The Exiled

by David Barbaree

  ‘Say your man Theseus confirms the Parthians are inside.’ I point at the young tribune. ‘What are the chances that boy orders his soldiers into the compound?’

  The three of us stare at the boy in charge.

  ‘The Prefect’s orders were to wait and watch,’ Manlius says. ‘So that is what we will do.’

  Manlius is a good soldier. It isn’t in his nature to question authority.

  ‘I’ve had colds older than that boy,’ I say. ‘Look at him. He’s overwhelmed already, and all we’re doing is playing dice and killing time. He’s not got the balls to order us over Sulpicius’s walls.’

  Marcus snorts. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘He’s in command,’ Manlius says. ‘Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. Even if the Parthians are in there, they’re not getting away.’ He picks up the dice. ‘Another game?’

  The boy and I nod our heads.

  I watch the boy grab the dice and roll. His technique, the way he rolls the dice, the jibes he makes at his adversaries – he plays like a man on the docks rather than a patrician’s coiffed and pampered son.

  ‘What’s your story, young Marcus?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Where’d you learn to play dice?’

  ‘Spain.’

  ‘Spanish crooks?’

  He laughs. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And what’s your stake in this? Why do you care so much about what happens to Sulpicius?’

  The boy thinks about his answer. ‘There’s a girl. In his household.’

  Manlius, always the gentleman, says, ‘Ah, a girl. Say no more.’

  I keep pressing. ‘Sulpicius has been in Syria for more than a decade. When did you meet this girl of his?’

  Marcus ignores me and rolls the dice. This annoys me. Is it because he considers me a barbarian? He looks comfortable and that is something I want to change.

  ‘Alright,’ I say, ‘keep your little romance a secret. But tell me this: what is it you’re trying to prove?’

  This gets the boy’s attention. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Take the hunt we were on together. You were a man possessed trying to prove yourself, being the first into the fray. You weren’t doing it for the spoilt shits we were hunting with. You hate those boys more than I do. Don’t shake your head. You’re an outsider like me, despite your best efforts. Which begs the question: what are you trying to prove? Who are you measuring yourself against?’

  The boy ignores me and rolls.

  ‘Is it that strange uncle of yours? Or are your origins so pathetic that you hope to wipe it out entirely through what you do now?’

  The boy doesn’t rise to the bait. He stares at the dice. ‘I win again.’

  *

  A soldier by the window calls out: ‘The freedman’s back.’

  Theseus, flanked by two soldiers, enters through the front door.

  He heads for the tribune. The men coalesce around them.

  ‘My friend inside, the gladiator, he confirmed the Parthians are there.’

  Catullus frowns. ‘But you didn’t see the Parthians yourself?’

  Theseus, an honest man, says, ‘No. But I trust him.’

  ‘Has he explained why a Roman senator would provide shelter to Parthian assassins?’ Catullus asks.

  ‘Why does that matter?’ Marcus asks. ‘The Parthians are inside.’

  The little tribune scowls. He’s not going to take orders from a provincial like Marcus, especially one who is a few years his junior.

  ‘If the Parthians are inside,’ Catullus says, ‘which we do not know for certain, and I very much doubt they are, then they are not going anywhere. Are they? When Prefect Virgilius returns, he will decide whether we storm Sulpicius’s walls.’

  Marcus is incredulous. He curses under his breath.

  ‘There is more,’ Theseus says. ‘While I was waiting for Minnow, I saw a woman go into the compound. Not long afterwards, she left with three men. All four wore cloaks, covering their heads, so it was impossible to know who they were. But Minnow said they were Parthians. Our soldiers didn’t stop them. They let them walk right past.’

  Theseus leaves the most damning fact unsaid: in order for four people to leave Sulpicius’s and walk away unmolested, Catullus must have given the order to allow it. One of them could have been Sinnaces.

  I round on the tribune before Marcus can. ‘Stupid boy! You let them escape?’

  ‘Our orders are to engage Parthians,’ the tribune says. ‘I hardly see how three men dressed in Roman cloaks could be Parthians.’

