The Exiled

by David Barbaree

  ‘You were treated well here,’ the admiral says. ‘Why come back to murder Caesar and his family?’

  Meherdates doesn’t respond. He stares bitterly at the wall.

  ‘Because,’ I say, ‘Rome ruined his life. Because of Rome, he would forever be a foreigner to the Aryans. His time here ensured he had no place in the world, that he was a foreigner on either side of the Euphrates. Not until he found Artabanus, a king who had a use for him; a king in the midst of the civil war and would take friendship from whomever was willing to give it.’

  While Ulpius and the admiral are still at a distance, I kneel down and whisper to Meherdates, ‘Did you keep your word? Did you keep Sinnaces out of this?’

  The Toad raises his eyes from the floor to meet mine. He smiles. ‘It seems neither of us kept our word.’

  I feel a stab of regret in my stomach. I have never much cared for Sinnaces. But if what the Toad says is true, it is a death sentence for the boy.

  I realize now that the Toad, unlike any other, knows what Sinnaces’s life must be like. They were both born and raised in a foreign land. The Toad would have known what lies to tell Sinnaces to get him to help in their cause.

  ‘Why kill the Flavians?’ the admiral asks as he walks closer. ‘What did you hope to achieve?’

  ‘The man you call Caesar has no right to the name.’

  ‘No?’ the admiral asks. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Nero is the rightful heir,’ Meherdates says. ‘He is alive. He and his army have joined forces with Artabanus. First they will take Parthia. Then Syria. Then all of the Roman empire.’

  The Toad wants to show his worth. The admiral sees this as well and tries to use it to his advantage. He asks, ‘And what happened to Pacorus’s emissaries?’

  ‘We intercepted them in Thrace,’ the Toad brags. ‘They are no more.’

  ‘And what of the Roman soldiers who were supposed to escort you across Italy?’

  ‘They are gone as well. We killed them a few miles outside of Ravenna.’

  ‘Then who are the Roman soldiers you came with?’

  The Toad smiles. ‘They are Nero’s soldiers, sworn to put the last of the Trojans back on his rightful throne.’

  The admiral pauses, lost in thought.

  Ulpius takes over. ‘Where did your friends go? You must have had a fallback position. Somewhere to run to if you were found out. Did they run to Sulpicius?’

  The Toad looks at me. He wants to incur more damage before all is said and done.

  ‘Ask Barlaas. He and the boy, Sinnaces, were both involved. It was Barlaas who shot the arrows at Caesar’s sister.’

  I explode with anger. ‘Lies!’

  It is a lie, but a believable one. The admiral knows I am skilled with the bow. Thankfully the admiral has a strong mind and is not easily turned. ‘Then why attack Barlaas in the streets four days before the attempt on the Imperial family?’ the admiral asks. ‘Why try to kill your co-conspirator?’

  ‘To remind him of where his loyalties lie,’ the Toad says.

  ‘With a king he has never met?’

  ‘With his countrymen,’ the Toad says.

  ‘Lies!’ I scream, unable to control my anger.

  Ulpius waves his hand. ‘This debate is pointless. Shall we go outside?’

  The admiral nods, but I can see he is thinking. He may not be convinced I was involved, but this will not be the end of it. I will need to prove I had no hand in the attempt on Caesar’s life. If I can’t . . .

  I am as good as dead.

  *

  We reconvene outside. My eyes need a moment to adjust to the blinding summer sun.

  ‘Meherdates believes that the False Nero is actually Nero,’ the admiral says, shaking his head. ‘This is troubling. He was in Rome when Claudius was emperor. Nero was at court then. They would have met. Meherdates’ support of the False Nero will lend the rumour credence.’

  Ulpius seems distracted. Absently, he says, ‘They met once. Only in passing.’

  The admiral is about to say something but thinks better of it. Instead, he scratches his beard and stares at Ulpius, as if trying to solve a puzzle.

  ‘What now?’ I ask.

  ‘We wait,’ the admiral says. ‘We have men scouring the bay for the Parthians, and we have men camped outside Sulpicius’s compound. We’ll keep applying pressure to the men we’ve captured. The tide will turn eventually.’

