The Exiled

by David Barbaree

  One of the three thugs circles the room, flicking coins at the patrons and the proprietors. ‘For your trouble,’ he says. ‘You didn’t see anything.’

  A rag is stuffed into Pinarius’s mouth, a hood is pulled over his head, and then he is thrown over a shoulder and carried to the door.

  A coin lands in front of Sextus. It spins three times on the table before toppling over. He looks at it, horrified.

  ‘Remember. You didn’t see anything.’

  Domitilla

  2 May

  Reate, Italy

  The undertaker’s voice cracks as he finishes his story. He shows me the coin he received in exchange for watching his father dragged off to his death.

  ‘And what did you do next?’ I ask.

  He sobs.

  ‘Nothing. I watched men take my father away and I did nothing. I sat there, helpless. Father was found in the Baiae lake the next day. I came back here, to Reate. I didn’t know what else to do. I sold our property to pay our debts and I have tried to . . .’ He takes a deep breath, trying to control his emotions. ‘I have tried to live.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ I say.

  He doesn’t look at me. My words are empty comfort.

  This is my fault. I refused to see his father because I am the emperor’s sister and he was a lowly undertaker.

  Livia is also to blame. She must be Nerva’s spy. I knew Nerva had spies across the empire, but I never imagined one had infiltrated our family. I relied on Livia. I trusted her. She became important to me. It happened so gradually that it never occurred to me she was anything other than a loyal member of our household.

  ‘Do you have the letter?’ I ask Sextus.

  He shakes his head. ‘Father had the original. My cousin has the translation. I wanted to burn it, but he thought it might be useful.’

  ‘But your recollection of it, you’re confident the words were as you remember?’

  ‘They are seared into my memory. I will never forget. The words were poison for my father, as much as they were for yours.’

  ‘My father specifically named Nerva?’

  He nods.

  Last year, there were terrible events that were never satisfactorily explained. The attempt on my life and inexplicable prodigies meant to undermine the Principate. Was Nerva to blame? How blind I’ve been! Father’s intuition must have been right. How many of our family’s travails can be attributed to Nerva?

  I put my hand on the undertaker’s. ‘Nerva is behind your father’s death. He is a monster. We will bring him to justice. I promise.’

  ‘Justice?’

  The word is foreign to him. I will need to show him its meaning.

  ‘Come,’ I say, standing. ‘Your days of living in this hovel are over.’

  He does not believe me. His face is blank. I take his arm, help him stand and walk him to the door. I open it and the bright morning sun is momentarily blinding. ‘This is a new day for you,’ I say, gently guiding him outside. There is resistance at first, as I press on his back, but then his weight rushes forward, as though he has fallen or is pulled, and I stumble through the door.

  I fall to my knees, my hands on the sun-baked earth. I look up and see a large man holding the undertaker against the wall of his home. He’s holding his forearm against the undertaker’s neck, choking the life out of him.

  His wife, the woman I saw when we first arrived, is hidden from view but I can hear her screaming.

  I call for help but my voice dies in the back of my throat. I turn and see the soldiers who accompanied me lying dead beside their horses. The Batavian is on his knees. His arms being held behind his back by two rough-looking men. He is bleeding, but I cannot see how serious the wound is.

  Livia is sitting on a tree stump. She’s leaning forward, her chin in her hand.

  More tough-looking men mill around the clearing.

  Someone is standing over me. I try to make him out. The man’s face is clouded in shadow. He squats closer to the ground, so our eyes are nearly level.

  Nerva.

  ‘Are you alright, Mistress? Did you fall?’

  He puts out his hand. I slap it away.

  I can hear the undertaker’s laboured breathing behind me. He’s still being held against the wall of his home. His feet are a few inches above the ground and he’s furiously kicking the air. ‘He is choking. Let him go.’

  Nerva stands and adjusts his tunic. ‘No, I think not.’

  The undertaker’s kicking intensifies and then suddenly stops; his body goes limp. Nerva’s thug steps back and the undertaker falls to the earth.

  I have failed both father and son.

