The Exiled

by David Barbaree

  The Batavian is beside me.

  ‘Alwin,’ I say, quietly, so no one can hear. He is scrubbing the pulse of black hair on his chest. ‘We are going back to Baiae today. What happened in Pompeii . . . It can never happen again.’

  His eyes shift from me to the horizon. Is he sad? It’s difficult to say.

  He nods.

  Without warning, he dives under water. He appears a few paces away and swims away from shore, arm over arm, and then floats alone in the sea.

  *

  Our ship heads west. Vesuvius is off our starboard flank, visible for the first time in two days. The mountain is different. It looks shorter, with a less tapered peak, as though the top third of a pomegranate had been lopped off. The cities at the foot of the hills are gone. Pompeii, Herculaneum, Oplontis – all gone, as if they never existed. In their place is a grey emptiness, a desert of ash. There are no trees, no buildings. The fire must have burned it all or buried it under the falling ash. How many people perished? How many thousands?

  The people on the ship are staring at the wasteland in silence. Even the rowers have paused from their task, to watch, to mutter prayers.

  ‘Where is our home?’ Petra whispers to her grandfather.

  Her grandfather quietly weeps.

  I convince Spartacus to go to Misenum first, so he can tell Pliny’s nephew about the admiral’s fate. He has a right to know as soon as we can tell him.

  We pass through the break wall into Misenum’s harbour. There is havoc but not devastation. The city’s streets and red roofs are covered in grey ash, but the aggregate is not as deep as in Stabiae, and there are no pumice stones. A few buildings have collapsed, and a ship sits on the pier, with its hull cracked open like an egg. Nearby, a man and his slave are pulling a squid off a roof.

  Pliny’s nephew is on the pier when we arrive. He must have spotted the ships as they were approaching, recognizing them as two of the three his uncle left with.

  Our ship slides against the pier; sailors throw lines to their colleagues on shore.

  Gaius is waiting by the gangplank. He sees Spartacus, but not his uncle. He is uneasy. He studies Spartacus’s face, then mine.

  Before we take another step, Gaius collapses in tears.

  *

  Within the hour, our ship casts off again to take me to Baiae. We arrive as the sun is setting.

  Praetorians on the pier recognize me. Before hurrying me into a waiting litter, I point at Petra and her grandfather. ‘Those two are coming with me. They are guests of the Imperial family. Treat them accordingly.’

  The soldiers nod and we make our way through the city.

  Baiae has fared much as Misenum did. Ash blankets everything, and a few buildings have fallen. Otherwise, the city is still standing. The Praetorians tell me the city was abandoned early yesterday, and its populace has only started to return. Now there are owners standing outside their buildings, evaluating the damage; everywhere slaves are sweeping up the ash.

  Livia is in the atrium when I arrive.

  ‘Mistress,’ she says, ‘thank the gods you are alive.’

  ‘You received my message?’ I say. ‘From Pompeii?’

  ‘Yes, Mistress. And I did as you instructed. I gave it to your brother.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone else?’

  ‘No, Mistress,’ she says. ‘Of course not. I did only as you asked. Why?’

  ‘Someone knew where I was.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I explain the attack by the Parthians, how they must have known where I was staying. Livia looks shocked. ‘Perhaps someone spotted you coming into Pompeii. You are the most famous woman in the empire, after all.’ She takes my hand. ‘But you won’t need to worry about the Parthians.’

  She explains that the Parthians have all been captured or escaped from Italy.

  ‘How is Jacasta?’ I ask.

  Livia bites her lip.

  ‘Take me to her.’

  Livia takes my hand and escorts me through the villa to Jacasta’s room, which neighbours mine. Jacasta is lying down and half-awake when we arrive. She stumbles to her feet when she sees me.

  ‘Mistress,’ she says, with tears in her eyes. ‘You’re alive.’

  Now that she is standing, I can see that she has bandages on her left arm and the left side of her neck. As Pliny had told me, she was badly burned when her ship was set alight, before she could jump into the water. She tells me how she clung to a shard of wood until the admiral pulled her out of the water.

  She is in pain. She moves slowly, and there is a grimace on her face as she gets back into bed.

