The Exiled

by David Barbaree

  ‘Twenty-nine,’ I say.

  ‘That is a long time to be separated from one’s homeland.’

  I nod. Yes, obviously.

  ‘I am sure,’ Caesar continues, ‘that leads to complicated feelings about Rome. About the empire.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Do you hate Rome for holding you hostage all these years?’

  I narrow my gaze. What trap is Caesar laying for me?

  ‘In my experience,’ I say, ‘kings do not wish to know the truth.’

  ‘It depends on the king.’

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘What was your brother like?’ Caesar asks. ‘Vologases.’

  ‘I never served him as king. I was already in chains when he took the throne. He banished me to Rome as one of his first acts.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But surely you knew him. He was the son of a concubine, was he not? To overcome that and become king . . . It is impressive. And Parthia was at peace for nearly thirty years under him. That is the mark of good monarch. Is it not?’

  ‘Did you bring me here to brag about my brother’s accomplishments?’

  Prefect Virgilius shifts uncomfortably. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword. He does not appreciate anyone, let alone a barbarian, speaking to the emperor like this. It doesn’t matter what we went through together on the bay.

  Fucking Romans.

  ‘I wish to know where your loyalty lies,’ Caesar says.

  ‘Not with Rome,’ I say, defiantly. ‘Not with you.’

  Ulpius sighs.

  ‘I am torn, Barlaas,’ Caesar says. ‘I am told that I owe you a debt of gratitude. After the attempt on my life, you helped interrogate the captured Parthians. You helped unearth the Toad’s involvement. Thanks to you, we know the Parthian emissaries were Artabanus’s men in disguise. And you helped storm Sulpicius’s villa.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You killed Artabanus’s men.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But,’ Caesar says, raising his finger, ‘you also failed to speak up before the attack on my family. You could have prevented the entire affair.’ I start to interject, but with a look Caesar silences me. ‘Now, I know you will say that you knew nothing about it, but I don’t believe you. My dear friend Pliny saw you attacked by the Parthian envoys. He was certain you were asked to participate in my murder, and the admiral was rarely wrong. You may have refused, and you may have seen this as a good middle ground, burying your head in the sand, rather than picking a side. But I do not see it that way.’

  ‘Am I to be executed?’

  Caesar admires his sword again. He holds the steel close to his face and inspects the quality of its edge.

  ‘Ulpius here says that you can be useful. He predicts that if I offer you the chance for revenge, a chance to regain your honour, that you will help us.’

  ‘Revenge against who?’

  ‘Against Sinnaces, who betrayed you. Against Artabanus, who tried to use you. However, unlike Ulpius, I do not think you will be motivated by hate. I think you cared for your brother Vologases. I think you would welcome the chance to help his proper heir, Pacorus.’

  ‘Help? How? What are you proposing?’

  ‘I am naming Ulpius governor of Asia, and I am sending him and Marcus to Parthia. They are going to track down the False Nero. Once they do, they will kill him. And, if possible, they will kill Artabanus as well.’

  ‘You want to send me home?’

  ‘Yes,’ Caesar says. He throws the sword to one of his Praetorians, who catches it by the handle. He walks down from his dais and looks me in the eyes. ‘There has been a great calamity on the Bay of Naples. You know that as well as anyone. I am bringing soldiers from across the empire to bring relief to the suffering there. I cannot afford to send an army to Parthia – I need my men here, in Italy. Besides, I do not want to give credence to the False Nero. The Julio-Claudians are better left out of sight, out of mind. I am planning a discreet, yet dangerous mission. One that could benefit from a man with inside knowledge of the country. I am offering you the chance to return to Parthia and to destroy your enemies. Once this mission is complete, you would no longer be a hostage of Rome. You would be a free man, to do as you pleased.’

  Despite myself I say quietly, ‘I thought I was coming here to die.’

  ‘Not today,’ Caesar says. He puts out his hand. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  I take Caesar’s hand in mine.

  ‘We do.’

