Contents
I. An Introduction
II. A Hand in the Forum
III. Working Together
IV. The False Neros
V. Magnificence of Mind, Part I
VI. The Provincials
VII. Magnificence of Mind, Part II
VIII. An Invitation to Dinner
IX. The List
X. The Exchequer
XI. Rumour’s Sparrows
XII. Dinner at Ulpius’s, Part I
XIII. Time to Go
XIV. The Hunt Continues
XV. From Oyster to Sardine
XVI. An Ovation
XVII. Fetch Him for Me
XVIII. Two Prisoners, Two Stories
XIX. The Personal Correspondence of Nero Claudius Caesar
XX. The Gardener
XXI. Dido’s Gift
XXII. An Experiment in Figs
XXIII. Alexandria
XXIV. Trials and Tribulations
XXV. Letters from a Stoic
XXVI. Trust Your Hackles
XXVII. Dinner at Ulpius’s, Part II
XXVIII. A Trap is Set
XXIX. Epilogue
Historical Note
Cast of Characters
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Copyright
For Anna
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar.
William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
I
An Introduction
A.D. 68
NERO
8 June, depth of night
The Praetorian camp, Rome
My interrogation resumes with a splash of water. It’s poured onto the top of my head with slow, malicious ease, and a cascade of icy murk soaks my hair and slides over my face and the back of my neck; a quiver runs down my spine. My head snaps back and I suck in one long, panicked gasp. I try to move, but rope still holds me to the chair, concentric circles wrapped from my chest down to my belly.
I open my eyes. Standing in front of me is a soldier, one of my Praetorians, holding an empty bucket.
‘Up now!’ he says. ‘Up, up, up.’
Grudgingly, my wits return. Cuts and swollen bruises pepper my body, and with each breath a sharp pain shoots through my ribs like an arrow.
The soldier tosses the bucket aside. His silver cuirass catches the firelight and shines the colour of Spanish gold.
He steps forward, places his hands on the arms of my chair, and leans in, until our noses are only inches apart. I unwillingly breathe in the stink of cheap, sour wine. He lingers, staring into my eyes . . . Fear. That’s what he’s after, any trace he can scavenge. But I won’t let him have it. I refuse to be afraid of a mere soldier. It’s undignified: as far beneath me as it should be beyond him.
This one, though – this one has it in for me.
Earlier, before I lost consciousness, still tied to the chair, he asked if I remembered him. He genuinely believed that I should know him personally from the hundreds of thousands of soldiers at my beck and call. He described a night – years ago – when I made him serve a dinner party dressed as Venus. On my orders, he was forced to wear a silk stola, wig, and make-up, and sent marching amongst tables of guests. He’s only known as Venus now – or so he says. The rank and file, the officers, even the prefects – no one remembers his real name. He was red in the face when he told me, a girlish quiver to every word. Who knew that a Roman soldier could be so sensitive? What’s a bit of eye-shadow compared to a German horde?
I, of course, remembered none of it. After I told him as much, that I didn’t recall him or that night, but it sounded like quite the party; he beat me viciously. I’m not sure he would have stopped if the centurion hadn’t told him to. The last thing I remember before losing consciousness is the soldier, my erstwhile Venus, panting like a dog after his outburst.
Thankfully, before he can lay his calloused hands on me again, the centurion calls out to him. He gives me a knowing wink before joining his superior by the fire.
We are in a dark, cavernous room the gods above know where. The only light is from a fire burning to my left. The bricks beyond – interlocking stones of black volcanic rock – seem to move with the flicker of the flames.
I count three soldiers, the same three who dragged me from my bed hours before. I watch them pass around a skin of wine. Each man takes a long, deep swig. I could use a drink myself. When I tell them as much, one soldier laughs while the other two, Venus and the centurion, ignore me.
The centurion’s helmet is off revealing a sweaty mat of ginger. I doubt he’s of Italian stock. Likely he’s from Gaul, near the Rhine, where such a look is common. I find this comforting somehow, his treachery easier to understand. You can never trust a non-Italian. Their hearts are never truly in it.
