didn’t.’
‘So far,’ he says. ‘So far.’
A panther, starving and furious, is released. It creeps along the arena floor toward the chained criminals.
‘We were surprised to see you when Caesar’s men greeted us upon our arrival,’ he says. ‘We thought you were dead. Farhad swore he opened your belly.’
‘He doesn’t have much skill with a blade,’ I say. ‘He’s too slow.’
The translator smiles. ‘Did you have armour on? Of course you did. You were always careful.’
The panther bounds across the arena and throws itself at a criminal. Its jaws sink into the poor man’s shoulder. Warm blood spits into the air. A shrill, deafening scream drowns out the cheers of drunken plebs above us.
I keep my eyes on the arena.
‘So,’ he says, ‘tell me: why didn’t you give us up? Why didn’t you run to your Roman masters and tell them what happened?’
‘I’m not a traitor. I’m not Roman.’
The man being mauled has stopped screaming. The other convicts are watching the animal feast on their former colleague. The sound of flesh tearing is occasionally interrupted by the sound of a bone snapping like a twig.
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