  ‘I would like to help, admiral,’ I say, eager to prove I was not involved. ‘Send me to Sulpicius’s.’

  The admiral frowns. He is still deciding whether I am friend or foe. ‘And what will you do if you have to fight your kin?’

  ‘I did not know it before – I did not know it until today – but I am for Pacorus. For my brother’s rightful heir.’

  ‘And what if Sinnaces is with them?’ the admiral asks. ‘I know there was no love lost between you and the boy. Still . . .’

  ‘If he was involved, Sinnaces must be punished.’

  ‘But you were close with his father.’

  ‘Yes. But Carenes would agree Sinnaces should be punished. And he would want me to do it.’

  The admiral nods. ‘Very well,’ he says.

  *

  The admiral lets me sit with him and Ulpius in the carriage that brings us back to Baiae. A good sign, I think. If even a small part of the admiral thought I had helped set the Imperial ships on fire, I would be walking back to Baiae alone. Possibly in chains. If the admiral is on my side – that is good. He whispers in Caesar’s ear. But I will still need to prove myself.

  ‘Caesar should go back to Rome,’ Ulpius says.

  The admiral nods. ‘Yes, he should go back to Rome. But I doubt he will listen until his sister is safe.’

  ‘You could convince him.’

  The admiral smiles. ‘I was about to say the same of you. Indeed, you seem to have a knack for advising emperors. Where, I wonder, did you develop this skill? Certainly not in Spain.’

  Ulpius is holding something in his hand. It looks like a shard of terracotta brick, worn smooth. He’s rubbing it with his thumb. He doesn’t answer the admiral.

  The wagon sways.

  We listen to the sound of hooves on stone.

  Domitilla

  23 August

  The road into Pompeii

  We enter Pompeii through the Salt Gate. It’s the Festival of Vulcan today – I had forgotten. People are streaming into the city from the surrounding countryside. Open fires are lit along the road and smiling, half-drunk peasants are throwing fish into the flames, an offering to the fire god. Trumpets are playing on nearly every corner. All of it – the noise, the bustling crowd, the activity – provides a welcome cover for the Batavian and me. With our worn tunics and dust-streaked faces, we look like any other couple hoping to enjoy the festival.

  Inside the city walls, the smell of frying fish and salty fishsauce draws the Batavian to a roadside canteen. The woman working behind the counter sees the look in the Batavian’s eye and, as she’s handing a customer their order, over the din of the crowd behind us, yells out prices and recommendations.

  I pull the Batavian by the arm. ‘Come, we need to find a ship first.’

  ‘You need passage on a ship?’ the proprietor asks. ‘Impossible. Not today. The city is on holiday and very drunk.’

  The proprietor looks formidable. Stout shoulders, shrewd and narrow eyes, and a confident smile. Her hair is crimped and pinned into the shape of a beehive. It is fashionable and reasonably well done considering she did not have, as I would, half a dozen maids to help her.

  ‘We will have to take our chances,’ I say.

  ‘I could help.’

  ‘You could sail us to Baiae?’

  ‘Better than that. I have a room you can rent before you set sail tomorrow.’

  She is probably right. The Festival of Vulcan is a holiday the people take seriously. And we do not know how safe it is to travel until we find out more about the attempt on my life. A room
for the night is a good idea.

  The proprietor sees me nodding. She adds, ‘Yes, but it will not be cheap. It is the only room available in the city.’ She stares at my worn tunic. ‘I’m not sure you can afford it.’

  She is well practised at bargaining and seems to be enjoying herself. Dealing with the senators of Rome as I often do, I am not unprepared for this.

  ‘The problem is not that I can’t afford it,’ I say, as I reach into my pocket and produce my remaining gold bangle. ‘But that what I have to pay with could probably buy the whole building.’

  The woman grabs my hand and pulls the bangle in for a closer look. The craftsmanship is unmistakably expert. It’s the jewellery of a rich woman and she is imagining herself wearing it, showing the world how successful she is.

  She lets go of my hand. ‘It is a nice item, certainly. But it could not buy you a building. Not even close. I could give you the room and passage to Baiae. I know a captain. He’ll give me a good rate. I think that would be fair.’