The soldiers continue to talk. I watch the flames of the fire to pass the time.
Their voices are getting louder the more they drink. They’re sharing their theories on me, debating how best to capitalise on my value. One of them refers to treasure buried in the shores of Carthage. ‘He knows where it is,’ he says. ‘He knows.’ (Why do the rabble always think Caesar buries his treasure rather than spend it?) Another thinks there’s gold in my veins, flakes of it floating in my blood, like leaves on a pond. He wants to cut and drain me like a pig, and boil down what he collects, leaving only the ore. ‘The Greeks did it to Priam,’ he says, ‘and he’s richer than Priam.’
I take a deep breath. Wait. Their time will come. Many remain loyal: soldiers, courtiers, senators, the poor in the streets. Despite the recent unrest in the provinces, despite one or two legions acting out like petulant children, the majority love me still. Someone will come. Someone will stop this. And when they do . . . These three will have to be punished. There’s no avoiding that now. Their execution will have to be public- – public and somewhat gruesome. I’m not a monster, but precedent will need to be set. This can never happen again. Granted, I will promise one of them – just the one – a quick death in exchange for the names of the men who betrayed me. But that is a minor cost well worth the return. When it’s all over – after they’re crucified, bled and their grey, stiff bodies are left for the crows – balance will be restored. Then I’ll drink, fuck and go to the races. The Greens are due for a win after all – the Greens and me both.
The soldiers finally finish their discussion. Whatever deal they’ve struck, it’s commemorated with a handshake and more wine. The skin is passed around one final time. Venus guzzles his fill and then wipes his mouth dry. He watches me as he does it, as he slides his hand across his face.
I breathe deeply, willing my heartbeat to slow.
Venus goes to the fire and removes from the flames a long, thin dagger. The blade glows a translucent yellow-orange in the gloom. Steam whispers off the steel. He holds the weapon above his head and turns it from side to side, inspecting the blade. All of my effort to remain resilient vanishes. Fear overwhelms me. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, an empty expanse that grows and presses on my bladder until warm piss trickles down my leg.
Venus walks towards me. He’s smiling again, his rotting teeth illuminated by the glowing blade. I grow frantic, writhing uselessly against my bonds. I call out to the redheaded centurion. I offer him coin, titles, even a distant niece’s hand in marriage. I offer him Cyprus and mean it. The centurion just stands there, watching. His only response is a shrug.
MARCUS
10 June, afternoon
City jail IV, Rome
I climb the stairs without stopping once. The sound of feet sliding on dusty brick – scrip-scrape, scrip-scrape, s
crip-scrape – fills the whole stairwell. When this happened before, I’d worry someone was following me. Every few steps I’d stop and look behind me, but the sound would stop as well and there wouldn’t be anyone there. It took me ages to get to the top. Last winter I told Elsie. She said it was a ghost, but there were ways to make sure it wouldn’t bother me. She boiled bits of python in wine – its guts and skin and even its eyes! – for one day and two nights. Then, when it was a sticky, black paste, she rubbed it on my chest each morning until it was finished. It itched and the smell made my nose tingle. But it worked. I can still hear the ghost when I climb the stairs, but it never bothers me. So now I can go all the way without stopping.
When I reach the top of the steps, I lean against the big, heavy door until it slowly swings open with an old creeeak. Inside his cell, the prisoner is curled up in a ball, snoring. I move quietly, hoping the freedman won’t wake up until after I’m gone. But when I shut the door and the latch clicks, he wakes up.
‘Morning, pup,’ he says. His voice is fuzzy with sleep. He stretches, then props himself up on an elbow. ‘What’ve you brought me today?’
I walk to his cell, kneel, and pull out from my basket a loaf of bread.
‘Bread,’ he says. ‘Surprise, surprise.’ He sits up. Sticks of hay slither and crunch. ‘You’re trying to poison me, aren’t you? Feeding me that stale shit.’