  Ten months later . . .

  VI

  The Undertaker’s Son

  A.D. 80

  Domitilla

  1 May

  Reate, Italy

  I hear her, from the shallow depths of a restless sleep. The effort – to sit up, to stand – is immense. I have not slept – properly slept – since the Ides.

  And yet it is nothing. She needs me. I would do anything for her.

  The nurse is at the bassinet before me. But with a gentle touch to her elbow, I signal that the task is mine. The doctors say using my own milk will diminish my energy. Use the wet-nurse, they say. But she needs me.

  Every time I pick her up, I marvel at how light she is, how small. How is it a human can start like this? As tiny as a starling.

  Flavia Domitilla. My little miracle.

  Now that I’m up, lamps are lit and black shapes move on the periphery. One materializes into Jacasta, carrying warmed, spiced wine. In the lamplight, the burns along her arm and neck look like the scales of a reptile. She comes close to admire my baby girl.

  ‘Little Flavia,’ she says.

  ‘Go back to bed, Jacasta,’ I say. ‘You need your rest.’

  She has not been the same since the fire. She tires easily and tasks she had mastered now overwhelm her.

  ‘Mistress,’ Livia says, ‘you should let me see to the child at this hour. You need your sleep.’

  Livia has taken up the duties Jacasta is no longer capable of. Part of me wonders if I should insist Jacasta leave my service. We could find her something less demanding in the Imperial household. But she would be devastated and consider it a betrayal.

  ‘Thank you, Livia,’ I say, ‘but it’s morning. I have slept enough. A mother’s work is never done.’

  I sit down to feed my daughter. Her small right hand holds my little finger throughout. When she’s finished breastfeeding, I pass her to the wet-nurse and Jacasta helps me change into a warm, respectable forest green stola and matching shawl. Livia looks on, waiting to see if she will be needed.

  ‘I think I will go for a walk this morning,’ I say.

  I make my way through the house, toward the front door. The staff are busy at work, shuffling from one room to the next. They step aside to let me pass, nodding or bowing.

  From the garden comes the sound of wood hammering against wood. The Batavian is already hard at work, practising. His companion is a young Praetorian, barely old enough to be in the legions, who was honoured when, our first morning here in Reate, the famous Batavian asked him to spar with wooden weapons. They have been at it every day since, as the sun rises. I resist the temptation to go and watch from the window. One of my self-imposed rules is that I do not go out of my way to stare at the Batavian. There is no reason to break that rule this morning.

  As I enter the atrium, I am surprised to find a woman standing at the front door. Her head is shaved, like a recently sheared sheep, and she is dressed in a robe made from simple linen. She is speaking with the chamberlain. Although her back is to me, I do not need to see her face to know who she is. Only one priestess of Isis would visit me, at this hour, at our family home in Reate.

  ‘Vespasia?’

  ‘Sister,’ she says, turning to meet my gaze.

  The chamberlain is a little, fastidious fellow. His eyes nearly pop out of his head when I say my sister’s name. He must not have recognized her with her shaved head. I cannot blame him. She seems a different person. It isn’t just her hair. She has lost a considerable amount of weight and
her cheek bones look as though they will burst through her pale skin at any moment. And her eyes do not have the alert, intelligent look they normally do. They are unfocused, detached.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. ‘And at such an hour?’

  ‘Lovely to see you too, sister.’

  I take her hands in mine. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I am surprised. You didn’t send word.’

  ‘I came to meet my niece.’

  ‘I’m so pleased. But what are you doing here so early?’

  ‘I walked. This is the time I arrived.’

  ‘Walked?’ I cannot help but laugh: the idea is ridiculous. Vespasia was loath to walk across a room, let alone from Rome to Reate. It must have taken her days. ‘You can’t be serious,’ I say. But her silence indicates that yes, she is serious. ‘Vespasia, that wasn’t necessary. You could have travelled by carriage. It must have been terribly unsafe to travel alone.’