  She sees me watching her and says, ‘I’m fine, Mistress. Really, I am. A bit uncomfortable but that will pass.’

  *

  That night I dream of impenetrable black hills above Stabiae. I hear a child crying for help and the crackle of invisible flames. I look frantically for the child, but the darkness is unrelenting. The earth shakes and I fall to my knees.

  I wake up with an intense nausea and a metallic taste in my mouth. The sickness persists until the sixth hour. Jacasta – who has, against her doctor’s wishes, left her bed to see me – worries my nausea is from exposure to the ash and heat of Vesuvius. ‘I should get the doctor,’ she says.

  ‘No need,’ I say, as I force myself to eat some bread. ‘The nausea is gone now.’

  Jacasta studies me. Then she smiles. She checks to make sure we are alone.

  ‘Tell me again what happened in Pompeii?’

  Gaius

  1 September

  Outside the home of Lucius Ulpius Traianus, Rome

  Back in Rome, amid the bedlam. The narrow alleyways teeming with people, the tenements towering overhead, casting long, cool shadows. The constant, chaotic symphony of noise: terracotta smashing, hellos in Latin, goodbyes in Hebrew, a Bactrian curse; laughing, crying, bartering; somewhere liquid – water? wine? urine? – splashes against a slab of travertine; dogs barking, children crying, a snake hissing; the steady scrape of a sharpening stone against an old rusty blade. And the smell. Medicinal unguents, fermented fishsauce, frying oil, freshly baked bread, stale urine, the fuller’s ammonia, and always, in every corner of the city, something burning. Wood, incense, myrrh, rosemary, braziers.

  This chaos used to require a reprieve, a trip south or north, to the hills or the sea, anywhere quiet and slow, to restore one’s peace of mind. Now, after what happened on the bay, I find the bedlam comforting; and the quiet of Campania menacing.

  I call on the Ulpii early, not long after sunrise. The old woman, Elsie, lets me in. I can tell by the way she smiles at me that she pities me. ‘This way, my Lord.’

  Marcus and his uncle are in the library, deep in conversation. In front of them is a map of Parthia. For a brief moment, I think this will be good intelligence to give Uncle Pliny. But then it hits me by surprise – as it has often since his death – the awful reality that I can never tell him anything again.

  The black emptiness in my stomach grows; my legs feel heavy.

  ‘Gaius,’ Ulpius says, after Elsie announces my arrival. ‘Welcome.’ He waves me towards a chair.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ I say. ‘Uncle Pliny’s will is being unsealed this morning. I need to be at his ho—’

  My voice cracks when I realize this is wrong. It’s not his home anymore, by law. Later today I will learn who inherited it. It makes me sad to think of it being in the possession of someone else.

  ‘I need to be there by the third hour,’ I say.

  ‘Of course,’ Ulpius says.

  I chance a look at Marcus. He has the same pitiful smile that Elsie had. He asks about my journey back to Rome, trying to distract me. The route, the timing. He asks about my mother.

  ‘You’re to meet with the emperor?’ I ask, steering the conversation to a more serious subject. ‘You’re petitioning to go to Parthia? To deal with the False Nero?’

  Marcus nods.

  This begs two questions, both of which Uncl
e Pliny wanted to answer before he passed. Why is Ulpius obsessed with the False Nero? And who is Ulpius?

  But I don’t have the strength to pursue these questions, not with the vigour that Uncle Pliny would have.

  ‘Do you know Parthia well?’ Ulpius asks.

  ‘Not at all.’

  Marcus points at a tract of land near the Caspian Sea. ‘The False Nero is rumoured to be here. In Hyrcania. With Artabanus. This is likely where Sinnaces and the missing Parthians escaped to as well.’

  ‘I cannot fathom travelling so far,’ I say, marvelling at the map.

  ‘Do you want to come with us?’ Ulpius asks. ‘We could ask Caesar. I’m sure he would agree.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly,’ I say. ‘I hope to hold a minor office next year, possibly preside in the Centumviral court. And I am not sure, with my uncle’s death . . .’ I try to fight it but there is emotion in my voice. ‘What duties I will have here in Rome.’