He points his chin at the roof and scratches his neck. He didn’t have a beard before but now he does. There’s a scar on his cheek where the hair doesn’t grow. It looks like a chubby, pink leech.
I push the loaf through the bars and hold it there.
He gets on his knees, then his feet. He’s short – nearly as short as me. But he’s as wide as an ox, so he moves like one, with big swishing steps. He lumbers over.
‘Did you do as I asked?’
I’m not supposed to talk to prisoners. I’ve never once spoken to him, but every day he talks and talks and talks, asking me to carry messages for him. It makes me nervous. Elsie says to ignore him and finish my chores, so that’s what I do.
‘Well?’ He stares at me with little green eyes. I aim mine at the bricks. When he sees I won’t look him in the eye, he says, ‘Whelp.’ He says it quietly, but angry all the same. He takes the bread. Then, with his free hand, he points at my bare arm, which is purple with bruises. ‘Loyalty,’ he says, ‘to a master who does that is misplaced, boy.’
Outside, a cow’s bell clatters. Clack clack clack.
He walks back to his bed of hay, sits, and leans against the wall. He says, ‘Come on, boy. Show some backbone, some initiative.’ He rips off a piece of bread with his teeth and starts chewing. Little white pieces fall out of his mouth as he talks. ‘You’re a young pup, I know, scared of your master. Your little balls shrink at the thought of him. But you’ll never change your lot in life following the rules. I was a slave once too, you know. I’ve told you who I am, haven’t I? Galba’s freedman. Icelus.’ He points his chin at the roof and a bulge slides down his throat. He rips off another mouthful. ‘The Icelus. The city must be talking about me by now.’
Every day he says this; every day he tells me his name expecting me to know who he is. I’ve heard of Galba – the whole city is talking about the Hunchback raising an army in Spain – but I’ve never heard of an ‘Icelus’. Anyway, even if I had heard of him, there’s nothing I could do.
He says, ‘I’m no thief or murderer, you know – at least, that’s not why I’m here. I’m a political prisoner. A partisan. Do you know what that means?’
I fill a cup with water from the bucket against the far wall and carry it back to his cell.
‘It means I made a bet. I bet on a man, that things would turn out in a certain way. If I lose . . .’
He stands up with a grunt and walks to the edge of his cell.
‘If I lose, I’m dead. Or it’s off to the mines. But if I’m right? Well, cunts and coin is what I used to call it, my ambition in life –’ he winks ‘– until Master Galba taught me to speak with more class . . .’
He grabs the cup and pulls it through the bars.
‘I’ve been here for, I think, twenty-two days. You see me locked up, destitute, and alone. You probably think I’m buggered. But the mere fact that I’m alive means something. My party cannot be doing all that badly. Now, say the man I’ve backed loses and I’m left to rot or, the gods forbid, killed. Do you know what will happen to you if you send one tiny, insignificant message for me? Nothing. No one will ever know. On the other hand, say I’m released . . . if I’m released, who knows what I can do for you. You can come and work for me if you’d like. And maybe, after a few years of faithful service, I set you free. I mean, look at me . . .’
He points at himself with the hand holding the cup; water sloshes out over the rim.
‘I was a slave once. But I’m a freedman now. To a Sulpicii no less. And believe me: I didn’t get here by being loyal. Do you think Galba was my first patron? Uh, uh. I moved on when the opportunity presented itself.’ He finishes the cup off in one swift glug. ‘You need to think about this, boy. Your life could change with only a little cunning.’
He stares at me, waiting. What does he want me to say?
I wait a moment and then point at his pisspot. Icelus turns to see what I’m pointing at. Then he sighs and his shoulders slouch. ‘Empty,’ he says. ‘Nothing to be done there. But –’
He’s cut off by the sound of horses outside.
‘Expecting anyone?’ he asks.
I shake my head. No.
I go to the window and grab two rusty bars and, standing on my tiptoes, look out over the ledge. Across the valley, I can see the city, hills of white stone, red-tiled roofs and shinning white marble. From here it looks quiet, but I know it’s never quiet.