  Vespasia may no longer have her striking long hair; but she remains quite beautiful. Travelling by herself . . . She would have been helpless to any man she met along the way.

  ‘I no longer wish to live the life I did,’ she says, ‘of opulence and sloth.’

  What does one say to that? Vespasia – spoilt, vain and lazy her entire life – no longer wishes to be spoilt, vain and lazy? This must be another dalliance of hers. Like the summer she fell in love with chariot racing.

  ‘And,’ she continues, ‘I did not travel alone. The goddess was with me.’

  ‘Oh, Vespasia. You cannot be’ – I bite my tongue. If I condescend, she will only dig in her heels. I feign a smile and say, ‘Come. It’s time you meet your niece.’

  *

  ‘She’s beautiful.’ Vespasia rocks little Flavia back and forth.

  ‘You’re a natural,’ I say.

  I cannot get used to Vespasia’s shaved head. The missing hair has distorted her appearance. Her skull seems too small, her eyes too large. She looks like a poorly made marble bust, not my sister in the flesh.

  ‘It’s not me,’ Vespasia says. ‘It is the goddess. The healer, the deliverer. She protects suckling babes.’

  ‘I see. And the goddess . . . speaks through you?’

  ‘Yes. In a way. After the mysteries of Osiris I have felt . . . different.’

  ‘Oh? You’ve completed the first one, have you?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re willing to tell your sister what that’s like? What’s involved?’

  ‘We are sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘How unfortunate.’

  ‘But it would be impossible anyway, sister. It would be like explaining the colour red to someone who has never seen it.’

  ‘That does sound difficult.’

  ‘Yes.’

  This truly is a new Vespasia. My sharp, condescending tone would normally draw venom in reply. And my response would inevitably grow sharper. The exchange would escalate, back and forth, until we were in a fight. And then we would make up the next day. But Vespasia – the new Vespasia, the Isiac initiate – will not rise to the bait.

  ‘She has your eyes,’ she says. ‘Do you see any of her father in her?’

  I stay focused on my daughter, to make sure my eyes do not drift to the gladiator practising in the garden.

  ‘It has been many months,’ Vespasia says, ‘since I last saw Cerialis. I would like to compare them, face-to-face.’

  I feel an immense weight release from my chest. If Vespasia does not suspect the truth, then maybe the rest of the empire doesn’t as well.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ I say, ‘Cerialis is off on campaign again. I was sorry that you could not come to our wedding.’

  ‘My duty to the goddess would not allow it,’ Vespasia says. ‘Before the mysteries of Osiris, an adherent cannot be exposed to impurities.’

  I’m only vaguely familiar with the cult of the Egyptian goddess, but whatever I do know is impossibly strange. How did she become so devout so fast?

  It was only last year that Vespasia was causing Titus and I a different sort of headache. She sat, day and night, by the bedside of Caecina, a co-conspirator in Marcellus’s plot to kill Father. She stayed with him for nearly a month, as he slowly died. It was more gossip for the city – the sort Titus couldn’t stand. But there was no deterring her. And when Caecina finally passed away, Vespasia’s grief was so strong it sent her running to this cult. To Isis. Titus was happy for her to be out of the public eye, especially during those tentative first months after Father’s death when he was trying to solidify his position. Titus did not want his sister’s grieving for a known traitor on display. Titus thought the cult of Isis was another of Vespasia’s dalliances. We both did. We thought it would pass, like all the others.

  But I can see it has become so much more than that. She seems to have become a true believer. Neither Titus, nor I, could have predicted this. But maybe it makes sense. She was always so lost. Perhaps she has found something. A purpose.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I know you are busy. That you have responsibilities now. I was only sorry you weren’t there.’

  ‘And it is important you not call me Vespasia anymore.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. She is looking at little Flavia, pinching her full cheeks. ‘After the mysteries of Osiris, I have no name. I am only an acolyte.’

