My dearest daughter, Domitilla,
My health is failing. I fear I am not long for this world and, very soon, I will breathe my last. I’ve had a good life – one the son of a money lender and a provincial could never have imagined. From soldier to general, from politician to Princeps. It was remarkable. So, in a way, I am content.
But something nags.
I was healthy not long ago, other than my gout, which for years has been painful but manageable. The explanation for my failing health is likely a simple one. I am old and this is what happens to old men. One day you’re healthy, the next you’re not. But I have suspicions that I have fallen ill by the designs of another, by poison, something subtle, administered slowly, over time.
You will recall that after the attempt on my life in May I was lent by a friend – or someone I believed to be my friend – his personal doctor. The man worked wonders on my gout. I insisted he join me when I travelled north, to Reate. Lately, I have begun to think that my decline in health has corresponded to this so-called doctor’s concoctions. My freedman, who drinks everything I drink and eats everything I eat, has lately started to feel ill as well. He is a young man, previously in good health, so that may explain why his health did not decline until recently.
I am reluctant to bring this to your brother. If I die, he will have the weight of an empire on his shoulders. I trust you. Of all of my children, you are the most reasonable, the most judicious.
I have no proof, only suspicion. This could merely be denial of the inevitable, the complaints of a dying man. I will only say this: beware of Cocceius Nerva. It is Nerva who lent me his doctor. There are many unexplained troubles our family has faced. And, as I sit here, slowly dying, miles from Rome, I wonder: is Nerva to blame? Do our family’s hardships coincide with the waning of Nerva’s star? As I bestowed favour on other men, did he scheme against our family and the Principate?
I do not know the answer, and I doubt I ever will. Perhaps you can discover the truth.
I love you. I hope these are not my last words to you. If they are, thank you. Thank you for being the woman you are. Our family would have been lost without you, its sheen less bright. Truly.
Your loving father,
Vespasian
Pinarius lowers his head, dejected. No wonder the first two translators thought the letter was a prank or incredibly dangerous. Throwing it in the Tiber was sound advice.
Sextus, however, doesn’t see the danger. He asks, ‘who is this man, Nerva?’
‘My word, cousin, you really are from a backwater, aren’t you?’ Cornelius says. ‘Cocceius Nerva is one of the most powerful senators in the empire. He has been since he helped expose the Pisonian conspiracy and saved Nero’s life. Still not ringing any bells? Nerva was twice consul, once under Nero, once under Vespasian.’
‘And he . . .’ Sextus is beginning to understand the letter’s import. The translator is as well. He is looking about for some means of escape. But these are his customers, this is his apartment.
‘Kindly leave,’ he says.
‘We’ve got to get this letter to the Augusta right away,’ Pinarius says.
The little Greek taps his finger on the table. ‘Kindly leave the coin you owe me on the table and go.’
‘There is another option,’ Cornelius says. ‘I’m sure Senator Nerva would be grateful to have this letter. Wouldn’t he? I’m sure he’d pay whatever we asked.’
The little Greek shuts his eyes and plugs his ears with his index fingers. ‘Kindly pay and go away.’
‘We are not doing that,’ Pinarius says. ‘We are simple undertakers, not politicians. We know nothing of that world. The safest, smartest course is to bring it to the Augusta.’
‘Cousin Cornelius is right, Father,’ Sextus says. ‘The Augusta may not pay us anything. She’ll be angry about any delay in bringing her the letter. Nerva would pay a great deal to ensure his name isn’t dragged through the mud.’
‘Think about this, boy.’ Pinarius’s voice is both angry and pleading. ‘If the letter is true . . . If this man Nerva is capable of such an act. What you propose is too dangerous. We bring the letter to the Augusta. That is final.’
‘We’ll have to head south, then,’ Cornelius says.
‘What?’
‘The Augusta went south, to Baiae, yesterday,’ Cornelius says. ‘There was a crowd of well-wishers screaming her name as she set out.’
‘When will she be back?’
Cornelius shrugs. ‘The Imperial family often spends the summer in Baiae. We’ll need to go there. Unless you want to wait until September.’
