Empress Of Rome 1: Den Of Wolves

by Luke Devenish

  Tiberius stayed very still.

  ‘The one that he worked for is near, within this house, and perhaps is by your side. He – or she – will strike again soon. On that the gods hide nothing.’

  Tiberius felt the sweat pricking him. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘The gods don’t say. Perhaps, with time and encouragement, they will.’

  Tiberius reached into his toga folds and found a large ruby embedded in gold. He kept a stash of such things and tossed it to Thrasyllus. ‘Keep on at them. They give us signs your eyes don’t see unless you squint.’

  Sejanus appeared at the door to the reception hall and gave the haruspex a respectful smile. Then to the First Citizen he said, ‘Will you attend the banquet, Caesar, or will I make excuses?’

  Tiberius looked upon him with warmth. Today Sejanus had saved him. Here, at least, was a protector by his side – the gods’ odds were evened. ‘I’ll attend,’ he said. ‘Assassins give me an appetite.’

  ‘Thrasyllus has had signs from the Gods,’ said Tiberius.

  The First Citizen and his Praetorian Prefect strolled through the portico that led to the Banquet Hall, passing a garden on one side. Slaves discreetly trailed them, keeping their distance. The two didn’t rush – one because of his stitches, the other because he cherished any private moment gained.

  ‘The madman on the steps was the instrument of another,’ Tiberius told Sejanus. ‘Someone near.’

  Sejanus nodded. He didn’t need to consult bulls’ entrails to know that. ‘It’s an opinion I’ve already drawn, Caesar. The man was a beggar but his knife was of fine bronze – too expensive for a man of the gutter.’

  Tiberius accepted this with grim pragmatism. ‘Augustus was beset by plots. My bitch of a second wife was the worst of the traitors. It’ll be my curse too. The gods won’t be drawn on whether my enemy is man or woman.’

  Sejanus made no reply and they walked on in silence, the clamour of the Banquet Hall beginning to fill the night air. As they approached the doors, Sejanus halted the mute Nubians that were about to admit them. ‘The Praetorian Guard shamed you today, Caesar.’

  ‘Their Prefect saved me today,’ said Tiberius. ‘There’s no shame in that.’

  ‘The assassin was able to make the full run up the Senate House steps without a single Praetorian outrunning him,’ said Sejanus, ‘although he had no shoes and likely hadn’t eaten in a week.’

  Tiberius calculated the implications of this. His wound ached sharply. ‘Traitors among your men?’

  Sejanus trod carefully. ‘If there are I’ll find them, and Caesar will have the pleasure of flaying them alive,’ he said.

  ‘You know I’m not one for gory pursuits,’ replied Tiberius. But he was reassured.

  ‘I’ve ordered every guard present at the steps today flogged as a sign that lapses are not tolerated. It may be that the beggar had an agility that outshone the men. Or it may be an indication of sedition. Either way, a flogging will have impact, both on those who receive it and those who observe. The sentence is being carried out as we speak.’

  Tiberius heard all this and was pleased. Just as he was about to command the Nubians to open the doors, Sejanus laid a hand on his arm. Tiberius looked into the face of the boy who had once so devotedly walked a thousand miles with him, carrying the corpse of his brother. There were tears in Sejanus’s eyes.

  ‘What is it?’ Tiberius asked him.

  ‘You know what it is.’ Sejanus let silence fill in the rest.

  Tiberius did know. ‘We’ve discussed this before, Sejanus.’

  ‘An attempt was made on your life today – in front of the whole city. How long before another is made? How long before the next madman succeeds?’

  ‘They’ll never succeed while you’re here beside me,’ Tiberius told him reassuringly.

  But Sejanus was not reassured. ‘Please reconsider what I’ve suggested before. Take your court away from Rome to some safer place, to where your enemies can’t reach you.’

  ‘How can I ever leave Rome?’ said Tiberius, pained. ‘I’m the First Citizen. I am Rome.’

  ‘By leaving Rome you’ll protect yourself – and by protecting yourself, you’ll be protecting Rome,’ Sejanus pleaded.

  Tiberius was silent for a minute and then he nodded to his devoted Prefect. ‘I’ll give the proposal more consideration,’ he said, then adding, ‘Don’t think of this as a yes, but don’t think of it as a no, either.’