‘What do you see, boy?’ Icelus says.
I look down below and see two black horses tied to a post. I can’t see who rode them.
And then we hear the door downstairs open with a heavy bang, followed by the jangle of metal and the stomping of feet. The noise gets closer and closer, and louder and louder, but then it stops, and all we hear is their breathing, long wheezes back and forth on the other side of the door.
Icelus backs away from the bars. He whispers, ‘Do me a favour, pup. Forget I told you my name. OK?’
The door shakes as somebody wallops it three times from the other side. WHACK WHACK WHACK. I want to hide but there’s nowhere to go. So I just stand there, shaking like the door.
Why don’t they knock, whoever it is? Why not holler ‘open up’ instead of breaking down the door?
The fourth WHACK is the hardest. Wood cracks and the door flies open. Two soldiers rush in – shiny breastplates, wobbly helmets, swords bouncing at their hip – dragging a man by the arms. They pull him into one of the empty cells and then drop him. They don’t say anything, they just drop him to the hard, brick floor.
‘Boy –’
A third soldier walks in. He has to dip his head so the top of his helmet – the hairy bit that looks like a peacock’s bum – doesn’t catch on the door’s arch.
‘Boy –’ he says again.
I don’t move. My legs feel heavy and I’m shaking.
The soldier by the door takes off his helmet and holds it against his hip. His hair is orange and sticky with sweat, and his eyes are small and black. He looks like a fox.
To me, he asks, ‘Do you work here?’
I nod.
‘Where’s the key? Fetch me the key. Now.’
I move quickly, happy to get away. I walk past the other two soldiers, who are still standing in the cell over the man they dragged in. One of them hiccups. They have the same look in their eyes that Master Creon gets when he drinks too much: lazy eyes; eyes that can’t see you even when you’re standing right in front of him.
I grab the ring of keys hanging from a hook on the wall. I bring it to the Fox. He takes the keys and tells the soldiers to get out of the cell. He shu
ts the door behind them. The new prisoner is face down on the bricks. He hasn’t moved. His tunic – purple and hemmed in gold – is filthy and torn. The Fox starts trying the keys in the lock and picks the right one on his second try.
To me, he asks, ‘What are your duties here?’
I try to answer but inside my chest bunches up into tight little knots and my voice dies in the back of my throat. I’m ashamed of this, which makes it even harder to answer. I can only spit out one word at a time. ‘Bread,’ I say. ‘Water.’
‘Anything else?’
I point at Icelus’s pisspot. ‘Toilet.’
‘And your master? Does he come here?’
I shake my head. No.
‘Good. Very good,’ the Fox says. ‘All right, boy, listen to me very carefully. Do you see this man?’ He points at the prisoner. ‘This man is an enemy of the state, an enemy of Rome. He is dangerous. While he is a prisoner here, you must be wary of him. He will try to fill your head with stories. He will tell you that he is rich and powerful, and that he can reward those that help. He may even tell you that he is Caesar. This is a lie. He is nothing more than a common criminal. While he remains here, he receives no special treatment. Nothing. Understand?’
I don’t know what to say. This day is very strange and I just want it to be over.
‘Understand?’ the Fox asks again.
I try to say something, but the words don’t come. I clam up like I always do. I take too long and the Fox becomes angry. He takes a step toward me. I try to step back, but trip on my own feet and fall to the floor. My bum hits the bricks and a lightning bolt of pain shoots up my back.
The soldiers laugh. One of them hiccups again.
‘This one is brave, isn’t he?’ the Fox says to the soldiers. ‘A young Achilles.’
I sit up.
The Fox is serious again. ‘Do you understand me, boy? The prisoner receives the same treatment as any other. I don’t need to tell you what will happen if you disobey me, do I?’
I shake my head. No.
‘Good,’ the Fox says. Then, for the first time, he turns to look at the other cell. Inside, Icelus is cowering against the back wall, with his head buried into his arms and knees.
David Page 1