  ‘And all of our meals,’ I say.

  She feigns reluctance, but she knows this is a windfall. ‘Fine. Only because I feel bad for you. I don’t want you sleeping in the street.’

  She reaches for the bangle and I pull it toward me. ‘And,’ I say, ‘you will have someone send a message to Baiae for me. If they cannot travel by ship they can travel by land.’

  She snaps her fingers and a boy of twelve appears. ‘My nephew here, hates festivals, don’t you, Statius? He’d be happy to deliver a message to Baiae for you.’

  The boy looks distraught but knows better than to fight his aunt.

  ‘And,’ I say, ‘I need medicine to treat a wound.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Fine.’

  ‘And,’ the Batavian chimes in, ‘a sword.’

  The landlady, desperate for the bangle, looks about the canteen. She hands the Batavian a long knife. ‘This will have to do.’

  I hand her the bangle.

  She admires it for a moment and then she snaps her fingers. The boy fetches ink and a roll of papyrus.

  I want to let Titus know I am alive, but sending a message directly could be dangerous. Anyone looking for me could follow the boy back here. I would send it to Jacasta, but she was on my ship when it went up in flames. I don’t know if she is injured or whether she’s even alive.

  Who then?

  Livia. She wasn’t on the ships the night we were attacked. She could get a message to Titus.

  I write the note: Titus, the blackmailer is alive and well. She will return when she knows it is safe.

  I give the message to the boy. ‘You are to deliver this to the Villa Piso and hand it to Livia, a maid in the Imperial household. She is pretty, but with one thick eyebrow. Do not hand this letter to anyone else. Do you understand?’

  He nods and then runs off.

  The proprietor is at my side. She is already wearing the bangle. She stares at the Batavian and smiles. ‘Shall I show you two to your room?’ She thinks I am a rich, married woman who has run off with a slave, or something equally seedy. ‘I’m sure you’re eager to settle in.’

  *

  Hours later, after sunset, the Batavian is standing outside, arms crossed, back straight, staring into the endless black of night.

  The celebrations for the fire god are winding down.

  Somewhere a dog barks. An infant wails.

  ‘Come inside, please.’

  He looks at me, shakes his head. ‘Not safe.’

  The Batavian has been on guard since the proprietor let us in, breaking his vigil only once to fetch dinner. The effort seems pointless. No one knows we are here. I’m sure half the world thinks I’m dead.

  I grab the Batavian by the hand and pull him towards the door. ‘Come in. I’m not asking anymore. We need to put more balm on your wound.’

  He comes inside. He is a slave after all and must obey.

  The Batavian has to remove his tunic so I can apply the balm to his shoulder, where the arrow pierced his flesh. His flank and shoulders are littered with old scars. One is particularly gruesome: it is two fingers wide and goes from his breast to his collar bone.

  He sits on the bed, and I sit beside him.

  I feel a sensation in my stomach – a fluttering, slightly sickening feeling. This is new for me. I’ve never been alone with another man, without the weight of family and state on my shoulders. There was my wedding night, which I barely remember, and nothing more. I recall an old man – vinegar breath, bones that creaked, balding head, curved back, glassy eyes – and the impression of the gulf between my fifteen years and his half a century. The ceremony was short, the night together even shorter. He ordered me to undress and lie on the bed. He lay on top of me, hitched up his tunic and was dead before morning. From this dreadful night of marriage, I was given the nickname the Widow – one I could never shake. I was heartbroken when I first heard it. I thought it was true, that my touch meant death, and this was why I never remarried. It was years before I learned that father thought using his first-born daughter as bait to snare senators was more valuable than a proper union. There were plenty of engagements, but none that ended in marriage.

  The fluttering in my stomach is overtaken by a more familiar stab of anger, directed at Father – not only for forcing me to marry an old man and the humiliation that came with it, but for the lack of experience I’ve had with love or men. The powerlessness is maddening.

  I could have conducted affairs in secret, as Vespasia did. But I didn’t. I’m not sure why. Maybe I was worried I’d give up something of myself in the bargain.

  The Batavian looks over his shoulder. ‘Thank you.’

  I continue to rub the balm onto his wound.

  ‘You understand Latin better than you let on. Don’t you?’