  Blinded by rage, I stand and run at Nerva. But two men grab me before I am close enough to make contact.

  I curse Nerva’s name, spitting with rage. He watches me with cold eyes.

  Then I turn my anger to Livia, realizing she is the one who ran to tell Nerva that I meant to speak with the undertaker. She must have left last night. She’d suggested the morning to give her enough time to fetch Nerva.

  ‘How could you?’ I say.

  Livia does not look at me. She is still sitting on the tree stump, staring into the distance.

  ‘I wouldn’t judge her too harshly, Augusta,’ Nerva says. ‘She did not betray you. She has been working for me all the time you have known her. It was my good fortune that you came to rely on her the way you did.’ He turns to Livia and snaps his fingers. ‘My dear,’ Nerva says. He holds out his hand, expectantly.

  Livia stands and pulls from under her tunic a vial of a blue liquid.

  Nerva takes it from Livia and then tilts it back and forth, mixing the vial. He holds it up to the light.

  ‘What is that?’ I ask.

  ‘I think you know.’

  ‘Is it the poison you used on my father?’

  Nerva’s smile is emotionless. ‘No. The one I had administered to your father worked very slowly, over a series of weeks. It was designed to make his death resemble a gradual illness. This—’ he holds up the vial ‘—is deadlier. It will work much faster.’

  ‘You don’t deny it then, murdering my father.’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Why?’

  He stares at me, as though considering whether to say more. ‘Your family has been in power too long. You would not understand.’

  ‘You are a traitor and a murderer. I understand that.’

  ‘A traitor? Who did I betray?’

  ‘Rome. Your emperor.’

  ‘You see, I was right.’ Nerva shakes his head and nearly laughs. ‘You are blind to your family’s hypocrisy. You forget your father’s rise. Let me ask you this, Augusta: when Vitellius was emperor and your father raised an army and marched it west to challenge Vitellius for the throne, was he betraying Rome? What about when his men butchered Vitellius’s army, or when they sacked Rome, or when they tore Vitellius limb from limb on the Gemonian stairs? Was your father betraying Rome then?

  ‘One cannot betray Rome. It is a series of buildings beside the Tiber. It can be taken by force or by intrigue, but not betrayed. At least when I poisoned your father, one man perished. When your father made his bid for the throne, how many people died? Think of the trail of blood your father’s army left across Italy – all so he could be the first man in Rome.

  ‘Politics is a dirty game,’ he says. ‘Your father played it better than most and he won. And he kept on winning until a better man outsmarted him. But he knew as well as anyone that if you are not winning in politics, you are losing. And in Rome, the stakes are as high as they come. When you lose, you forfeit your life.’

  ‘My father was a good man,’ I say.

  ‘Your father was a god, not a man. And, like any god, Caesar demands sacrifices in his name. He desires blood. Jupiter, Apollo, Caesar – it is all the same. A god’s thirst for flesh is as constant as the rising sun.’

  ‘No. That is false. If you had been loyal, he would never have hurt you. He trusted you.’ My voice is dejected now.
I had been struggling against the men holding my arms, but I feel a sense of defeat run through my limbs. ‘His trust is the only reason you were close enough to kill him. And you betrayed that trust.’

  There is a flash of anger in Nerva’s eyes. It only lasts a moment, though; and then he is once again as impassive as a rock face, cold and pitiless. ‘Caesar did not trust me. He did not trust anyone but his eldest son. He showed favour to senators and then took it away. He made us senators fight amongst ourselves, so that we would not turn our ire at him. When your father first took the throne, he named me consul – a great honour. But then he cast me aside. He favoured other men. It was insulting. And if I did nothing, so long as I was on the outside looking in, it was only a matter of time before I was offered up to the god for sacrifice.’

  ‘Is that why you poisoned my father?’

  Nerva is nodding, glad that I can understand his twisted logic. ‘I realized that I would have better luck with a new emperor. First I took steps to undermine Caesar and encouraged a coup. But when Marcellus failed I took matters into my own hands.’