‘May we take this?’ Sextus asks the Greek, holding up the wax tablet.
‘I care not a whit,’ the Greek says, rubbing his arms, like he is cold, though it is stiflingly hot in the apartment. ‘Please just go.’
19 August
Outside the Villa Piso, Baiae
They wait for the Augusta’s maid to return. Sextus paces along the road’s black stones.
‘Cousin,’ Cornelius says. ‘Please stop. You’ve been pacing since the Kalends. Gods, I am so sick of your pacing.’
Sextus does as he’s told. He stops and sighs dramatically.
The two soldiers guarding the door to the Imperial villa watch the three plebs with mild amusement.
We must seem a strange trio, Pinarius thinks.
‘Uncle,’ Cornelius says, ‘do you really think today will be any different than the last time we were here?’
Pinarius finds his nephew’s voice unnecessarily smug. It was a mistake to bring him with them to Baiae. But once they had the letter translated and they had recovered from the shock of what it said, Cornelius became even more convinced they could make a profit from it and there was no getting rid of him.
‘We have been here twice before,’ Cornelius continues, ‘only to be sent away. Why do you think today will have a different outcome?’
Unfortunately, Cornelius has a point. Getting before the Augusta has been more difficult than any of them could have imagined. The problem is they have had to go through her attendants and Pinarius is not willing to tell anyone other than the Augusta what’s in the letter. ‘It’s too risky,’ he has told his son and nephew several times. ‘Who knows where a slave’s loyalty lies?’ But the Augusta has refused to see them.
And why would she? Pinarius is thinking as they wait, I’m a lowly undertaker, polluted by the death. And she is the daughter of a god. What was I thinking?
‘As I’ve said before, Uncle,’ Cornelius continues, ‘we have another option. If the Augusta will not see us . . .’
Pinarius grabs Cornelius by the arm and – casually, so as not to cause alarm, still smiling at the soldiers – whispers: ‘Nephew, I know what you are about to say, whose name you are about to utter. We need to be careful. We don’t know who is listening.’
Cornelius has enough sense to whisper his reply. ‘Honestly, Uncle, aren’t you being paranoid? I was only going to say that we should take the letter to Senator Nerva. He would be grateful to learn of any slander aimed at his good name.’
‘You think the letter is merely slander?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Cornelius says. ‘Vespasian was old and sick when he wrote it. You remember what our grandfather was like near the end? He thought everyone was trying to kill him.’
A door opens behind them.
They turn and see the Augusta’s maid, the pretty girl with the one eyebrow. She steps between the two soldiers and walks towards them.
Pinarius’s cap is in his hands. He can sense, but not stop, the look of pathetic expectation on his face, like a dog watching the dinner table. Their livelihoods depend on what she is about to say.
When she shakes her head, Pinarius knows they have failed. Again.
‘The Augusta will not see you today. Perhaps you can come back another day.’
Pinarius’s shoulders slump. Cornelius swears under his breath.
The Augusta’s maid smiles, sympath
etically. ‘I think the problem is you are not giving the Augusta a reason to meet with you. Perhaps if you told me what it is you need to speak with her about, she might change her mind.’
Cornelius jabs Pinarius in the back with his elbow.
‘What is your name?’ Pinarius asks.
‘Livia,’ the maid replies.
‘Livia. My name is – as I’ve said – Plinius Pinarius. I’m very sorry, but I must speak with the Augusta. Face-to-face.’
The maid shrugs. ‘Have it your way.’
She turns and leaves.
Cornelius starts to argue with his uncle. ‘We need to tell her more . . .’
Pinarius shakes his head. ‘No. We stick to the plan. We tell the Augusta and only the Augusta what we know. Come on.’ Pinarius starts walking down the street, away from the Imperial villa. ‘We’ll find a better way to speak with her.’
20 August
Baiae, the Bay of Naples
The night before the gladiatorial games, they debate their next move.
‘And how will tomorrow be any different?’ Cornelius says.
Sextus nervously chews his fingernails.
