Empress Of Rome 1: Den Of Wolves

by Luke Devenish

  I felt a terrible stab of guilt at that. Agrippina was Julia’s sole surviving child, and it was another secret cruelty that the memory of Julia had been so falsified.

  Germanicus held her eyes. He knew why she felt this way; he shared it. ‘Please give the scroll back to me. I shouldn’t have let you see it.’

  She flicked back to the words.

  ‘Please don’t read more, Agrippina.’

  But of course she did. The gorge rose in her throat and she staggered backwards. Her feet slipped from under her and she fell hard to the floor before her husband or I could catch her. We both knew what Agrippina had seen.

  Tiberius’s communiqué stated that the Lady Julia, the disgraced and long-exiled daughter of the Divine Augustus, had been wholly consumed by vermin, probably while still alive.

  Nymphomidia moaned with the pleasure of a full-to-bursting belly. In the dark tent that served as the kitchen storage, she indulged her appetite, cramming hunks of honey-dipped flatbread into her mouth. Her hunger never left her; she dreamt of food asleep or awake, and she hid here when Agrippina dozed in the afternoons. Nymphomidia had little interest in rest, wanting only to eat.

  ‘You stuff yourself like a pig,’ said a high-pitched voice behind her at the tent opening. Little Boots had caught her, the demon, but Nymphomidia knew how to keep him sweet.

  ‘You’re just in time, I’ve made you a treat. Do you want some?’

  Little Boots needed no other coercion to complicity. After a few minutes’ scoffing, he complained about Burrus’s apparent absence from camp. Nymphomidia knew exactly where her son was but claimed ignorance, so Little Boots told her the news he meant for Burrus.

  ‘Mother said there’d be theatres and circuses built in my honour.’ He expected exclamations of amazement so Nymphomidia obliged. But Little Boots felt she lacked some conviction. ‘I want theatres most of all. Enormous ones.’

  Nymphomidia dipped another hunk of bread. ‘You’ve never even been in a theatre. How do you know that they’re good?’

  ‘You haven’t been in one either.’

  ‘You don’t know what I do when your mother and father aren’t watching me.’ She gave him a playful smile that had just enough mystery in it to make him pause for a moment.

  Then he dismissed the possibility of a mere slave having secrets. ‘I’ll go to a theatre eventually; it’s just a matter of time,’ he pronounced. ‘And I still want one built in my name. It’ll be called the Theatre of Little Boots. I’ll command slaves to demolish slums to build it.’

  ‘That’s very cruel.’

  ‘Why? Slums offend me. Wouldn’t Rome rather have a new theatre than stinking slums?’

  ‘Then where will the poor people live?’

  ‘Who cares?’

  Nymphomidia had heard enough. ‘Why don’t you eat your bread and stop putting on airs, boy. There’ll be no theatres or any such other thing. Your brothers may get those sorts of honours, but you’re the youngest son, and you’ll do well to think on how to honour them too, not be a rival.’

  Little Boots looked shocked to the skin.

  ‘Nymphomidia, I must speak with you,’ said Germanicus.

  She turned with such suddenness that the honeyed bread flew from her hand. Her master stood at the tent opening, his face stern. He’d heard how disrespectfully she’d addressed his son.

  ‘Domine, forgive me … it was the honey – I think it’s fermented,’ she stammered.

  ‘Leave us, Little Boots.’

  The boy saw that his father was not to be argued with and left without objection. Nymphomidia sank to her knees and waited.

  ‘I have received a communiqué from the First Citizen,’ said Germanicus after a few moments. This was not what she expected. ‘We are recalled to Rome.’

  Her eyes met his but he betrayed nothing. She could not hope for explanations. ‘Very good, domine.’

  He didn’t know how to tell her the rest of it. ‘In our absence there has been … a conspiracy. It was led by a slave. Clemens.’

  Her voice, when she found it again, was tiny. ‘What did he do …?’

  ‘He impersonated your mistress’s brother. He led people to believe he was Agrippa Postumus.’

  Tears of grief filled her eyes. The secret plan had failed.

  ‘Postumus died in exile. He was mad. But the slave Clemens was of the belief that he could impersonate his former master, and he did so, causing other fools to believe he was Postumus returned. This was a challenge to Tiberius.’

