*
I wake the next morning to the greatest pain imaginable. It is as though a spear has been pushed through one temple and out the other. My body aches, from head to toe, especially my stomach, where the soldier first struck me.
Zosimus is on a stool muddling a mixture of herbs in a mortar and pestle. I have the sense he has been here all evening, caring for me.
‘Your healing time is over.’
The voice belongs to Uncle Pliny.
I turn my head – delicately, because any movement only brings more pain – and see the admiral standing over me. ‘I have given you the morning to lick your wounds. Now we talk about what happened yesterday.’
Memories of the afternoon come back, but only in fragments. I recall the fight with the soldiers, and Marcus coming to my rescue, and Theseus coming to both of our rescue. And I recall the terrible scar on Marcus’s left shoulder blade. But I’ve no recollection of what happened after that or how I made it to Misenum.
I sit up and a rush of blood swirls between my temples.
‘Uncle,’ I say, as I grip my skull, trying to hold the pain at bay. ‘Can this possibly wait for later in the day?’
‘It cannot,’ he says. ‘If you’re too hungover, it’s your own fault. Not mine.’
I grab Zosimus’s arm and, with imploring eyes, say, ‘Water, Zosimus. Water please.’
‘First drink this,’ he says and hands me a black-ish bubbling concoction. I down the gritty liquid in one gulp.
‘Ugh. Please, Zosimus. Water.’
My dutiful slave rushes out of the room.
‘Let’s start with how much you drank yesterday,’ Uncle Pliny says.
‘I had no choice, Uncle. Domitian wouldn’t let me sit with him unless I drank a whole skin of wine.’
Uncle Pliny shakes his head. ‘This is my fault. I have kept you too sheltered. You’ve no idea how to handle a bully like Domitian.’ He frowns and stares at me for a moment, thinking. ‘And how did you fare getting information from Sinnaces?’
I shake my head.
‘So this self-harm was for nothing?’
‘Not entirely,’ I say. I explain what happened after the gladiatorial fights, how I was attacked by soldiers and Marcus came to my aid.
Uncle Pliny twists his carnelian ring. ‘Hmmm. That is something, isn’t it? Friendships are formed in conflict.’ He smiles. ‘And it sounds like you handled yourself well, my boy.’
The guilt I feel at having no success with Sinnaces eases. I can’t help but smile. ‘Thank you, Uncle.’
‘And do you now have a different view of Marcus Ulpius?’
Reluctant to concede our earlier debate so easily, I merely shrug. ‘Possibly. He did rescue me from a terrible fate.’
Uncle Pliny nods but does not gloat. He is only glad someone else can see the truth of the matter.
‘Get dressed,’ he says.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Baiae. To call on the Ulpii.’
*
An old woman answers the door. She is a little thing, with wispy grey hair tied in a bun on the top of her head.
‘Tell your master admiral Secundus is here to see him,’ Uncle Pliny says.
The old woman is clearly a house slave. Yet she is bold enough to ignore Uncle Pliny. Instead, she obsesses over me. She stares at my face; she leans in, like a doctor. She opens my right eye with two hands and examines it, as though she were trying to see inside my head. ‘On what day were you born?’ she asks.
I tell her and she nods gravely.
‘And the year?’
‘The consulship of Petronius Turpilianus and Caesennius Paetus.’
She is impressed by this. ‘Come in, my Lord. Come in.’
She takes us to the tablinum and points at a couch. We sit and she sits beside me.
There is no sign of Ulpius or Marcus, and she hasn’t sent any other staff to alert them that we are here. It is as though she thinks we are here for her.
‘May I?’ she asks, pointing at my hand. I nod and she takes my hand in hers, turns the palm up, and inspects it. ‘Ah,’ she says, as if something were obvious, ‘as I thought.’
Uncle Pliny whispers in my ear. ‘A witch, nephew. Pay her no mind.’ To the woman, he says, ‘Is your master home?’
The old woman keeps staring at my palm. ‘My Lord Ulpius is here. As is young Marcus. I will fetch Master Ulpius for you. Maybe the young Lord would like to visit master Marcus in his room?’
Prior to yesterday, I couldn’t think of anything more terrifying than surprising Marcus Ulpius in his bedroom. But we are friends now. I think.