  ‘I see. Is this also why you’ve come to see me? To tell me your new . . . title?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, handing my daughter to me. ‘And to say goodbye.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Soon I will participate in the mysteries of Isis. If I pass, I will no longer be permitted to speak with anyone from my former life.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘That is for the goddess to decide. I hope to remain in Rome, with the temple in the Campus Martius, but it is not for me to say.’

  ‘So you may well be in Rome but you will not speak with us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what of your brother? He is emperor and needs his family more than ever.’

  ‘I was always an annoyance for Titus.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It is, and he was right to feel that way. I was more concerned with myself than the family. The goddess has helped me see this. It is best that your sister vanishes. It’s what Titus would want.’

  I try to convince her otherwise, but she can see I lack conviction. Perhaps it is what Titus would want – for Vespasia to be forgotten.

  *

  We spend the morning together. We talk about our brothers – what is wrong with them and how they could improve. We remember Father, and lament that the world does not seem the same without him. It is pleasant to speak with Vespasia. But she is detached and passionless, a shadow of my sister.

  I walk her to the front door when she says she must go.

  ‘Are you really going to walk back? You’ve barely rested since walking here.’

  ‘The goddess is with me. I will be fine.’

  A tear escapes Vespasia’s eye. She grabs me by the shoulders and we embrace. I have the sense that by doing this, by hugging her own sister, she is breaking the rules, exposing herself to the impurities of this world.

  She pulls back and holds me in her gaze for a moment, as though she is trying to remember me. ‘Goodbye, sister.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  She turns to go. I watch her walk along the road, in the shadow of the poplars.

  *

  Dusk. Livia and I are walking through the garden. We cross paths with the Batavian. He keeps his eyes aimed respectfully at the ground.

  I stop, so he stops.

  ‘I expect to go to town tomorrow. You and the Praetorians will accompany me?’

  He bows.

  I will grant him this: he is a man of his word. I told him we must forget what happened in Pompeii, that we must be as we were, master and slave. While he agreed at the time, I wasn’t sure if he would ac
cept it. I worried he might push to relive the wonderful few hours we had together.

  He’s kept his word.

  I didn’t tell him when I was late that the child was his. Other than Titus and Jacasta, I kept this secret to myself. I told Titus only what I needed to. In private, after he asked how I fared with the Batavian, alone in Pompeii for days, I told him that it was in our family’s interest for me to marry Cerialis as soon as possible. Titus knew what I meant. He did not chastise me. He wasn’t angry or disappointed. He said, ‘Then we shall not waste any time.’ I was married to Cerialis by the Kalens. As my belly started to grow and the word spread that I was pregnant, it was assumed the father was my husband, a general and patrician, not a famous gladiator.

  If the Batavian suspects he is the father, he’s given no sign. He’s never made me regret what happened. To the contrary, my daughter is perfect, and if the Batavian and I didn’t have our night in Pompeii, I wouldn’t have her.

  The chamberlain walks past us. He is arguing with another maid. They avoid us by stepping off the white stone path that weaves its way through the garden.

  I catch the chamberlain say, ‘Oh no, do not use him. He’s overpriced.’

  ‘He’s the only undertaker for twenty miles,’ the maid replies.

  ‘Chamberlain,’ I say. He and the maid turn to face me. The chamberlain’s smile is wide but disingenuous. He is from the old guard, one of father’s freedmen who continues to keep watch over our family’s home in Reate. He still sees me as the young girl that would race through these halls pretending to be her father’s legate. He considers me an annoyance rather than a figure of authority.

  ‘Yes, Mistress,’ he says.

  ‘Did someone pass away?’

  His smile grows wider. ‘No one to concern yourself with, Augusta. One of the maid’s children died late last night. We are trying to make arrangements.’

  Immediately, I think of Pandora, the maid whose pregnancy overlapped with mine. We had developed a bond before Flavia was born. After giving birth, I’d been too consumed with caring for Flavia that I forgot to ask about Pandora.

  ‘Do you mean Pandora?’

  He nods, reluctantly.

  ‘When did she give birth?’