‘Yes,’ Ulpius says, ominously.
‘Fine,’ Virgilius says. ‘But give me him’ – he points at Ulpius’s one-eyed freedman, Theseus – ‘I’ve seen him fight and he’s worth ten soldiers.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ Marcus says to Virgilius. He, like me, has been watching silently from the periphery. But now he seems impassioned. I had forgotten about the girl he tried to speak to at Domitilla’s dinner party. She is Sulpicius’s slave.
I’m surprised that Virgilius is happy to accept Marcus’s help. He would probably laugh if I’d volunteered. Uncle Pliny said Marcus was impressive earlier this year, in battle, when Marcellus and his ex-soldiers were held up in the Temple of Jupiter.
‘Find my sister. Find the missing Parthians,’ Caesar says. He looks exhausted. ‘Use whatever means you can.’
I walk with Marcus to the door. ‘May I ask why you want to go with Virgilius? Is this about the girl – the slave I saw you talking with?’
He nods. ‘Yes.’
‘How do you know her?’ I ask.
‘Years ago we were in Antioch, when Sulpicius was there. She was a runaway. We tried to protect her. We failed. I don’t want to fail her again.’
I am struck that, as always, Uncle Pliny is proven correct. My first impression of Marcus was wrong. He is not a brute. Far from it. He has the sensibilities of a poet, but this is only evident to those whom he chooses to show. He is a gentleman, but so long as you are on his good side.
The gods help you if you are not.
Domitilla
23 August
The shore, near Oplontis
His arm is around me, holding me tight to the plank of wood. We have been floating for hours. The current has dragged us east. The world is grey and sombre; the sun imminent, but still hidden by the earth. We are exhausted. If I think about how close I came to dying, to burning alive, I want to retch. I worry my brothers and Jacasta were not so lucky.
Our attackers must have soaked each boat in something that made them burn and catch fire. Who would try to kill so many people? What were they trying to accomplish? It seemed the first arrow was aimed at me. But could it all have been a trick to cause our entire family to run to the ships?
After the Batavian threw me over the gunwale, he dove in after me, pulled me up to the surface, and we started swimming as fast as we could, away from the burning ships. We found a piece of wood in the water and we clung to it like wet rats.
We did not head straight to shore. Our ship had gone deep into the bay before it went up in flames. And it was so dark we had difficulty orienting ourselves. We let the strong current pull us away from the burning ships. It wasn’t until the grey light of morning that it was obvious how far southeast we had travelled, toward Pompeii and Stabiae, rather than toward the safety of Baiae.
I point at a section of abandoned rocky beach. ‘There,’ I say. ‘That is as good a place as any to go to shore.’
He looks over his shoulder. We kick our make shift raft to the shore.
Once we are close, we wade through the shallow water. My shoes were discarded hours ago; rocks stab my feet. When I’m clear of the water, my wedding stola looks like it is painted to my skin and feels five times as heavy.
We head towards the tree line. Cicadas erupt around us. It is only now that I see the Batavian’s wound, a gory hole in his shoulder blade. He’d been hit with an arrow last night and, while we were floating east, he was able to snap off the shaft and then slowly and methodically remove the arrow head. He cried in pain and I thought he was going to pass out. But he’s barely shown signs of the injury since.
I try to inspect it, but he pushes me away.
‘Fine,’ he says.
We head northeast and happen upon a farm. The Batavian helps me step over a derelict fence and we cross the field toward the house. There is a line with freshly washed clothes. The Batavian grabs a few items off it. I try to stop him – the emperor’s sister should not steal clothes from some poor farmer – but the Batavian shakes his head and points at my soaking wet wedding dress and his loincloth and manacled arm.
‘No good,’ he says.
He’s right. If we don’t change, we will stand out wherever we go.
Of the jewellery I wore last night, two gold bangles and a hairpin survived our escape east. I remove one of the bangles and hook it into the remaining item of clothing hanging on the line. I’ve no idea how much the farmer’s clothes are worth, but I’m quite certain the exchange, his two tunics for my bangle, is a windfall.