  Nymphomidia thought only of protecting her son. ‘He was a monster. Clemens was a monster. I curse his memory, domine. I hope he’s in hell.’

  ‘The First Citizen has asked me to punish all slaves who have blood connections to Clemens.’

  The piss left her bladder and she knew why he was telling her.

  ‘Not the boy …’ She hardly had voice left at all. ‘Please, domine, kill me, but not my boy. He loves the Julian house – he knows nothing else. He doesn’t even know that Clemens was his father …’

  There was silence as Germanicus came to a decision. ‘I’ll not kill Burrus, then. He was born here, so no-one in Rome even knows he exists. And his paternity is not known to anyone except your mistress and me. He could be any slave’s child.’

  ‘Thank you, domine. Thank you.’

  ‘But your coupling with Clemens was known among the Oxheads slaves, of course …’ Germanicus thought of his wife, sobbing on the floor of the commander’s tent, cursing her own mother’s name, yet crying out to be with Julia in death. Agrippina would need her slave. ‘Tiberius does not define “punish” in his communiqué to me.’

  Nymphomidia’s throat tightened.

  ‘So you’ll not be killed.’ He looked to her with a face he hoped would seem authoritative yet kind. ‘You’ll be whipped instead. That will be your punishment, and a deterrent to any slave – friend to Clemens or otherwise – who’d plot against Rome.’

  Nymphomidia crouched in her piss. ‘My dominus is merciful,’ she whispered.

  Stripping bare, Sejanus felt the eyes of his guards upon him. He hoped they felt envy and he allowed them to look, pretending not to notice as he waded into the chill waters and felt their bite. Blood pumps with the powers of the gods when immersed in a midwinter sea, and Sejanus looked forward to the effects as he sprang forward in a dive, propelled through the waves.

  His head bobbed to the surface again some way from the shore. He was a strong swimmer; he felt at ease in the sea, even when it was icy. He floated and observed the darkened skies. Taking Apicata and the children to the country retreat for Saturnalia was an annual event. Rome could be tedious during the festival of winter excess, and there was much for the children to enjoy in quieter surrounds, rugged up for the chill. But Sejanus had trouble convincing his young son, Aelius, to accompany him on dawn swims. The boy needed sterner stuff. Sejanus didn’t push it, however, not on holiday. Sejanus didn’t much feel like swimming out to the rock and back either; he was content to tread water. On the shore he saw some estate slaves gathering driftwood and other items, washed up in the tide. He liked his shore kept spotless.

  A breeze picked up and Sejanus’s thoughts turned to food. He swam a few strokes in the slaves’ direction, and when he could touch the sea floor again he let the waves take him the rest of the way. Soon he walked up the shore, dripping in the wind.

  ‘Io Saturnalia!’ the slaves called out to him.

  He returned the seasonal greeting, feeling warmed – that special power! A chamber slave slipped a linen shawl around Sejanus’s shoulders and another wrapped linens around his waist. Sejanus huddled into the fabric, not wanting the heat of his exertions to vanish.

  Among the washed-up detritus was the usual rubbish from passing ships – a single sandal, a wooden plate, a book canister. The slaves suspected Sejanus might find this last item interesting, as he often did with washed-up objects, and they placed it aside for him. ‘See here, domine.’

  Sejanus picke
d it up and examined it. ‘What’s this – a Saturnalia present?’

  The slaves laughed.

  ‘It’s a pleasing object, isn’t it?’

  ‘The things sailors throw from their ships, domine!’

  ‘Some water damage, though, which is a shame. It’s a precious wood.’ Sejanus could tell how much they wanted him to like it.

  ‘Anything inside it, domine?’

  He gave the canister a shake. ‘Sounds so.’ The slaves looked at each other in anticipation. Sejanus studied the lid and saw that it opened with a silver catch. This was corroded but it gave with some effort. ‘Amazing,’ said Sejanus. ‘It seems to be airtight.’

  All the slaves peered closely as he tipped out a papyrus scroll that was untouched by the waters. Even the guards were intrigued. They loved the suspense; Sejanus was a doting father to them, and he teased it out that little further. ‘I wonder what it says … ?’

  Apicata could hear it from the other side of the villa. She didn’t need to see her father slurping his soup to know he was greatly enjoying it. She felt her way along the passage to the kitchen with the slurping growing ever louder. This, she supposed, was the dog-like hearing.