  ‘Understand some. Not all.’

  ‘Does it make it easier as a slave? Pretending not to understand what is said to you by your master?’

  ‘Not easier for me. Harder for him.’

  ‘Ah, I see. It is out of spite.’

  ‘Spite?’

  ‘Anger. Pettiness. Hatred.’

  He nods. ‘Yes. For spite.’

  ‘That I understand.’

  When I am finished applying the balm and dressing the wound, the Batavian walks to his tunic, which is hanging on the wall.

  I nearly laugh at the comparison between him and my deceased husband. Vinegar breath and bones that creaked, versus long muscles and patches of black hair. Death versus vitality.

  ‘Stop,’ I say.

  He turns and looks at me.

  Soon we will return to Baiae, then Rome. I will again be forced to marry a man I did not choose.

  Not tonight.

  ‘Take off your loincloth,’ I say. ‘And lie on the bed.’

  Like a young girl on her wedding night, he does as he’s told.

  V

  Fire and Ash

  A.D. 79

  Gaius

  24 August

  The home of admiral Plinius Secundus, Misenum

  The twenty-fourth of August begins with another earthquake.

  It’s the morning. One moment I am diligently reading Livy, taking notes. The next the world is moving beneath me.

  I clutch my desk.

  Terracotta tiles rattle on the roof above.

  Then the black shadow of Zosimos is sheltering me.

  A vase slides off my desk and smashes on the floor.

  Suddenly it’s over.

  Zosimos looks me over. ‘Are you alright, Master?’

  I wave him away. ‘Yes, thank you. I’m fine.’

  He seems upset. ‘So many earthquakes this summer,’ he says. ‘A bad omen.’

  I take stock of the damage. Minus one vase, the room looks as it did when I went to bed.

  ‘I would agree it’s unusual,’ I say. ‘Whether it is the gods telling us something, I am not so sure. Let’s see how Uncle Pliny fared, shall we?’

  Domitilla

  24 August

>   Pompeii

  The Batavian and I are making love when the earthquake starts. I had been on top of him, my hands gripping the mat of black hair on his chest, my thighs pinching his waist. When the Batavian realizes the earth is shaking and the roof over our heads could come crashing down, he spins us around, so that he is on top of me, and he covers my head with his arms.

  And then the earthquake is over.

  Our eyes meet. We smile. We laugh, hesitantly at first, and then he drops his head into the space between my shoulder and neck, and we convulse with laughter.

  He is still inside me. We kiss and start again, as though nothing had happened.

  Barlaas

  24 August

  Two miles north of Naples

  The dogs continue to bark, even after the earthquake. The sound is driving me mad.

  ‘Will someone shut them up!’ I yell.

  The boy – Ulpius’s nephew, Marcus – says, ‘In my experience, yelling at a dog only makes it worse.’

  ‘You’re the dog expert, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ says the arrogant prick.

  Manlius puts his hand on my arm to calm me down.

  ‘Just roll,’ I say.

  Marcus tosses the dice against the wall.

  ‘Damn!’ Manlius shakes his head. ‘Venus again. You’ve the luck of Ulysses, boy.’

  Marcus is on his knees. He leans forward and, with both hands, drags his winnings towards him. A boy his age would normally gloat after a few good rolls. But he seems to have enough experience to know better.

  ‘When should we start to worry about your man Theseus?’ I ask.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Marcus says. ‘The world could be ending and Theseus would be fine.’

  ‘And what if he’s wrong. What if his friend – Sulpicius’s gladiator – what if he isn’t his friend at all?’

  ‘Theseus isn’t wrong.’

  We are in a home that neighbours Sulpicius’s compound. Virgilius and his Praetorians confiscated it yesterday. There are two dozen soldiers spread across the atrium, dicing, drinking, and napping to pass the time. Another half-dozen are outside, their eyes on Sulpicius’s compound, looking for any sign of Artabanus’s men. At the far end of the room is the young military tribune, Catullus, who Virgilius put in charge when he returned to Baiae. He is one of the rich fools that follow Domitian around all day, laughing at his jokes. No doubt, he was only named legate because he’s friends with Caesar’s brother.