We head back to the forest, out of sight, to change.
The Batavian is lightheaded from the effort. He puts one knee on the forest floor and gathers his strength. I wonder how much blood he’s lost.
We have stolen two tunics similar in size and colour, a dull light brown. The Batavian goes behind a tree to give me privacy. I peel off my wedding dress. The sun is out and the air warms my clammy skin.
Once changed, the Batavian and I compare our new costumes. The matching tunic looks too large on me – I am lost inside it – whereas his is too small, showing nearly all of his thighs. I use the belt from my wedding dress, which cinches the waist and gives the tunic more form.
‘We should head back to Baiae,’ I say, pointing west.
He shakes his head. ‘Dangerous.’
‘I need to see if my brothers are alive. I need to help, in whatever way I can.’
He shakes his head again. ‘Too far by land,’ he says. ‘Too dangerous.’
The Batavian is right. The route to Baiae by land is arduous. And until Titus has had time to find and arrest the men who tried to kill us, it could be hazardous. Travelling by boat would be safer and far less difficult.
‘Alright,’ I say, pointing east, the direction the sun is rising. ‘From the sea, it looked like the closest city was east of here. Pompeii, I think. Pompeii has a large port. We can purchase a ride back to Baiae there.’
The Batavian nods and we start walking toward Pompeii.
Gaius
23 August
The home of Barlaas, Baiae
The doctor answers the door. Uncle Pliny demands to see Barlaas, but the doctor says the Parthian hostage is missing.
‘Where is he?’ Uncle Pliny demands.
‘He left the night of the wedding, my Lord. We haven’t seen him since.’
‘And what of Manlius?’
‘He’s finally awake, my Lord.’
‘Take me to him,’ Uncle Pliny says.
The doctor shakes his head and starts to explain Manlius needs to rest, but Uncle Pliny pushes past him.
The centurion is still in bed. A bandage is wrapped around his head and he looks frail, a shadow of the man I was hunting with only five days ago.
‘Admiral Secundus,’ he says, trying to stand.
‘Please, don’t rise,’ Uncle Pliny says, waving his hand. ‘There is no need. And we haven’t the time. I am here on important business, Manlius. I need answers and I need them now.’ Uncle Pliny explains the attack on the Imperial family. ‘The Parthians have escaped and the Augusta is missing. I need you to tell me every detail you can about what happened the night you were attacked.’
Manlius grimaces as he concentrates. Casting his mind back requires considerable effort. ‘I think it started the day before the attack. Two men called on Barlaas. One was Roman, a soldier. He wasn’t in a uniform, but I could tell. A soldier can always spot another soldier. The other man . . . I’m not sure where he hailed from – but he wore a strange, eastern-style cap. He was slight, bent over, all bones.’
‘A Scythian cap?’ Uncle Pliny asks. ‘Curved conical top, with flaps that hang over the neck and ears?’
Manlius nods. ‘Yes, that sounds right.’
‘The second man meets the description of the Parthians’ translator. Was he named Atropates?’
Manlius shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. I had been training in the yard, and I only saw them when they left. Both nodded to me as they w
alked through the atrium. Barlaas seemed concerned afterwards. And angry.’
‘Were these the same men who attacked you?’
Manlius concentrates; the effort is taxing. ‘The soldier,’ he says. He’s hesitant at first but then grows more convinced. ‘Yes, I’m certain it was the soldier who attacked us. It was the night of the Augusta’s party. Barlaas and I were walking home from the Imperial villa. Out of nowhere I felt a blow to my head. I never saw it coming. I turned and saw the soldier. He was smiling. I drew my blade and readied myself for a fight. But a second blow again caught me from behind. After that, all was black.’ Manlius shakes his head. ‘Maybe these men are the same that tried to kill the emperor. But Barlaas would never do such a thing. I know it. Killing the family that has provided for him all these years . . . He would think it lacked honour.’
‘Barlaas may not have shot the arrows himself,’ Uncle Pliny says. ‘But he could have stopped it and chose not to. That is treason. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ Manlius says.