  Sejanus nodded back as Tiberius stepped towards the doors, but with the First Citizen’s paternal gaze no longer upon him Sejanus allowed himself to feel the glow of satisfaction.

  The nine hundred guests turned and stood as one. They cried out ‘Hail Caesar!’ as Tiberius entered the party, Sejanus at his back. Once the First Citizen had made his modestly wordless protestations they returned to their revels and Tiberius disappeared among the sycophants nearest the door.

  As banquets went, this was a very fine one, but there was no debauchery. The actors and the dancing girls, known for turning tricks on the side, had been forced to have a quiet night in, uninvited. Every person of importance and affluence in Rome was there, but the entertainments on offer were limited to chaste pipers and choirs. The house of the Julii now had such a reputation for upholding the Ways of the Fathers that it had begun to seem prudish. This occasion was all about show, not indulgence.

  The exceptions to the rule were Castor and Claudius. The pair of cousins, at twenty-eight and twenty-seven years of age respectively, had encouraged each other in excesses since boyhood. They considered this to be no night for polite couch-hopping and preening. United in their adoration of the older Germanicus, they were drunk on unwatered wine. One of several hundred slaves that served, I had a fine view of their carousing. All the guests around them pretended not to notice – apart from the pinch-faced Livilla.

  ‘You’re disgusting, the two of you,’ she berated. ‘You reek like a vat.’

  ‘Oh, cheer up, you old sadness,’ said Castor to his wife at a volume that made more heads turn. ‘Why shouldn’t we enjoy ourselves? It’s Germanicus’s big night, isn’t it? I would have thought you’d be pleased for him, as his sister.’

  ‘I couldn’t be more pleased,’ she insisted. But in truth, she could have been.

  ‘Prove it,’ dared Claudius. ‘Kick up your heels!’ He stood on his dining couch to kick up his own heels and immediately slipped to the floor.

  Castor thought this hilarious. ‘You’re just like those poor bastards on the Senate House roof!’

  Even Livilla found that funny, though not for long.

  Claudius moaned out of sight as I passed by them with suckling pig on a tray. Livilla signalled me over, regarded the meal and then dismissed it again. ‘Looks stringy,’ she said.

  At the couch to her right, Apicata could see little of the proceedings through her useless eyes, but she heard every word. She realised Livilla must have turned to her as the Lady’s voice now seemed rather close to her ear.

  ‘What a fine honour for you today,’ Livilla said. ‘You must be especially proud.’

  Apicata presumed the Lady was referring to the prompt actions of Sejanus, but as she went to reply, her husband’s voice answered first. ‘If I saved the First Citizen from some assault by a lunatic, then certainly I am proud,’ he said smoothly. ‘But beyond that, today was just another day.’

  Apicata realised that Livilla was talking not to her but to Sejanus, who had appeared at his own couch.

  ‘That’s very modest of you,’ said Livilla, while Apicata stayed dumb. ‘But surely you don’t save him from assassination every day?’

  Sejanus’s words became extremely deliberate, while his tone retained charm. ‘There was no assassination attempt, Lady; the man was unhinged but unarmed.’

  Apicata waited to hear Livilla’s reply but there was none. She sensed that her husband and the Lady were still facing each other, and she wondered what their expressions were. Surely Livilla had picked up Sejanus’s meaning?
At last the other woman replied: ‘My view from the balcony must have been a deceptive one.’ There was a brief pause, then, ‘But I’m seeing clearly now.’

  Apicata didn’t need sight to know that Livilla had delivered that line with a feline gaze. This annoyed her. Livilla, for all her fine breeding, knew that flirting with a man while his wife was present was more befitting of an actress. Apicata reached out to touch her husband’s hand, asserting herself, knowing where he was from the shape of him at least, although she couldn’t see his features.

  Sejanus took her hand in his, lightly stroked it, and then released it just as quickly.

  Apicata heard the rustle of robes as Livilla’s feet lightly touched the floor and she got up from her couch. ‘My stomach pains me,’ she said. ‘I’ll bid my goodnight to Uncle Tiberius and retire.’

  For a dreadful moment Apicata stayed frozen in repose – it seemed to her that Sejanus would get up from his own couch to escort Livilla. But he made no movement, remaining where he was.

  Yet he made no sound, either.

