The two guards start to laugh. This is the best day of their lives.
*
The only sound inside is a man snoring.
‘They’ve brought a pallet into the cell,’ Theseus says. ‘There’s a man lying on it. He looks injured.’
Theseus guides me to a nearby stool. I hear him rouse the sleeping prisoner.
The man is startled. He starts to cry out, but the noise is muffled by Theseus’s massive hand.
‘We will need you to be quiet,’ I say. ‘If you promise to keep your voice down, my friend here will take his hand off of your mouth. If you are not . . . I’m not sure what he will do.’
‘He’s nodding,’ Theseus says, and I hear him release the prisoner’s jaw.
‘What do you want?’ he asks.
‘A name.’
The man snorts with disgust. He knows who I mean.
‘He’s an imposter. But I suppose you know that. If you thought he was Nero, you wouldn’t want his name.’
‘That is true. Very astute.’ I decide to make friends with the deserter. I want more than just a name. ‘I hear you were a true believer. You thought the man was Nero himself?’
‘Nero is a god,’ he says. ‘He is alive. I know it.’
‘Is that so?’
‘You’re laughing at me,’ he says, ‘but I know Nero. Or I knew him.’
‘I am not laughing, my friend. I also think he is alive. When did you meet the last of the Trojans?’
‘He touched me once, on the hand.’
‘An auspicious event.’
‘It was.’
‘Where? When?’
‘During his tour of Greece.’
‘Ah, I see. And how did you come to join the False Nero’s army?’
‘I wanted to serve my emperor. I knew he was still alive. I knew it. Nero would never abandon us. When I heard he was alive, in Thrace, with an army, I left Greece – I left my wife and my children – I gave up everything. I found them in Thrace . . . It was not as I’d imagined. There were only two hundred men or so. Only a handful had tents, the rest slept under the stars. Their arms were old and rusted. And the man claiming to be Nero was kept hidden most of the time. But I didn’t lose faith.’ He laughs, derisively. ‘Like I said, we barely saw the imposter. Every so often we would stand on top of a massive rock in the middle of the camp, and we would gather before him.’
‘And he would what? Give a speech?’
‘More like a sermon. He would tell us we had been chosen by the gods, to right a great injustice, and he would tell us the great deeds we were destined for. We would chant his name and curse the usurper who had taken his crown. One of his closest advisors was a priest of Apollo. The priest would sacrifice a dozen animals on top of that same rock, and he would read the entrails for hours. The rock was painted red with blood.’
‘How did you discover he was an imposter?’
‘Aside from these sermons, I never got close to him. When he’d mount the rock, he wore a crown of laurels and a purple robe. He had a thick red beard. He looked the part. But these sermons were never enough for me. I needed to get close to him. I had to. If you’d ever met Nero, you’d understand. You’d know the pull he has. One night, I crept through the camp to the imposter’s tent. The canvas was lit from the inside, by torch light. He was meeting with his consilium. I knew it wasn’t my place to spy, but I wanted to see him once, up close, to hear him speak. I laid on the ground and lifted the tent wall up an inch or two and looked inside.
‘And?’
His voice grows angry. ‘It was all a lie. Once he was out of his purple robe and crown of laurels – he didn’t look like a senator, let alone a god. And he and his men talked about their plans like thieves rather than an emperor and his consilium.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘They talked about the sermons, how to improve them, how to make them seem more believable. They talked about what cities to take and loot, or how to trick more people into joining them.’
‘And you heard a name?’
‘Yes.’
‘What name did you hear? Who is the imposter?’
‘They were all former soldiers. They’d all served together. They’d call each other by their former rank. His men mainly called him centurion.’ He snorts. ‘A common centurion.’
‘But you heard a name?’
‘Yes. Terentius. His men called him Terentius.’