‘Yes, but you know him,’ Uncle Pliny says. ‘You’re his closest friend. Where does he go to think or drink? Where would he go to bury his head in the sand?’
‘I will take you,’ Manlius says.
Barlaas
23 August
The Imperial harbour, Misenum
The Romans may be uncultured and thick as a slab of travertine, but they surpass all other nations in two skills: engineering and sailing.
Take Misenum. Home to the navy’s eastern fleet.
I come here often, to a bluff above the harbour, to marvel at the sight of it. The harbour extends to the north and west; and it is so vast that it disappears from sight. On the opposite shore, there are docks filled with ships and warehouses and barracks. Beyond that is a mountain of rock, topped with green trees, the westernmost point of the Bay of Naples. This morning, the navy is busier than usual. Nearly every oared ship is churning its way out of the harbour; their deck master’s hollering instructions – though, for me, it is softened by distance, and sounds more like gentle encouragement.
Manlius once asked why I like to come here. I forget the lie I told in reply. I didn’t want to admit the truth: that looking at this harbour – at this feat of engineering – lessened the sting of being held hostage by the Romans. Who can lament being held, against one’s will, by a nation that can do this? Who could resist this mastery of sea and land?
I have been coming to the Bay of Naples every summer for nearly thirty years. I found this vantage, a flat rock with a view of the harbour, while walking with Carenes. It was our fourth summer in Italy. We both silently marvelled at the size of the harbour, the visionary audacity that was required to conceive it, let alone build it. We returned to it often. We would sit and watch ships coming and going, sailors chanting, swearing, the buzz of saws cutting through wood as they continued the ceaseless task of repairing their weathered vessels.
Only Manlius knows that I come here. Thus, when I hear the crack of a twig snapping under a boot, I know it is my centurion. Awake, finally.
But he is not alone.
*
The admiral takes a seat beside me on the rock. Manlius stands at a distance, with the admiral’s spindly nephew.
The admiral scratches his wild, white beard. ‘You like my harbour?’
I nod. ‘This is a good place to come and think.’
‘Or hide?’
I say nothing.
‘You knew it would happen at the wedding, didn’t you?’
My sullen silence gives me away.
‘What else do you know, Barlaas?’ the admiral asks.
I keep my mouth shut.
He says, ‘Have you heard how it was done? They burned two ships full of people. Dozens died or drowned. I personally pulled them from the water.’ He holds up his hand. ‘Smell. I still have the stink of burnt flesh on me.’
I bristle. ‘What would you have me do? Betray my own countrymen?’
‘Please!’ the admiral scoffs. ‘Your countrymen are killing each other in a civil war. One forgets about countrymen when it is convenient. We Romans do the same.’
I stare at the harbour.
The admiral asks, ‘Which king of Parthia do you serve?’
I shift uncomfortably. How much does he know?
He turns the screw. ‘It must have been hard, to see your younger brother become king instead of you. The son of a concubine no less. Don’t worry, we Romans have also had sons of whores beat out better men to lead our empire.’
‘He was a good king,’ I say, despite myself.
‘Yes,’ the admiral says. ‘Vologases was a noble creature – or so I’ve heard. His people loved him. And now he is sick or possibly dead. I wonder where your loyalty lies.’
‘With my brother’s rightful heir.’
‘And who is that?’
‘Pacorus.’
‘I see. Now I understood that we were expecting emissaries from Pacorus. But that is not who came to Italy. Is it?’
Slowly, reluctantly, I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘Which king? Which king do the emissaries serve?’
I keep staring out at the harbour. A ship glides past, the closest yet. Sixty oars rotate through the water, like the legs of a centipede.
‘Artabanus,’ I say. ‘The fourth of his name.’
The admiral nods. He has suspected as much. ‘The brother faring the worst in the civil war has tried the most drastic measure.’
‘You do not know the half of it,’ I say.
‘What don’t I know?’
I am silent again. Does he not see the position he puts me in?
‘The brothers escaped, but we have their leader, Arshad, and a few of their slaves.’
‘He is not the one you need.’
‘No? Who then?’