  ‘Marcus,’ Ulpius says, holding up his hands, ‘help me please.’

  The younger Ulpii goes to the elder and helps him stand and walk to a chair beside mine. Ulpius sits and leans on his staff. He pats my knee.

  ‘I barely knew my father,’ he says. ‘He died when I was still very young, but I recall two characteristics well. The man was a drunk and he was an embarrassment. And one must be a true embarrassment for a boy of three to see it. It is from this vantage that I offer you the following advice. You were given one of the greatest fortunes a man can have. You had a role model, an exemplary one. He died, but all men die. Before he breathed his last, you had many good years with the admiral. Be grateful. Mourn him because the admiral is deserving of mourning. But thank the gods you had the uncle you did.’

  It takes all my strength not to weep at this advice.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  A throat is cleared.

  I turn to see blue eyes. They belong to the girl, Olympias. Ulpius must have taken her into their home after Sulpicius was arrested.

  ‘Master Gaius,’ she says, bowing, ‘I am so sorry for the loss of your uncle.’

  She whispers in Marcus’s ear and he says to me, ‘I have to go, Gaius. I will write to you while we are in Parthia.’ We embrace and he leaves with Olympias.

  I am alone with Ulpius.

  ‘Did you know that I was with your uncle when he died?’ Ulpius says.

  ‘Yes, I heard.’

  ‘It is no secret he did not like me, but I think, in his last moments, we reached an accord of a kind.’ He takes out a gold ring from his pocket with a large carnelian stone. Uncle Pliny’s ring. ‘Before he died, your uncle told me I was to offer you whatever assistance you required. And he gave me this ring, to give to you.’

  I take the ring and admire the dark red stone. ‘He told you to look after me? That does not sound like Uncle Pliny. He did not . . .’

  ‘Your uncle did not trust me. Don’t be afraid to say it, Gaius. He despised me. He did not ask me to look after you, but to assist you should you need me. That is an important distinction. Your uncle was as smart as they come. In his last moments, he articulated something to me that I knew in my heart but hadn’t understood. He knew that I have a debt I am trying to repay. He did not trust me to look after you. But he said, as part of my atonement, I was to do whatever you request of me. I am not your mentor, but your humble servant. I’m sure this makes no sense to you, and you do not need to take me up on the offer. I am only letting you know the bargain that was struck between your uncle and me. You have a friend in the Ulpii. Don’t be afraid to call on us, should the need arise.’

  *

  Less than an hour later, I am at Uncle Pliny’s home. Spartacus, Uncle Pliny’s secretary, greets me at the door. He looks like I feel. Lost.

  We embrace.

  ‘Come,’ he says, taking my arm. ‘The praetor is here.’

  Uncle Pliny’s house is unchanged since I saw it last, yet it feels strange as I enter the atrium, unfamiliar and empty.

  The praetor is in the study. He has brought a secretary to record what happens, several attendant slaves, and a Vestal Virgin, dressed in white, her head bowed. She is holding a sealed roll of papyrus.

  Uncle Pliny’s will.

  The praetor is a serious man, short in stature and in temperament. He has taken the liberty of sitting at Uncle Pliny’s desk.

  ‘Come. Sit,’ he says pointing at a chair. He does not look up from his wax tablet. ‘Shall we begin?’

  ‘Are we waiting for anyone else?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ the praetor says. He snaps his fingers. ‘The will.’

  The Vestal Virgin frowns at the lack of decorum.

  ‘I have been handed the will of the deceased, Gaius Plinius Secundus,’ the praetor says as he takes the papyrus from his secretary. ‘I confirm the seal is unbroken.’

  The praetor’s secretary, standing over his shoulder, inspects the seal. ‘I, as witness, confirm the seal is unbroken.’ He makes a note.

  The praetor cracks open the wax seal and unfurls the papyrus.

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘A short one.’

  The secretary, looking over the praetor’s shoulder, nods.

  ‘The will reads as follows. I, Gaius Plinius Secundus, manumit my secretary, Spartacus, to take effect the date my will is read. He shall take the name Spartacus Plinius. And I gift to Spartacus Plinius the sum of fifty thousand sesterces. I would commend him to the service of my nephew, Gaius Caecilius, but he is, from this day forward, a free man, and able to choose his own path.’