Terentius. The man Marcus calls the Fox. The centurion who five years ago dragged me from my bed and ordered his men to cut out my eyes with white-hot blades. Perhaps I had suspected this, though I never said it aloud. We have been following the men who had betrayed me across the empire for five years. All of them left a trail, except for Terentius. He was bold enough to cut out Caesar’s eyes. Why not claim to be Caesar himself?
‘What is his plan?’ I ask. ‘What does the False Nero intend to do?’
‘Kill his enemies and retake his throne.’
IV
I, Gaius
A.D. 79
Domitilla
22 August
The Villa Piso, Baiae
The undertaker’s body is discovered the day of my wedding. Jacasta brings me the news in the morning, after her daily visit to the market.
‘He was floating in the lake,’ Jacasta says, ‘inside the break wall.’
We are in the shade of the colonnade, by the fish pond. Red mullet tails break the surface, with a splash of water.
‘You’re sure it was the same man who tried so desperately to speak with me?’
I think of the skinny man standing outside the stadium in Puteoli, held at bay by Praetorians, holding his green cap. He’d looked earnest and hopeful.
‘Yes, Mistress,’ she says. ‘I happened upon the Praetorians dragging him out of the water. His face was bloated and sickly, but I recognized him from the day of the gladiatorial matches. He wore the same black robe, and he had the same balding head and black beard.’
I had refused to see him because Caesar’s sister should not make it a habit to meet with undertakers. But now that he is gone, the decision seems cruel.
‘He was from Reate? Was he not?’
Reate was the city of Father’s birth. We still have a family home there.
Jacasta shrugs. She doesn’t remember where he was from.
‘I would like to see him,’ I say.
Livia, the maid who dealt with the undertaker, is within earshot of the conversation. She says, ‘There is no need, Mistress. You shouldn’t be close to an undertaker, even one who is dead.’
Jacasta reluctantly agrees. ‘She’s right. And we are short on Praetorians to escort you,’ she says. ‘They have been called out to help drag the undertaker out of the lake.’
Beyond the colonnade, walking through the garden under the unforgiving summer sun is the Batavian. Since his defeat, Titus has put him to work as an Imperial Guard. ‘We can bring him,’ I say, pointing at the Batavian.
*
At the Praetorian barracks, we are escorted to the stables. We find Virgilius and three Praetorians standing over a naked body.
‘Mistress,’ Virgilius says. ‘This is unexpected.’ He motions for his soldiers to give us space and, with his hand on my arm, turns me away from the corpse. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to see him,’ I say turning to the lifeless body.
‘Oh?’ Virgilius looks confused. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I think so,’ I say. ‘May I look closer?’
He nods reluctantly and we move toward the corpse.
The man’s skin looks reptilian, nearly green, and bloated. Patches of black hair stick out of his armpits and cover his crotch and shrivelled cock. His feet are pointing in opposite directions. He looks more eel than man.
Still, his beard and balding head are distinctive.
‘I know him.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He tried to meet with me, twice. He is – he was an undert
aker. He told my maid that he had important information for me. But’ – my voice begins to sound defensive – ‘I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard such a claim. I thought him opportunistic, and declined to meet with him.’
Virgilius nods.
‘Was he killed?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know,’ Virgilius says. ‘There is a cut on his forehead, but we only found the one. I think it likely that he was walking along the break wall, slipped, hit his head and drowned.’
Virgilius stares at me, sympathetically. Do I look sad? Guilty?
Perhaps I do feel guilty. I’m not sure that if I had spoken with the undertaker, I could have prevented his death. But I could have done more than I did.
Virgilius says, ‘I wouldn’t worry about this, Mistress. Odds are he was what you expected: opportunistic. And his death had nothing to do with you. He was only a man who couldn’t keep his balance.’
‘Come, Mistress,’ Jacasta says, taking my arm, ‘We have much planning to do today.’
‘Ah yes,’ Virgilius says, raising his white eyebrows. ‘The wedding. I am looking forward to it.’
*
Nerva calls in the afternoon, during my final fitting for my wedding stola. Livia is holding a mirror and two seamstresses are on their knees measuring and pinching fabric.