Uncle Pliny answers for me. ‘Yes, that is a fine idea.’
The old woman bows. ‘My Lord. Should you need anything more, my name is Elsie.’
Elsie guides me through the villa. Marcus’s room is large, with a bed on one side and a desk in the corner. On one wall, there is a painting of a young man, carrying an older man over his shoulder. It’s a dark night, lit by a momentary bolt of lightning. Behind the figures, in the distance, are the fortified walls of a city, surrounded by an army. Aeneas carrying his father away from the walls of Troy.
Marcus is reading. Elsie announces my presence and Marcus looks up.
I had thought I would receive a smile after what we had both been through the day before, but his face is impassive. Our relationship has progressed far less than I’d hoped: we’ve gone from antagonistic to cold, possibly lukewarm.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
Elsie interjects. ‘Marcus! Master Gaius is a guest in your home. Yes? That is no way to talk to a guest.’
I have never heard anyone talk to Marcus Ulpius like that. Not even his uncle. For a slave to speak so boldly to her master . . . .
It is astonishing. And rather than take offence at her tone, Marcus acknowledges she is correct. He smiles at her; he nods. ‘Welcome, Gaius,’ he says.
This woman Elsie is truly a force of nature.
She nods, satisfied Marcus has made amends for his poor manners, and leaves.
‘What are you reading?’ I ask.
‘Homer,’ he says. ‘The Iliad.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I am surprised. I did not think you were one for the poets.’
A misstep. He is offended. ‘Do you have a monopoly on reading?’
‘I – um – of course not. I . . .’ Inspired by the mural on the wall, I say, ‘I prefer Virgil.’
‘You would,’ he says, bluntly.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Rich boys like Virgil.’
I want to say: What are you then? You’re twice as rich as we are. Three times.
But Uncle Pliny wouldn’t say anything of the kind. He never takes offence. He would only make a note: Young Marcus Ulpius doesn’t see himself as rich. He would consider that interesting and aim to find out why.
I change the subject: ‘Why did your slave want to know my birthday?’
Marcus smiles. ‘She is a Chaldean priest in training. Careful, she will tell you your future and life will no longer be a surprise.’
I have found the one topic of conversation Marcus likes to discuss: an old slave named Elsie.
‘She said the date was very auspicious.’
Marcus is impressed. ‘Did she?’ He looks at me as though he is seeing me for the first time. He says, ‘she was concerned that I was rude to you. Maybe you’ll be a powerful man one day – one I shouldn’t be on the wrong side of. Consul, perhaps. Or the emperor.’
I laugh nervously at the absurd suggestion. It’s dangerous to speak of anyone other than Titus as the Princeps. ‘I have no such desire. I can assure you.’
‘Are you sure?’ he asks. ‘You could have any book you want.’
He is smiling. Was that meant to be a joke?
‘That would be an advantage,’ I say. ‘Is she a witch?’
‘She’d like to think so.’
‘My uncle is dubious of magic, but I think she unnerved him.’ I smile. ‘I
t was a sight to see, my uncle unnerved.’
‘Is the admiral here now?’
‘Yes, I think he’s meeting with your uncle.’
Marcus stands. ‘We should go. They may need a referee.’
*
‘Because I don’t trust you! I never have.’ The voice is Uncle Pliny’s. He is nearly yelling, which, for the admiral, is unusual. Uncle Pliny is rarely angry. But Ulpius can get under his skin like no other. ‘Despite my distrust for you, your nephew came to the aide of mine yesterday. That counts for something. So, I am giving you a chance to explain yourself.’
Marcus and I enter the tablinum. Uncle Pliny is on the edge of the couch. Ulpius is bent over his walking staff. He is as calm as Uncle Pliny is agitated.
‘What is it you want, admiral?’ Ulpius says.
‘What is your relationship to Sulpicius? What happened between you two?’
‘What do you care of Sulpicius?’ Ulpius says. ‘You’ve told Caesar the greatest threat to the empire at the moment is the Parthian emissaries – as though three ambassadors were an invading army.’
‘You are certain the emissaries are benign? Did you know Gaius saw Sulpicius meeting with two of the Parthian emissaries,’ Uncle Pliny says, ‘in secret.’