  She entered the kitchen and didn’t expect the old man to acknowledge her. He did though, between mouthfuls. ‘Soup’s like nothing I’ve tasted. Your cook’s staying behind when you go.’

  Apicata arranged a pleasant smile in old Apicius’s direction. ‘I’m so glad you’re enjoying the breakfast, Father, but who’ll feed your grandchildren if we give you the cook?’

  ‘No giving involved. Just leave him here. You can eat his food whenever you come and visit me.’

  Apicata suspected a ruse. ‘What if we promise to visit more often and bring the cook with us every time?’

  ‘I don’t care if I never see you again, but you’re leaving that cook.’

  She would get Sejanus to resolve this. ‘As you wish then,’ said Apicata, respectful and sweet. ‘But we’ll miss him.’

  ‘Take my Sido. He’ll need a job now.’

  Apicata thought she’d rather take a knife to her throat. ‘Perhaps I’ll take Sido to the slave market. Bound to be another cook I could trade him for there.’

  For all his new love for her slave, Apicius was very attached to his own servants. ‘No need for that, he’s a fine cook. Put him to work in your kitchen.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not up with Rome’s most fashionable dishes, Father. He’ll shame Sejanus in front of guests. No, he’ll have to go.’

  Apicius was a puppy in the face of this threat. ‘Maybe I’ll keep him on here …’

  ‘Then who’ll cook for me?’

  Apicius just slurped his soup.

  Knowing she’d won, Apicata kissed him on the head. She loved the old pig, especially now he was past it. ‘Maybe you need a pretty young Gaul for a cook,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe you need to find one for me.’

  She laughed at that and Sejanus entered through the door from the yards. He stood, saying nothing. Apicius stopped slurping. It took a moment for Apicata to realise that Sejanus was staring intently at her father.

  ‘What is it, son?’ Apicius could see the strange look upon Sejanus’s face that Apicata could not.

  Sejanus took a seat on the rough bench next to his father-in-law and clasped the old man’s hand. ‘Have you ever felt it was an injustice that only the patrician class rule?’

  Apicius didn’t know how to reply.

  ‘You must have, Apicius? In all those years you spent scraping to them?’

  The old man cast a quick glance at Apicata but she was blind to his confusion. ‘The patricians have always ruled,’ he replied at last. His son-in-law seemed like a boy again. ‘The equestrians have always treated them respectfully, but we’ve made our fortunes from them too. I’ve long accepted the Ways of the Fathers.’

  Sejanus’s eyes burned with an emotion the old man couldn’t read. ‘Do you still?’

  ‘What’s this about, son? Has something happened?’

  Sejanus still wore the damp linens as he pulled the parchment scroll from his folds. ‘Fortune has favoured me.’ He was childlike in his sincerity. ‘I believe I’m her beloved now.’ He untied the scroll – then noticed at last that Apicata was in the room.

  His will was clear. ‘Apicata, please leave us.’

  But she didn’t move far. She hid in a passage alcove and thanked Fortune for her ears.

  Apicata listened as Sejanus read from the scroll. At first she felt sick to her stomach with what she heard. It was foul bile, but she was compelled to reach the finish, just as Sejanus was. Accusations of crimes were detailed – and so was the road to be taken to uncover the proof of such claims. Near the end the old man cried out in despair, smashing his soup bowl. Apicata understood what it was that made him feel such betrayal; he had loved Augustus. But Apicius calmed and Apicata felt peace wash over herself, too. She hadn’t seen Sejanus’s face when he had entered the kitchen but she could imagine how it was. She knew him well enough to guess: he would have been flushed with tranquillity from finding the true path to his destiny.

  She came to her decision. Apicata left the alcove and walked with purpose back to the kitchen. She reached the open door and composed her face.

  Sejanus looked at her. ‘We haven’t finished.’

  ‘I know you haven’t.’ Apicata walked to the table and seated herself on a stool. ‘I’m joining you.’

  Apicius made to strike her for such insolence but Sejanus stayed his father-in-law’s hand. Apicata was calm. ‘I’ve listened to every word that you have, Father, every word that my husband read aloud. The Lady Julia’s letter is very much a sign that the gods favour us.’ She turned to her husband. ‘You need to make the plans that will take you to your destiny, Sejanus. But you must hear this: plans of this scale need a woman’s skill.’