‘All we can do is try,’ Pinarius says, doing his best not to show that his despair matches theirs. ‘Maybe if she sees us – the Augusta has never seen us, you know – if she sees us, maybe she will change her mind and speak to us. She will be attending the games tomorrow. We can try to speak to her on her way into the arena.’
‘But what if she doesn’t, Father?’ Sextus says. ‘We cannot afford to live here another day. Baiae is expensive – even for this hovel.’
Their cramped rented apartment consists of one bed and a door. Nothing else. Not even a window. But because this is Baiae where the rich vacation, it is shockingly expensive.
‘And,’ Sextus continues, ‘we are running out of money. We are needed back in Reate. If we don’t, our business could be ruined. We made a mistake coming here.’
Pinarius shakes his head. He can’t admit this. Not yet. ‘No we haven’t. You were right, Sextus. There is profit to be made from this letter. We just need to speak to the right person.’
Pinarius believes this – or thinks he does. But, in truth, he knows that he has fallen prey to a fantasy. He wants to be the man who saved the Imperial family. He wants the Augusta to kiss his hand and say she is indebted to him for saving her life, and from that day forward he and his family will never want for anything. The fantasy is not without precedent. Nero once rewarded a freedman who helped expose the Pisonian conspiracy. He gave the man a small fortune. Why wouldn’t the Augusta do the same for a faithful undertaker?
But the longer they wait in Baiae, Pinarius can feel his fantasy drift away; it is shifting into something he does not like. Failure and destitution.
‘If the Augusta will not see us today,’ Pinarius says, sombrely, ‘We will head home.’
‘Uncle,’ Cornelius says. ‘You cannot ignore the other option. We can take this letter to Senator Nerva. He is here in Baiae as well. He might speak to us. He will pay us for the letter. I know it!’
Pinarius should chastise Cornelius and tell him to never raise the suggestion again. But he doesn’t. We have come too far, he thinks, and invested too much. We can’t walk away.
‘Let us see what happens tomorrow.’
21 August
Outside the amphitheatre, Puteoli
The crowd seethes with excitement, pulsing like the sea.
The Augusta’s litter is carried by six slaves, three a side. It is made of gilded, spiralling wood posts and opaque white silk, billowing in the wind. An entourage of slaves and attendants trail the litter on foot. Near the arena, the litter is set down on the ground and Praetorians begin shoving the crowd back with the shafts of their spears.
‘Wait here,’ Pinarius says to Sextus and Cornelius.
He pushes his way through the crowd.
Over the shoulders of two soldiers Pinarius yells at the girl he has spoken to before. Livia. She turns at the sound of her name. She looks annoyed, but quickly smiles, trying to hide her initial reaction.
Pinarius watches her pull on the Augusta’s sleeve and the two of them stare at the undertaker. Livia says something to her mistress and then walks over.
Pinarius is holding his cap in his hands.
Livia scowls. ‘Nothing has changed, undertaker. My mistress will not speak with you.’
‘Please.’
‘I’ve done all I can. Unless you could tell me more. Tell me what you wish to speak with her about.’ Her voice sounds genuine, like she wants to help.
‘What I have to say – it must be said to your mistress herself.’
‘Then you will have no more luck today than you’ve had before.’
Pinarius looks over her shoulder at the Augusta. She is the picture of beauty: almond curls, glittering gold wrapped around her wrists and neck, dazzling in the Campanian sunlight. The daughter of a god.
Pinarius doesn’t want to go back to Reate empty-handed. It would be a disaster.
He thinks of the Augusta kissing his hand, showing her favour.
The undertaker takes a deep breath.
‘It concerns Senator Cocceius Nerva,’ he says, ‘and the safety of the Imperial family.’
Livia stares at Pinarius a moment. He had expected her to be shocked at what he said. But she is not. Perhaps the Imperial maids hear this type of pronouncement more often than he’d imagined.
Livia pushes her way through the two guards and speaks quietly to Pinarius, so no one can hear.