  I think of the strange prodigies last year. The dog that inexplicably carried a human hand into the forum. The city talked about it for weeks, claiming it meant power was about to change hands. That so-called prodigy, along with Father’s age and failing health – it all worked to undermine the Principate. No doubt it emboldened Marcellus to plan his coup. Titus discovered that the dog had been trained to carry out the task. But we never learned who was behind it.

  ‘The hand in the forum?’ I say. ‘Last January. That was you?’

  Nerva nods. ‘Yes. One of many omens I orchestrated to undermine the Principate, to hint at your family’s vulnerability. To inspire others to do the unthinkable.’

  Father was right. Nerva is to blame for all of our family’s unexplained misfortunes.

  I think of the man who tried to kill me not long after the incident with the hand. He broke into the Palace and attacked me with a knife. It was only thanks to the Batavian that I lived.

  ‘And is that why you tried to have me killed?’

  Nerva shrugs. ‘You were engaged to Marcellus. I knew Marcellus had designs on the Principate himself. If he were to marry you, and your father and brothers were killed, he would be the logical choice for emperor. I wanted a new emperor, but not Marcellus. He would have been worse than your father. I couldn’t have that.’

  ‘So the simplest way to solve the problem was to kill me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I start to cry.

  ‘My father was a good emperor. He was a good man.’

  ‘You give your father too much credit. He wasn’t much better than Nero. His great fortune was the civil war that he won to earn the throne. It was so bad the people didn’t have the stomach for another one. They still don’t. That is why the Flavians continue to rule.’

  I think of Titus. My invincible brother.

  ‘You wanted a new emperor, but Titus will not bring you into the fold. He knows what you are.’

  Nerva walks towards me, then nods at one of the men holding my arms. A hand pulls my head back and another pries my mouth open.

  ‘I am not concerned,’ Nerva says. ‘I know your brother. I know his strengths and weaknesses . . .’

  Nerva pours the blue liquid down my throat. It’s warm and bitter. My mouth is forced shut and they don’t let go until I’ve swallowed the liquid. It leaves a gritty sediment on my tongue.

  ‘I have plans,’ Nerva says, ‘and your brother will not stand in my way.’

  Nerva’s men let me go and I collapse to the dirt. My throat begins to burn. I feel too weak to stand.

  I watch Nerva walk away.

  My fingers go numb. My mouth fills with saliva. I want to retch.

  Nerva points at the Batavian. ‘Get him ready.’

  One of Nerva’s henchmen drags iron shackles through the dirt. The Batavian flails, trying to escape, but a man beats the Batavian with a club until he has no fight left. He’s thrust face first into the dirt, put in chains and then gagged.

  ‘What are you going to do with him?’ I ask.

  ‘Sell him,’ Nerva says. ‘He will be blamed for your death. The world will think the Batavian could not stand to live without you. So he killed you and ran.’

  Intense pain ripples through my stomach. I am having trouble breathing.

  I think of Flavia. My little girl. I’m afraid to mention her name. What will happen to her?

  I lie back on the sun-baked earth and stare up at the sun. The pain builds until I don’t think I will be able to stand it any more . . .

  And then it is gone.

  There is only the warm radiance of the sun washing over me. I feel as though I am floating in the balmy, brilliant white light.

  I close my eyes and all is dark.

  Barlaas

  15 May

  The Euphrates, the border between Rome and Parthia

  Our guide is a short, blue-eyed Syrian with a dagger strapped to his belt. His name is Moses.

  ‘The river,’ Moses says, pointing at the Euphrates. For him, there is only one river. No need to call it by name.

  ‘We cross here.’

  I stare at the calm green-blue water, slowly snaking its way south and east. The shore is tawny-brown, spotted with green brush. On the other side is what the Romans call Parthia. The land of my birth.

  I had forgotten what it looked like, the river. Living as long as I did in Italy, the memory was muted, just beyond reach, like the face of a loved one long passed. But now that I am here – now that I can see it and smell it; now that I can feel the cool breeze coming off the water – memories long buried are coming back to me.