‘What does he want?’ I ask.
‘He claims to have news of the missing soldier,’ Jacasta says, ‘Julius Calenus.’
Did I lose an undertaker only to reclaim my missing veteran?
‘See him in.’
Nerva enters the tablinum with purpose, taking strides as long as his little legs can manage. His slave follows at his heels. He stops and bows.
‘You have news of Julius Calenus?’
‘Yes, Mistress,’ he says. ‘Only a titbit, but it is encouraging.’
‘Well?’
‘I had word from a creditor in Beneventum. He said a man was asking for a loan on my account. He gave the name Calenus, and he matches our mutual friend’s description.’
Calenus is our mutual friend now?
‘I thought you were of the opinion that Calenus was in a tavern somewhere, getting drunk?’
Nerva bows slightly. ‘At first, Mistress. But as his absence continued, I began to worry. I’ve had my eyes and ears searching for him. Right now, we only have a hint of his whereabouts, but it’s a start.’
‘Thank you, Nerva. I look forward to hearing more news.’
‘My pleasure, Mistress.’ His smile doesn’t reach his cold eyes. ‘As I’ve said, I am here, at the Principate’s disposal, should you ask. My eyes and ears could be put to good use. And they have seen much these last few days.’
This is meant to entice. Nerva wants me to ask, And what have you seen, Dear Nerva? And he wants to be rewarded for the answers he gives. Consulships, governorships, priesthoods. This worked for him in the past, under Nero. And then early on during Father’s reign. He would help expose a traitorous senator or knight and reap the rewards.
But I wonder how much of Nerva’s information is real? And how much is manufactured? Why did Nerva come today? Did he really have news of Calenus? Or was it contrived to get in the door?
‘Thank you for the offer,’ I say, blandly.
He bows and turns to go.
‘Nerva,’ I say, and he turns back to face me. ‘Did I see you speaking with Domitian at the games?’
He smiles. ‘I – yes. I spoke with Domitian.’
‘Why, I wonder? What could you and Domitian have in common? You are a politician. And Domitian is not.’
Nerva is still smiling. He seems – for perhaps the first time – lost for words.
Suddenly Livia drops the mirror. She cries out and immediately apologizes. The room stares as she picks it up. A large crack runs from one corner to the next.
‘I’m so sorry, Mistress.’
‘Not to worry, Livia,’ I say. ‘We have more, I’m sure.’
Livia bows and rushes off to find another mirror.
I turn to Nerva. ‘Where was I?’
‘You were wondering why I was speaking with your brother. Actually, Mistress, I was seeking out your brother’s advice. He is quite knowledgeable about the gladiatorial fights, and I am quite ignorant.’
‘I see,’ I say. ‘Well, you had the right man. The fights are one of the few things my brother knows well.’
As Nerva is turning to leave, I ask, ‘Will we see you at the wedding?’
Nerva grimaces. ‘I do not believe I was invited.’
Barlaas
22 August
Baiae, the Bay of Naples
Admiral Secundus barrels through the door. He barely acknowledges the doctor, sitting on the edge of my bed, dressing my wound in fresh bandages.
‘I have been informed you are too ill to attend the wedding,’ the admiral says.
He starts to pace my bedroom, scrutinizing every item, as though he’ll find a dagger labelled ‘For Caesar’s belly’ sitting on a shelf.
I wince as the doctor peels away a bandage. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘as you can see, I am not well.’
‘Yet you could attend the gladiatorial games?’
‘I have regressed.’
‘And how is Manlius, your centurion?’
‘Alive,’ I say, ‘but still consumed by fever. He mutters a girl’s name. A lost love from his youth in Alexandria, perhaps.’
The admiral looks at the doctor, who nods, agreeing with my account. He sits on the chair beside my bed and stares into my eyes. ‘Now is the time,’ he says, sternly.
‘The time for what?’