  The praetor clears his throat.

  Beside me, Spartacus is quietly weeping. Had he expected this? Perhaps. But it is nevertheless an important event. He faithfully served Uncle Pliny for years. Longer than I’ve been alive.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I say.

  The praetor continues, ‘As my final act, I adopt as my son and heir, my nephew, Gaius Caecilius. At his election, he is, hence forth, to take my name, and be known as Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus. He is to inherit my entire estate, including all land, chattels, human or otherwise, titles, property, save and except for my bequest to Spartacus Plinius.’ The praetor twirls his finger. ‘Et cetera, et cetera.’

  I feel a painful twist in my chest – grief or joy or possibly both.

  The praetor looks up. ‘Well?’

  Collecting myself, I say, ‘I’m sorry. Did I hear that correctly?’

  The praetor sighs. I am slowing him down.

  ‘You are to inherit your uncle’s entire estate should you elect to be adopted by him. There is more here that I do not have to read, should you elect to do as your uncle hoped you would. It is a great honour, particularly given your uncle’s renown and affiliation with the Imperial family. Not to mention his deep pockets.’

  ‘He loved you like a son,’ Spartacus says. ‘You must elect. It’s what he would have wanted.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, struggling with my emotions. ‘I will elect.’

  ‘Lovely,’ the praetor says. He looks at his secretary. ‘Do we have everything we need to handle this now?’

  ‘Yes,’ his secretary says.

  The praetor has me swear an oath and formally elect to be adopted by Uncle Pliny. I am only half-aware of the words he has me say.

  When the praetor is finished he says, ‘Well, that covers Secundus here. Shall we formally manumit Spartacus as well?’

  Spartacus nods.

  ‘Do we have everything we need for that?’ the praetor asks his secretary.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ the praetor says. ‘Maybe I’ll make the baths after all.’ He looks at me, then Spartacus. ‘Why is everyone crying? You’d think we were at a funeral.’

  Barlaas

  1 September

  The Imperial Palace, Rome

  It has been years since I have been invited to the Imperial Palace, let alone the throne room, Caesar’s inner sanctum. I had forgotten the majesty of it, the opulence.

  It’s as good a place to d
ie as any, I suppose.

  The Palace hallways are lined with white marble, dappled with darker grey veins, occasionally broken by arches and columns of porphyry. The floor is a rainbow of marble rectangles, green and pink and red. Praetorian soldiers and Imperial freedmen scurry past us like mice, most take the time to sneer at the barbarian who dares to walk the halls of the Palace. The sight of a Parthian hostage, towering over them, is so remarkable that they barely notice I am escorted by the Prefect of the Praetorians himself.

  The doorway into the throne room is wide enough for an elephant to walk through. Inside, Titus is on a dais, sitting on a curule chair. He is inspecting the blade of his sword and – for a moment – I wonder if he will chop off my head himself. Before he took the purple, when he was Prefect of the Praetorian Guard and his father’s attack dog, Titus was vicious. One day you were his friend, the next you were fodder for his blade. I’d heard he’d softened since becoming Princeps, but chopping off the head of an Aryan hostage would help re-establish the terror he used to inspire. Terror is useful for a king.

  Among the dozens of attendants and clients, I see a few familiar faces: the Ulpii, the old blind one and Marcus, and their freedman, Theseus. Did they come to put in a good word or to watch me die?

  ‘Barlaas,’ Caesar says, without looking up from his blade. ‘Thank you for coming.’ Then, in a louder voice, to the gaggle of men and women before him, he says, ‘may we have the room.’

  The audience leaves, save for Virgilius, the Ulpii and Theseus. Once they are gone, the room feels immense and empty.

  Caesar stares at me, his face impossible to read.

  My old knees begin to ache. By god, I am too old for this, to stand before a king, waiting to learn my fate.

  Fucking Romans.

  King Gotarez was the Butcher, but he didn’t revel in making a man sweat.

  Caesar clears his throat. ‘You have been a hostage here in Rome for how many years, Barlaas?’