  I throw my hands up in disgust. ‘Who left this boy in charge!’

  A loyal soldier grabs me by the collar. ‘Barbarian! Who are you to talk to a Roman soldier like that?’

  Manlius steps in between us. ‘Calm yourself, friend. We cannot afford to fight like this.’

  Marcus points his finger at the tribune. ‘Catullus. Discipline your troops or Sulpicius’s entire compound will hear us.’

  A soldier shoves Marcus from behind and Theseus is on the man like the plague.

  The soldier holding my collar throws me to the ground, face first.

  With my eyes on a beautiful mosaic of Neptune under the sea, I hear the first punch.

  A fight, long brewing, follows.

  Gaius

  24 August

  The office of admiral Secundus, Misenum

  Uncle Pliny is reading in his office as though the earthquake had never happened. The books scattered across his desk and office floor may look more disorganized than they normally do, but I’m not sure.

  Without looking up from his book, he says, ‘Nephew.’

  ‘Is there any word yet?’ I ask.

  He looks up. ‘From whom?’

  ‘From anyone? From Virgilius? From Domitilla? From Barlaas?’

  ‘No news yet, young Gaius. I would tell you if there were.’

  I flop down into the seat across from him.

  ‘Domitilla must have drowned,’ I say.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Uncle Pliny says. ‘No news is good news, I’d say. Bodies do not sink. If she had drowned or was terribly burned the night of her wedding, her body would have washed to shore somewhere. I’ve had the navy searching for her day and night. If they’ve not found her floating in the bay, it likely means she has walked away on her own two feet.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘And what about the missing Parthians? You’re not concerned they may try to kill Caesar and his family again? Or sneak back to Parthia?’

  ‘Patience, young Gaius. The odds are stacked against them. They took their shot and missed. Now they are hiding somewhere, waiting for the right time to sneak out of Italy.’

  ‘What are they waiting for?’

  Uncle Pliny shrugs. ‘For our attention to be elsewhere. But you needn’t worry about that.’

  Something catches my eye in the open book on Uncle Pliny’s desk. I see names of emperors past. Claudius and Nero.

  ‘What are you reading, Uncle?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  It is a rare occasion when Uncle Pliny does not want to discuss what he is reading. I angle my head to get a better look at the upside-down book. ‘Are you reading Fabius Rusticus’s histories? And Corbulo’s memoirs? Why the interest in Claudius’s court?’

  Uncle Pliny looks – embarrassed, maybe. He leans back in his chair and sighs. ‘Ulpius made a strange comment yesterday.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You know the Parthian that we captured. Meherdates?’

  ‘The Toad?’

  ‘Yes, the Toad.’ Uncle Pliny nearly chokes on the epithet. ‘Yesterday, after Barlaas helped us uncover his true identity, Meherdates claimed the False Nero is actually Nero, the deposed emperor. Meherdates and Nero were in Rome at the same time, when Claudius was emperor. They would have met. In theory, Meherdates should be well placed to judge the veracity of the False Nero’s claims. Naturally, I found this revelation concerning.
Ulpius, however, disagreed. He said Nero only met Meherdates once. “In passing”.’

  ‘You think that a strange observation?’

  ‘It is oddly specific, isn’t it? How would a Spanish provincial, who isn’t supposed to have set foot in Rome until this year, know something only Nero’s inner circle should know?’

  ‘So, you have been studying Rusticus to see – what? To see if Ulpius was quoting a historian?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Uncle Pliny says. ‘Rusticus and Corbulo had first-hand knowledge of Nero’s court. I hoped to find that Ulpius, whether knowingly or unknowingly, was quoting a historian from memory.’

  ‘And?’

  Uncle Pliny shakes his head. ‘Nothing. The comment remains a mystery.’

  ‘What do you think the explanation is?’

  Uncle Pliny fiddles with his carnelian ring. He seems tired. ‘I can only think of one explanation,’ he says, ‘but I’m too embarrassed to say.’

  ‘You should take a cold dip, Uncle, and relax in the sun with lunch and a good book.’