  Carenes and I crossed at this very spot thirty years ago. His expression was grim as he stared at the river for the last time. We had been in chains for months before Vologases sent us west, and my wrists were raw from the manacles. My heart was full of hate for my brother, for banishing me, for sending me to live with our enemies.

  There is comfort in seeing it unchanged. To know that while I am getting old, the mountains and rivers will continue as they were.

  ‘Is it as you remember?’ Ulpius asks. He is slouched in his saddle, bent over the reins. He looks tired and I cannot blame him. Our journey has been long and difficult. He is rubbing that shard of terracotta he always carries with him.

  ‘Yes.’

  He nods.

  ‘Would you like a moment? We have time.’

  I look behind me. The column of thirty soldiers are waiting patiently. We were supposed to cross into Parthia with more than two hundred men. But in Antioch dysentery ravaged the ranks and Ulpius refused to wait. We left only with those who could walk. ‘Let the others catch up,’ Ulpius had said.

  Our guide Moses is impatient. ‘It is folly to linger,’ he says. ‘You should cross now and be done with it.’

  ‘No one asked you,’ Manlius says. He and Marcus are behind me. They have both been watching Moses like a hawk. Our guide has asked too many questions since leaving Antioch, trying to learn all that he can. Once we cross, he will try to sell information to his Parthian contacts. These men of the border, who spend time in Rome and Parthia, can be duplicitous.

  But whatever he says, it won’t interfere with our plans. His aim was obvious from the beginning, so we have been disciplined. He only knows what is obvious from looking at us. That we are on a diplomatic mission. (No one goes to war in Parthia with thirty men.) That we have two Aryan prisoners; one is earless, the other with discoloured eyes. That among the Romans travelling to Parthia there is an old Parthian warrior who can speak Latin like an Italian. That is all he knows.

  ‘Manlius is right,’ Marcus says. ‘Take your time.’

  I thank my companions with a nod, then dismount and walk to the shore.

  I listen to the river. The sun warms my face.

  It is strange to the think of the young man I was when I crossed into Roman lands. I had been in chains f
or months, underfed and sore from the occasional beating by my guards. Still, I was young. I was skinny and strong as an ox.

  Something clenches in my chest. I think of the life I lost living in Rome, the thirty years I could have had as an Arsacid noble and warrior. I think of those closest to me when I left. My wives, my sisters, my brothers. How many will be alive? I haven’t a clue. And those that are alive – what will they make of me? Will I be an outcast, like the Toad, a Roman in all but name? Or will they be as happy to see me as I will be to see them?

  I kneel at the river’s edge and reach my hand into the water. It’s cool and clean. I push my hand deeper and pull out a fistful of black earth.

  The sleeve of my robe is wet and sticks to my forearm. It’s pleasant in the heat.

  I have carried a sadness with me, a longing. It grew over my thirty years in Rome and I could never soothe it.

  But there is an answer to it here, holding the land of my birth.

  I rub my hands together; black earth smears across my palms. I hold my hands to my face and inhale, deeply.

  The knot in my chest releases, like a flower blooming in spring.

  Tears stream down my face.

  I am home.

  Epilogue

  Caesar receives news of his sister in the morning.

  It is nearly summer, bright and warm, and Caesar was excited for the weeks ahead. The last brick was laid in the amphitheatre and soon the games will start. One hundred days to celebrate the opening of the largest, grandest structure in the world. A testament to the power of the Flavians. Nero built his Golden House for himself. The Flavians built a stadium for the people. Caesar knows that for this building alone he will be remembered.

  And the devastation in Campania – although he could never hope to undo the damage wrought by the worst and most inexplicable fire the world has ever seen; indeed, what can Caesar do when entire cities are buried? – nevertheless, thanks to Caesar’s dedication and resources, much had been done to repair the region. The pain is lessening.

  And yes, there was a devastating fire in Rome itself, not long after the fires of Vesuvius. But Caesar has nearly rebuilt the city – at his own personal expense – and the suffering the fire caused is starting to fade.