Ulpius frowns; he leans back and whispers with Cyrus, his Parthian freedman.
‘My dispute with Sulpicius had nothing to do with Parthia,’ Ulpius says. ‘I do not know why Sulpicius would meet with the emissaries in secret.’
‘Come now, Ulpius,’ Uncle Pliny says. ‘Tell me what happened between you two. It could help us get to the bottom of whatever it is Sulpicius and the Parthians have planned.’
‘Are you proposing we work together?’ Ulpius asks.
Uncle Pliny shakes his head. ‘No. We will not work together until you tell me the truth.’
‘The truth?’
‘Yes. The truth. Not just about Sulpicius. I want to know who you are. Who you really are.’
Ulpius smiles. ‘Truth. Identity. Sticky subjects, are they not?’
‘In my experience,’ Uncle Pliny says, ‘only liars have trouble telling the truth, and only imposters cannot say who they are.’
‘You don’t think I was born Lucius Ulpius?’ Ulpius’s smile grows. He is enjoying this.
‘I do not.’
‘But you don’t know. Do you? You only have a suspicion.’
Uncle Pliny’s silence confirms Ulpius’s theory.
Ulpius’s smile grows. ‘How many questions has the great admiral left unanswered? Not many I’d wager. How it must nag. But it shouldn’t bother you, Pliny. Think of it as a gift, an intellectual challenge worthy of the great admiral.’
Uncle Pliny is furious; his face reddens. He goes on the offensive: ‘Why have you been trying to convince Caesar to send an army east, to the False Nero?’
Ulpius shrugs. ‘I do not wish to say.’
‘You are an imposter.’ Uncle Pliny points an accusatory finger at Ulpius. ‘One I will unearth.’ He stands suddenly. ‘Come, Gaius. We are leaving.’
Without waiting for me, he departs, like a boulder rolling down a hill.
‘It seems we did a poor job refereeing,’ Marcus says. ‘Come. I will show you out.’
As we follow Uncle Pliny, curiosity gets the better of me. ‘I saw your wound. The one on your shoulder.’
Marcus frowns at my question. Does he think I am prying? He is going to ignore the question, but Elsie, who is walking behind us, clears her throat.
Chastised once again, Marcus sighs and asks, ‘and?’
‘It looked terribly painful.’
‘It was.’
‘What happened?’
‘A knife,’ he says, and leaves it at that.
His scar is clearly not something he wants to discuss. I wonder who would take a knife to Marcus. I would hate to see the man who did it.
III
New to Town
A.D. 75
Captain Verecundus
17 October
The Middle Sea, near Selecuia Pieria
I nearly sent them away. They didn’t look like they could afford the cost. There were four of them without a single slave. That alone is a sign of poverty. Plus, the eldest is as blind as Polyphemus, once Ulysses is done with him, and looked like a beggar, rags and all. Because it is winter, the sea and winds are treacherous. I thought: wherever they want to go, the price is double. How could a beggar and three hangers-on afford such a price?
But when they handed me a bag of gold coins that was triple the price, I thought: their money is as good as any others’. Isn’t it?
‘Where to?’ I asked.
‘Syria,’ the blind man said. ‘And we leave within the hour.’
We left Pergamum, sailing east. From the start, it was obvious they were a strange group. I thought they were father and son, or possibly uncle and nephew, with two slaves. But they disregarded any sense of hierarchy. The slaves addressed the other two as though they were equals. And all four slept in the rented cabin, rather than the slaves making due on the deck, as any respectable patrician would insist. And they always at, ate together, sometimes laughing but usually bickering over stale bread and fish sauce.
Stranger still: about halfway through our journey, I learned they are chasing a eunuch. A powerful one, with powerful friends. I heard them talking about it. The eunuch this, the eunuch that. The eunuch would have gone here, he would have gone there.
I’ve captained this ship for fifteen years, and I’ve had all sorts aboard for all sorts of reasons. Four men chasing a powerful eunuch across the empire is, hands down, the oddest yet.