  ‘Sound advice, nephew.’

  ‘But,’ I say, as I stand to leave, ‘I’m not sure how you can read with the dogs barking? They’ve not stopped since the earthquake.’

  ‘Are they still?’ Uncle Pliny asks. His eyes are now on the paper on his desk. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  Domitilla

  24 August

  Pompeii

  We lie in bed for hours, dozing, making love, laughing, trying our best to drown out the incessant barking of dogs. I am lying on my side, propped up by my elbow. He is on his back, staring at the ceiling. I’m running my hand through the hair on his chest.

  ‘It’s time,’ I say.

  ‘Time?’

  ‘Yes – for you to tell me your real name.’

  ‘Batavian.’

  ‘No, the one your mother gave you.’

  After a long pause, he says, ‘Alwin.’

  ‘Alwin,’ I say, smiling. ‘A good name.’

  ‘Romans once called me, Alban. Before.’

  ‘Before you were taken slave?’

  He nods.

  ‘You were given a Romanized name? Why? Did you fight for the Roman legions?’

  He nods. ‘Auxiliary. Not long.’

  ‘What happened to you during the revolt?’

  He shakes his head, unwilling or unable to tell me more of what happened when his countrymen revolted against Roman rule. I put my hand on the terrible scar on his chest.

  The mystery that is the Batavian thickens. I want to know everything. How did he come to fight as an auxiliary? What happened to him during the Batavian revolt? Why was he taken prisoner and sold as a slave? Did he fight to escape Rome’s yoke, only to be robbed of his liberty?

  I can see he is reluctant to talk about the revolt. It can wait. There is something more pressing.

  ‘That night you saved my life, earlier this year, at the Palace,’ I say, ‘why were you there?’

  Jacasta and I had returned from a dinner party and found a man with a knife was waiting for us. He had killed two of my slaves and would have killed me as well. But the Batavian appeared, seemingly out of thin air. He killed the attacker and saved my life. I never had a proper explanation why he was in the Imperial palace in the middle of the night.

  After a long pause, he says, ‘To find you.’

  ‘In the middle of the night? To what, declare your love? To force yourself on me? What?’

  I pull at his chin, until he’s looking me in the eyes.

  ‘What did you plan to do that night?’

  He shrugs. ‘Don’t know. But I had to see you.’

  *

  A quarter of an hour later there is a noise outside.

  An explosion.

  The sound is unlike anything I have heard before. Deafening and so strong it moves the earth.

  The Batavian goes to the window. He puts on his loincloth, stands flush with the wall and peels back the curtain. He watches for a time, angling his head, trying to get a better view of the street.

  His gaze hardens.

  ‘Dress.’ He grabs my tunic, strewn on the ground, and throws it at me. ‘Now.’

  Instinctively, my eyes bulge with anger. I am about to tell him that, despite what has transpired here in Pompeii, he cannot order me around or toss an article of clothing at me.

  He puts his finger to his lips and whispers: shhhh.

  There is a knock at the door.

  The Batavian grabs the long knife the landlady gave him and again stands flush with the wall.

  I quickly pull on my tunic.

  Something slams against the door – once, twice – and the door splinters open. The first two men into the room I don’t recognize. The third is the huge Parthian champion – the Sogdian Spear – who fought the Batavian a few days ago. All three are armed with a sword.

  The first man is barely through the door before the Batavian grabs him by the shoulder, spins him away from the door, and repeatedly stabs him in the neck. The other two step inside the apartment before realizing there is a man with a knife behind them, stabbing their colleague. The huge Sogdian raises his sword and swings it down at the Batavian. The room is so small and cramped that the Batavian has virtually nowhere to move to dodge the blow. He dives forward, under the Parthian’s arms, rolls on the ground, and, as he’s rising from the floor, stabs the second man in the groin. He bends over in pain and I see the Sogdian already turned with his sword raised, about to take a second swipe at the Batavian.

  ‘Look out!’ I yell.