  For that brief moment Sejanus thought that perhaps he loved her after all and had simply never recognised the feeling for what it was. ‘You’re right, Apicata,’ he said.

  And she was.

  The slave-boy could hear Little Boots calling him but he didn’t respond. Nymphomidia had given him a task and he would carry it out as his duty. He would not accept wooden sword blows from a half-dick who still shat the cot.

  Burrus’s duty was not a duty at all to him, but an honour. It was his pleasure, too. He rocked the infant Nilla in her cradle tenderly, keeping an eye out for mosquitoes. He gazed at her form; she was noble already in her features, he considered. She was lovely. Burrus hoped the baby might awaken in time. Then he’d jiggle the silly Priapus doll that made her squeal. It had once been his toy, and if Nymphomidia knew he was using the smutty thing to amuse the baby then he’d get the rod. But Nilla loved it and so did he. Burrus loved Nilla too. The boy-slave loved his tiny domina more than anyone or anything he’d known or seen in his short slave life.

  I alone understood how all-consuming this would be.

  Floralia

  May, AD 17

  Eighteen months later: Germanicus Julius

  Caesar is awarded his Triumph in Rome

  The graffiti scratched into the tufa stone wall of the Two Monkeys and One Snail fruit and vegetable shop was one among so many others in the Subura. But it stood out for its carnal charms. ‘How potent is Lord Germanicus!’ it proclaimed. ‘Three sons and two daughters and no sign of stopping soon! If his poor Lady needs a rest, we Subura girls will do our duty and take her place on the screwing couch! Don’t worry, Germanicus, we’ll do it for free!’

  The drunken beggar asleep beneath this poetry awoke to find a man’s face pressed very close to his own. The eyes in the face were staring at him without expression – neither angry, repulsed or even curious. The face was younger than his own, and considerably prettier. But it too had scars; it knew cruelty.

  This made them twins.

  The beggar stared back from the wall, not moving a muscle. Then he blinked. The face blinked too.

  ‘Are y
ou a dream?’

  ‘Are you Hyacinthus?’

  The beggar paused warily. ‘I asked first.’

  ‘I’m the one with gold.’

  A heavy little purse fell on the beggar’s chest. But he stayed still. He didn’t believe this was real yet.

  ‘I’ve bought myself the right to have my question answered, haven’t I?’ asked the face. ‘Are you the famous Hyacinthus?’

  ‘I was.’ The beggar wished this dream would turn into something else.

  ‘Then you still are.’

  ‘I won all my fights and bought my freedom. I’m not Hyacinthus any more. I’m no-one. I’m just a drunk.’

  ‘You’re sober now. Do you want some work?’

  The face suddenly had lots of arms and legs and Hyacinthus was hoisted to his feet. The little purse was caught before it fell, then deftly dropped down the neck of his tunica. Hyacinthus realised that the face had friends with him – and the friends were armed.

  He looked at the sharp swords. ‘I want wine.’

  ‘The gold I’ve given you will buy you plenty of that,’ said the face. ‘And the gold I’ll give you when you’ve done a job for me will buy you a pretty slave and a year’s rent on an apartment on the Quirinal Hill.’

  Hyacinthus realised now that the face was familiar. But he couldn’t place it.

  ‘Two slaves. Two years’ rent. Maybe then I’ll give a shit,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  There could only be one reason why such a cruel-faced pretty-boy would be happy to pay money on that scale.

  ‘Who do you want me to kill?’ asked Hyacinthus.

  A spectator slipped from the roof of the Senate House, which was read as a sign by Tiberius from his Oxheads balcony. The heralding standard-bearers had been spotted from the highest vantage point, so therefore the head of the Triumph was nearing the Forum. Given that the crowd screamed at an empty road for hours, there no was indication of progress to be gleaned from them, but the accident was a timely warning. The falling spectator was followed swiftly by two more friends, all three landing on the flagstones. Disgusted, Tiberius only hoped that someone would clean up the mess before he had to stand on the steps of the Senate House later. He ordered Sejanus to use arrows to shoot down any other fools. He would not risk his personal safety.