  Tiberius remembered the idolatry that seemed aimed elsewhere. As he made slow progress through well-wishers to get to his dining couch, his thoughts cast back to the moment of discomfort before the fool with a knife. The mob and their chant of ‘Em-per-or’. He then remembered his very great and genuine love for Germanicus, his adopted son.

  Tiberius felt the conflict of his emotions.

  This passed, however, and by the time he reached his couch he had come to a decision. Feeling suddenly light-hearted, he dismissed the couch, claiming he wished to sit upright in order to see the entire hall. A more suitable Egyptian throne was brought to him.

  Reclining nearby, Livia knew the real reason why he wouldn’t recline this evening, as did Antonia and Germanicus, but none spoke of it. If Tiberius’s wound pained him it would remain withheld from public knowledge.

  Germanicus discussed with some humour the highlights of civic duty during his last six months in Rome. His flippancy implied how underutilised he felt, despite serving as co-consul. Tiberius caught the tail end of a story about the restoration of the Temple of Spes – the ‘Good Luck’ temple so used by desperate Romans that four hundred years of worship had demolished it.

  ‘I think the good luck goddess disliked her new colour scheme,’ said Germanicus, ‘and my dedication speech, too. When I entered a chariot rider in the Olympian games, I was down on my luck completely. My rider came last and I broke out in hives. Then I spent ten days seasick in my bunk for the voyage home.’

  The older women laughed. Listening without comment, Tiberius knew he had thought up some good luck for Germanicus, but opted to sit on it for the moment.

  ‘She’s a fickle little thing, that Spes,’ said Antonia. ‘I’ve never depended on her and I advise you to do the same.’ Her experience near Drusus’s and Nero’s suite continued to privately perturb her.

  ‘There’s no such thing as luck at all,’ said Livia. ‘Spes is a fraud and everything gained must be earned.’

  ‘Very true, Grandmother,’ said Germanicus, squeezing my domina’s hand. ‘But only you could get away with such blasphemy.’

  Livia chortled – he was right.

  Agrippina’s reappearance among them caused a change of tone. Antonia felt a quiet unease. She didn’t know how, or when, to mention what weighed on her conscience.

  Agrippina curtsied low to Tiberius, not expecting acknowledgment or reply, but he surprised her. ‘An excellently conceived Triumph, my son,’ he said. The comment was addressed to Germanicus but directed at her. Tiberius knew whose ideas had been on show.

  ‘A fine mind was behind it, Father,’ said Germanicus.

  ‘I suspect more than one secret has been kept from me today.’ Tiberius smiled at Agrippina. She presumed he was alluding to his near-misfortune, although his look betrayed nothing. Germanicus thought he sensed concealment in her eyes, fixed upon Tiberius, and wondered on it. When no further comments ensued, although Tiberius continued grinning, Agrippina was left frozen in space, unsure of whether to take her spot on the dining couch or commence conversation.

  Tiberius solved her dilemma by turning abruptly back to Germanicus. ‘Dreadful situation in the East.’ He selected a spatchcock from a proffered tray I held and began to dissect it. ‘Our discussions with Parthia over the status of Armenia have reached an impasse.’

  Germanicus floundered, endeavouring to remember what the issue with Armenia was until Agrippina stepped in. ‘Is that because Rome needs Armenia kept in friendly hands,’ she asked Germanicus, ‘to buffer us from Parthia?’

  The question served its purpose. ‘Yes, but Parthia wants otherwise,’ said Germanicus, hiding his relief. ‘They’ve invented these territorial claims. Completely ridiculous, of course.’

  ‘There is a possible threat of war,’ Tiberius said.

  Livia, watching him closely, could tell this wasn’t a lie, even though it was clearly the first she’d heard of it. Her spies were thin on the ground in the East.

  ‘There is room to manoeuvre, however,’ Tiberius went on. ‘Armenia lacks a king – the old one has died. That’s partly why we’re in this mess.’

  From the corner of my vision I could tell that Germanicus was starting to think upon solutions to this dilemma. Tiberius watched him too and added another element. ‘Commagene’s king has died as well.’ He turned to Agrippina, ‘That’s in the region of Armenia,’ he told her. Then, turning back to Germanicus, ‘I received a deputation from their nobility. They want Rome to annex them, although they know their people wish to remain under a new king from the old regime. What to do?’