‘It’s good you have brought this to the Augusta’s attention. She will be very pleased. But here is not the place to speak of it.’ She looks around, again making sure no one can hear. ‘Does anyone else know of this important information? Did you not have friends with you when you called on the Augusta before?’
Pinarius hesitates. Maybe it’s best not to involve Sextus and Cornelius. Not yet.
‘No. Only I know of what I have to say to the Augusta.’
‘That is good. It is important – for your own safety – that you do not tell anyone about this. Not until you tell the Augusta all that you have to say. There is a canteen in Baiae called the Maid’s Knees. Wait there tonight, after sunset. The Augusta will send someone to get you, to bring you to the Imperial villa. These are precautions we must take to ensure secrecy.’
She presses something into Pinarius’s hand. A gold coin.
‘The Augusta is sure to reward you if your information is valuable. This is only the start of the riches you will receive.’
Pinarius looks up. ‘Thank you.’
She smiles and walks back to the Augusta. They exchange words. The Augusta frowns, turns and walks toward the arena.
The Augusta looked . . . she did not appear grateful, as Pinarius expected. But perhaps the need for secrecy is greater than Pinarius knew.
Pinarius finds his son and nephew in the crowd.
‘What happened?’ Cornelius asks.
‘All is well,’ Pinarius says. ‘Our fortune has changed.’
They reconvene in their rented room.
‘Do we need to remain hidden?’ Sextus asks. ‘I want to meet the Augusta as well.’
‘All in good time, son,’ Pinarius says, as he scrubs his tunic with a wet cloth. He wants to look his best for the Augusta.
‘We should be with you in the canteen,’ Cornelius says. ‘In case you need us.’
Pinarius pauses to consider this. ‘I suppose there is no harm in being cautious. Perhaps you should arrive in the canteen before me. The two of you can sit in the corner and watch when the Augusta’s servants come to take me to the Imperial villa. Livia saw your face outside the Imperial villa the other day. So perhaps you should disguise yourselves as best you can. With a hooded cloak.’
‘Will you take the letter with you, Father?’
‘I will take the original. The Augusta will want it. I’m sure she knows Greek well and can read it without assistance.
You hold on to the translation. For now.’
Sextus is smiling. ‘It’s working as we planned. Thank the gods. We came so close to ruin.’
Pinarius nods, gravely. ‘Yes. Thank the gods. We must make the appropriate sacrifices when the time is right.’
Cornelius stares at Pinarius’s rumpled clothes. ‘Perhaps you should buy a new tunic, Uncle?’
‘I would,’ Pinarius says as he continues to scrub his tunic. ‘But we haven’t the time.’
Three hours later, after the sun has set, Sextus and Cornelius go through the doors of the canteen. Pinarius waits a quarter of an hour before following them inside. They are enjoying a cup of wine in the corner of the room when Pinarius walks in. There are three customers drinking wine, a man at the bar and another two at a table. The proprietor and his wife are behind the bar. The festivities of the games are happening elsewhere, in Puteoli, so the crowd here in Baiae is subdued. The customers are not looking to celebrate, but to drink. This must be why the Augusta chose it, Pinarius thinks, because it is discreet.
Pinarius orders a cup of wine and takes a seat at a long table, near Sextus and Cornelius.
The younger men hold cups of wine up to hide their smiles. They are enjoying this skulduggery.
They wait half of an hour. Then Livia walks into the canteen with three large men. Pinarius stands, his cap in his hand. He smiles.
Livia points at Pinarius and says to one of the men, ‘That’s him.’
She turns and leaves.
The three men walk toward Pinarius.
One of them punches Pinarius in the stomach.
He falls to the floor gasping for breath.
‘There . . . ’ He tries to speak, but can’t catch his breath. ‘There must be some kind of mistake.’
A foot collides with his stomach and the pain is worse than the punch. Pinarius curls up in a ball. His eyes water from the pain.
A hand grips his shoulder and hauls him up.
Sextus and Cornelius remain seated at their table, their faces white with terror. The three men attacking Pinarius are twice their size. They wouldn’t stand a chance.
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