*
Artabanus’s men are being held in the Praetorian stables beyond the city limits of Baiae. A senator, the strange one, who has no eyes and gets under the skin of everyone he speaks with – Lucius Ulpius – and several Praetorians are outside when we arrive. Ulpius is wiping sweat from his forehead. One soldier is cleaning his blade, drawing a soiled rag along the blood-stained steel.
Before the admiral speaks with Ulpius, he stops and grabs his nephew by the shoulders. ‘Gaius, I need you to fetch Spartacus for me, in Misenum.’
The boy can see it all – what’s happening in the stables and that his uncle doesn’t want him to witness it. He’s a good lad, the nephew. Delicate and bookish, but he respects his uncle, which is more than I can say for most Roman boys. He doesn’t argue, just nods, turns and runs off.
‘I have Barlaas,’ the admiral says to Ulpius, explaining what would be obvious to anyone with eyes. ‘What have you found out here?’
‘Nothing.’ Ulpius is still wiping sweat from his brow. ‘Only that Parthians bleed like the rest of us.’
Ulpius takes us inside the stable. The room is dark, lit only with a flagging oil lamp. The horses have been removed from the pens and replaced with my captured countrymen. There is a man, dangling from the ceiling by his wrists. His chin is touching his chest. Blood drips from his mouth. He coughs three times, wet and weak. As I walk further into the room, I see that it is Arshad. In my day, he was not a warrior, but a man behind the scenes, pulling strings and doing the Butcher’s bidding. He’s been on the opposite side of something like this. Many times. The translator, the one who calls himself Atropates, is on his knees outside the pens, chained to the wall. He looks at me and his lip curls with disgust. Somehow, he still has his Scythian cap on.
I point at Arshad, dangling from the ceiling. ‘Why did you start with this one?’
‘We thought it best to start with their leader,’ a soldier says.
‘A good plan,’ I say, ‘but you have the wrong man.’
The soldiers exchange confused glances. They look to the admiral for guidance but he merely watches me, waiting for an explanation.
I walk ove
r to the translator.
‘You gave us up,’ he says.
‘I didn’t need to,’ I say. ‘The arrows gave you away. Romans do not assassinate with arrows. Poison or the mob is how they kill their rivals.’
I stand beside the kneeling translator and put my hand on his Scythian cap. To the admiral and Ulpius, I say, ‘you will recall a Parthian hostage held in Rome for decades, a son of a hostage, and a descendant of King Phraates himself. The Aryans were once ruled by King Gotarez. A king so violent and capricious he came to be known as the Butcher. A coup was planned. More than twenty nobles signed a pact. Carenes and I came to Rome, and we asked the emperor, Claudius Caesar, to let us take his royal hostage back to Parthia, so that we could put him forward as the true king of kings, challenging the Butcher’s claim to the throne. An act that I would later pay for with my freedom. Claudius agreed. We brought Meherdates, the grandson of Phraates, back across the Euphrates. He proved to be a disaster of a commander. He’d grown fat on Roman living, and he was ignorant of warfare. He was indecisive, mean, cruel, cowardly. Initially, men flocked to him because they were desperate to overthrow the Butcher. But slowly, as his character revealed itself, those same men deserted the usurper. He was eventually defeated in the field and dragged before the Butcher, chained and pathetic. And the Butcher lived up to his name.’
In one flourish, I tear off the prisoner’s Scythian cap, revealing the translator’s bald, earless head.
‘The Butcher cut off his ears, and Meherdates would forever be known as the Toad.’
The Toad spits at me.
‘The Toad is now allied with Artabanus. And who better than a former Roman hostage to lead the mission to kill the Roman emperor on Italian soil.’
The admiral looks shocked, his eyes are wide.
Ulpius laughs.
‘I can’t believe it,’ the admiral says. ‘I knew Meherdates. It may be more than thirty years since I saw him last, but I knew him. How could I have been so blind?’
‘It was a shrewd decision,’ Ulpius says, ‘to disguise himself as an interpreter. Who pays anything but a passing regard to an interpreter?’
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