  The Patrician Youths’ Choir from the unfinished Temple of Divine Augustus started singing before anyone could offer suggestions. Tiberius clapped his hands in delight, the discussion ceasing as the choir began to celebrate the Battle of Actium.

  I could see that Agrippina wished she could talk to her husband without others listening. Germanicus simply stared ahead like the First Citizen, but his heart was pounding hard. Was he to be offered something?

  In answer to the unspoken words, Tiberius turned back to his adopted son. ‘Why don’t we speak more of the East tomorrow?’ he suggested.

  Both husband and wife were adept in reading the First Citizen’s unsaid words, which tonight were frequent. In Agrippina and Germanicus’s suite we bleary-eyed slaves began preparations for their sleep as master and mistress tried to keep their excitement in check.

  The slave-boy Burrus, assigned to the care of Germanicus’s footwear, could tell that something great had occurred at the banquet. He kept looking to me as he untied his master’s boots, hopeful that I might tell him later. Burrus had grown used to his master’s vague despondency since the return to Rome – Germanicus had been happy at home but bored. I knew that Burrus wished it would end soon; he was also bored. I confess that I wished for more excitement too. If only I’d known that the Fates were listening.

  ‘Tomorrow will bring good news,’ Germanicus said to his wife. ‘I can feel it.’

  ‘So can I,’ said Agrippina. She jiggled the infant Drusilla, who had woken and been fed by a wet nurse. ‘We might be leaving Rome then?’

  ‘To Armenia for sure, but it’s a very harsh land. The mountains are full of dragons. Do you think you could stand it?’ His smile was a tease.

  ‘Do you think you could stand it? The swamps are full of mosquitoes as big as pigs.’

  He laughed. ‘We’ll stand it very well. It can’t be worse than the Rhine, and it certainly can’t be colder.’ The slaves removed the last of Agrippina’s silken layers and she stood naked before him while night perfumes and creams were applied to her skin.

  ‘That’s presuming it is Armenia, of course.’

  ‘It could also be Commagene,’ Germanicus agreed. ‘Whatever tomorrow brings, I feel sure it’ll give me compensation for the loss of the German command.’

  ‘I’m sure of it too.’

  I removed Germanicus’s loincloth an
d Agrippina saw that the sight of her nakedness had aroused him, as it always did.

  ‘It’s a diplomatic mission,’ he continued. ‘And with the threat of war I doubt if I’ll be presented with anything token, either. I’ll be put to good use again.’

  Agrippina handed Drusilla back to the wet nurse and moved to her husband, the perfumes rousing an ardour of her own. We slaves – not being worthy of shame, of course – were well used to intimacy between our master and mistress.

  ‘No more of Rome tonight,’ said Agrippina. ‘I have other news.’

  He saw the unguarded joy in her eyes and suddenly guessed. This was her secret. ‘You are with child again.’

  She was.

  ‘How long have you known?’ he smiled.

  ‘For a month or so.’ She began caressing him. ‘I like to keep things to myself until just the right time to reveal them.’

  The wine, the renewed hopes and the tenderness of her touch made Germanicus feel a happiness that took him back to their wedding night. She was that girl of fifteen again and he was the green youth. The plans they made for their future as they learned what it was to love each other had seemed like dreams back then. But their plans had come to fruition and beyond.

  They were driven, man and wife. The world was their stage.

  Burrus and I retired to our pallets with the other slaves as Germanicus knelt to his wife’s belly and kissed the new child within. ‘You really are the model of motherhood for Rome,’ he laughed. She enjoyed his pleasuring with the knowledge that this was true.

  But there was far more to her gifts than motherhood. She was a woman whose most hidden secrets could never be known, but her loving husband could take honour in knowing more of them than most.

  Consular Senator Piso stumbled out the wrong exit.

  The last guest to leave the banquet, his late departure had nothing to do with enjoyment and everything to do with his dining couch. He’d fallen asleep on it at some point during the Patrician Youths’ Choir. The decadent thing was too comfortable – which was disgraceful, really, because he’d been enjoying the singing. When Piso woke again, the hall was practically empty apart from the slaves. Most of the torches were extinguished too. Now finding himself in a portico he didn’t recognise, nature started to nag him and he fell upon the nearest latrine. It was a communal sort, needlessly plush in his eyes.