  The Batavian sees the blade coming toward him. Still on his knees, the Batavian uses the wounded Parthian as a shield. The Sogdian’s blade slashes at his comrade’s back. The dying Parthian shrieks in pain.

  The Sogdian Spear is off balance but the Batavian is on the ground, under the second attacker, and unable to take advantage.

  I am still on the bed. Nearby is a large pitcher half-full of water. I grab it with both hands and bring it crashing down on the Sogdian’s head. The Sogdian falls to one knee and his free hand instinctively goes to the cuts the pitcher made to his scalp.

  Rather than finish him off, the Batavian’s focus is on my safety. He grabs me by the wrist and pulls me off the bed, out the door, and down into the city’s recessed street, a foot below the pavement.

  The Batavian’s arrow wound is open again and bleeding badly.

  The street is crowded with people staring at the horizon, at something in the northwest. We don’t have time to see what has captured the town’s attention because there is a blood-letting scream behind us and we turn and see the Sogdian running out of the apartment door.

  The Sogdian raises his sword above his head. The Batavian pushes me away and I fall violently to the unforgiving black stone street. He stumbles backwards, barely avoiding the Sogdian’s blade.

  The crowd creates space for the two fighters, but only seem half-interested in the life-and-death fight before them. Whatever they are watching on the horizon is more important.

  I don’t dare look up.

  The Batavian and the Sogdian Spear stare at each other, panting, catching their breath. They both assume the pose of a gladiator; they begin to circle each other, like fighters in the arena.

  The Sogdian mutters a curse in a language I don’t know.

  I pull myself onto the elevated pavement.

  Behind the Batavian there is a store with tools on display. He grabs a long hoe and, with his eyes still on the Parthian, he snaps off the head of the hoe with his foot, turning the long wooden handle into a make shift spear. He walks quickly and methodically at the Sogdian, stabbing at him with the spear.

  The Sogdian swipes at the spear and cuts a length off the wooden shaft. The Batavian keeps moving forward and thrusts it into the Sogdian’s belly. Then he backpedals, anticipating the swing of the Sogdian’s blade. The Sogdian’s blade nicks the Batavian’s chest, a scratch, long and bloody but not fatal.

  The two fighters again stalk
each other.

  The Sogdian’s attention is on the Batavian: he has lost track of me.

  I pull from my hair my last remaining item of value: the hairpin, a golden butterfly with two long, sharp prongs. I move slowly, toward the Sogdian, as he continues to circle the Batavian.

  When the Sogdian is only a few feet away I stab my hairpin into his neck. He shrieks in agony and reels, wildly swinging his arms. His elbow hits me and knocks me off balance. As I am falling I see the Batavian flying toward the Sogdian.

  I hit the stone pavement hard.

  Someone screams out in pain.

  Groggily, I drag myself up.

  The Batavian is standing over the lifeless Sogdian. I join him.

  ‘How?’ he asks.

  ‘How did he find us?’ I say. ‘I don’t know.’

  I keep staring at the dead Sogdian. Who told the Parthians where to find us?

  The Batavian pulls on my arm and points to the horizon.

  I turn to look. For a moment, the sight is so strange that I am not sure what I am looking at.

  On the horizon, from the peak of Mount Vesuvius, there is a cloud of smoke – greyish-white, endlessly pulsing upwards and filling the sky. It starts as the width of the mountain’s peak, but as it rises into the air, it spreads out, like the branches of a tree, with throbbing veins of smoke, consuming the clouds and the sky itself. It is as though Vesuvius were on fire, a mighty, insatiable conflagration.

  ‘What is that?’ the Batavian asks.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Just then it inexplicably starts to snow. It is the hottest August in years and yet snow is falling from the sky.

  I put out my hand.

  White debris collects on my palm and my arm.

  The snow is . . .

  Warm.

  I hold what has collected on my skin to my face. It’s ash, not snow, like the residue on a hearth after a sacrifice.

  ‘It’s time we left,’ I say. I pull my golden hairpin from the Sogdian’s neck. ‘To Baiae. To my brother.’