Despite their comradery, they seem on edge. Tempers are short, voices quick to rise. It’s as though they’ve recently escaped some great threat to their lives. They remind me of my crew after narrowly escaping a storm. Not the immediate aftermath, when everyone is happy to be alive. But the next day, when they’re exhausted and all they want is to set their feet on solid ground.
It’s near the end of our journey that I begin to feel sorry for the boy. His uncle – I eventually learned the blind man is his uncle – expects a great deal of him. I hear the blind man talk about his plans for the boy, as though he were a marble bust an artist was looking to chisel. My plans. Your future. The sentiment sends a chill down my spine because it sounds all too familiar.
It was an overbearing father that sent me running from my home before my fourteenth birthday. Father was a freedman. He’d made a fortune in business after earning his freedom. But his servile past barred him from politics. It was a bargain that never set well with Father. He could earn all the money he wanted, but he was precluded from holding any of the power that should come with it. He focused on my political career. My earliest memories are of Father pushing me, nagging me, bullying me to learn the skills he thought I needed to succeed in politics. By fourteen, I’d had enough.
I ran. I left by sea, earning passage on a ship by taking up the oar.
It was my first time aboard a ship and I fell in love with it. Over the course of forty years, I worked my way up, from lowly oarsman to captain.
I watch the boy bicker with his uncle and think: how long until this boy runs? I give it a year.
I caught the boy crying once. It was the middle of the night, and he was alone at the bow. I left him be. I asked one of the freedmen about it. He said the boy lost a friend in Rhodes not too long ago. He left it at that.
Despite myself, I eventually fall victim to the cripple’s charm. He makes jokes and they are often funny. Plus, he is knowledgeable about a great deal and can tell a good story. He is, in short, a perfect drinking partner.
At sea you do not shun a drinking partner.
We are near the end of our journey now. Tomorrow, in the morning, we will arrive in the port of Selecuia Pieria. As my blind passenger and I enjoy wine near the stern, my curiosity propels me to ask the questions I’ve been asking myself for weeks.
‘What is your name?’
&n
bsp; The blind man smiles. ‘I’ve never told you?’
‘No.’
‘How strange you waited until now to ask.’
‘I thought you’d lie. Why ask for a lie?’
The cripple nods. ‘These days I go by the name Ulpius.’
‘These days?’ I mutter. ‘Alright, Ulpius, now that I’ve gotten you to open up, tell me this: why are you for heading to Syria?’
‘Have you not asked this already?’
‘You told me you wanted to see the Euphrates before you die, which was obviously a lie.’
‘Why? Because I am blind?’
‘For a start.’ I clasp my hands together, praying for relief. ‘Come now, Ulpius. What do you have to lose? There’s no harm in telling an old captain sailing the seas the truth. Tell me who you really are.’
The blind man ruminates over his cup of wine. He swirls it.
‘You want to know the truth?’ he asks. ‘You want to know who I am?’
‘Yes.’
The blind man smiles, mischievously.
‘I am Nero Claudius Caesar. Seven years ago I was deposed, betrayed by a cabal of ambitious senators and soldiers. Ever since, I have been chasing the men who did this to me – the men who took my eyes and my throne. I swore an oath to Apollo I would have my revenge.’
I am half-drunk – maybe three-quarters – and slow to react.
Finally, I sigh. ‘Fine. Don’t tell me.’
I fill our cups and we drink until dawn.
Nero
15 December
Antioch, Syria
Marcus screams. The sound is primordial.
The pain must be excruciating.
My stomach turns.
Even though Marcus has drunk enough wine to fell an elephant, and he’s biting down on a leather belt to muzzle his screams, as Theseus hacks off a strip of skin the size of my hand, tearing it from Marcus’s shoulder blade, the pain is too much.
‘Hold him still,’ Theseus yells.
‘I am,’ Doryphorus yells back. ‘You need to hurry. When Sulpicius’s gladiators return, if we don’t have this tattoo gone, we’re all dead.’
Blind as I am, I can’t see what’s happening.
I can’t see Marcus face down on the table. I can’t see Doryphorus, my freedman and actor, holding Marcus in place. I can’t see Theseus, my one-eyed freedman and former gladiator, grasping a knife. I can’t see the bloody ribbons of flesh being peeled away from Marcus’s back.
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