‘To tell me what you know. Tell me who attacked you and why.’
Unable to look the admiral in the eye, I stare at the doctor, watching him work. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I was attacked by thieves.’
‘You are in a difficult situation,’ the admiral says. ‘I see that. You have loyalties to your homeland, to your kin. Yet you have friends here in Italy.’
I keep staring at the doctor.
‘What about Senator Sulpicius?’ the admiral asks.
‘Which one is Senator Sulpicius?’ I ask. ‘All you Romans look the same to me.’
The admiral leans back in his chair and scratches his white whiskers.
‘You have lived here, in Italy, for how long?’ he asks. ‘Thirty years?’
‘Twenty-nine come October,’ I say.
The admiral smiles. ‘Twenty-nine years. A reluctant twenty-nine if you know the number off the top of your head. And I cannot blame you for counting the years. I would too, if I were held in Parthia against my will. But have you ever wanted for anything over those twenty-eight years? Have you not had slaves and beautiful homes? Were you not treated like a man with royal blood, like you deserve?’
‘Bugger your slaves and beautiful homes,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘I am a hostage, no better than a slave.’
The doctor finishes and quietly scurries from the room.
‘Did any Roman put you in chains?’ the admiral asks, feigning confusion. ‘No, I thought not. If you have a complaint about being a hostage, I think it lies with King Volgases, your brother.’
I think of that damned tent, all those years ago. On my knees, before my half-brother, his chest puffed out. The smell of crocus oil and burnt meat. A lamp that creaked as it swayed.
‘The Flavians have been good to you, Barlaas. Yet you keep back important information.’
‘Not all twenty-eight years,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘I came here under Nero’s reign.’
The admiral’s face hardens at the mention of Nero’s name. This an opportunity to turn the tables. To distract.
‘Why does every Roman look as though they’ve seen a ghost when Nero’s name is mentioned? I know the poor in the street think Nero is coming back to take the throne, but I didn’t think you, the great admiral, put any stock in the Sibyl.’
The admiral frowns. He says, ‘Nero is gone
. The Flavians will rule for a generation.’
‘There is a man on the other side of the Euphrates, at the head of an army, who would disagree with you.’
The admiral breathes angrily.
‘Is that the plan? Help the False Nero retake the throne?’
I laugh. ‘It’s a sad day when the famous admiral is raving like a lunatic.’
The admiral stabs my breast with a fat finger. ‘Why aren’t you going to the wedding, Barlaas?’
‘I told you. I’m unwell.’
‘Who attacked you?’
‘Thieves.’
We are at an impasse.
The admiral changes course. He stands and walks to the far wall. On a shelf there is a sculpture of a crocodile carved out of amber. A trinket – the origin of which I can’t recall.
‘Do you know,’ he asks, ‘that the crocodile, after feasting on fish, will have traces of its dinner caught in his teeth? And there is a bird that will walk among the rows of deadly sharp teeth, picking out portions of food. A dangerous way to earn one’s dinner. But the bird grows used to the danger. He doesn’t see it.’
The admiral picks up the carving and admires it.
‘It occurs to me the precarious situation of a hostage in Rome is akin to the bird who walks inside the jaws of the crocodile. He forgets that his life could very easily be lost should the crocodile choose.’
‘And are you the crocodile?’
The admiral puts the sculpture back on the shelf.
‘Rome is the crocodile. I am merely one of its many sharp teeth. Try not to forget it.’
*
After the admiral is gone, I call for Sinnaces.
‘You’re not going to the wedding tomorrow,’ I say.
‘Yes I am.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘I need to go.’
I look at the boy, trying to read his expression. Is this merely a desire not to miss a social occasion or something more? They promised to leave Sinnaces out of it. Was I wrong to trust them?
‘Why?’ I demand. ‘Why must you go?’
He pauses, longer than he should.
‘Why do you need to go, Sinnaces?’
‘I will prove you wrong yet, Barlaas,’ he says before running away.
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