Half a dozen slaves walk by carrying a litter above their heads; drapes of blue silk sway in the breeze. The parting crowd stands on their tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever’s inside. Nearby, a mule squeals bloody murder.
Beside us, two freedmen are talking about a wolf in the Forum. Fabius sees me staring.
‘You didn’t hear what happened yesterday?’
I shake my head.
‘Diana’s blue tit! How did you manage that? You must have been deep in the drink.’
‘Well?’ I say. ‘Out with it. What happened?’
‘A wolf crashed the Agonalia. Walked right in, mid-ceremony. If you can fucking believe it.’
‘A wolf?’
‘Mm-hm. As big as a horse. But that’s not the best part. Do you know what the animal was carrying?’
‘What?’
‘Some poor bugger’s hand.’ Fabius shakes his head. ‘Virgil couldn’t make this stuff up.’
I sip my wine.
‘I would’ve paid money to see it,’ Fabius says. ‘Bunch of senators standing around, patting each other on the back, thanking the gods for all their land and coin, when in walks a wolf. This city is going to the dogs.’
‘Or the wolves,’ I say.
Fabius laughs. ‘Right back to where it started.’
I finish off my wine and reach for my purse, but Fabius grabs my arm. ‘I’ve got this one, old friend. You can get the next.’
As I’m walking away, Fabius says, ‘If you change your mind, you can find us near the Capena Gate. The Painted Pig. You know it?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘But I won’t change my mind.’
*
The portico is filled with dozens of men and women down on their luck, waiting to beg for coin or an invitation to dinner. I see it and shake my head. I tell myself what I’m doing is different. I’m working for it.
I trudge up the walkway and through the front door, bypassing the line. A few of them glare at me, but no one says a word. I’m not a big man by any stretch, but people always seem to know I’m a veteran. I don’t think it’s the limp or the scars. My wife thought it was my shoulders. I always kept them square, she said, to whatever lay ahead, even when turning a corner. I know she was only teasing, but there may have been something to it.
Inside, in the middle of another crowd, I see the man I’m looking for.
‘Morning, Appius,’ I say.
Appius is Senator Nerva’s chief slave. He’s short, with a solid frame, and hair as black as squid ink, flecked with grey. In the crook of his arm, he’s holding a wax tablet. He’d been talking with an old man in a faded blue tunic. The old man looks upset at the interruption, but then quickly bows his head to wait.
‘Is it morning? Barely, I’d say,’ Appius says. ‘You know, if everyone came at the hour you do, Calenus, he’d never be able to leave his home.’
Damned house slaves. Every morning this one acts like the king of the atrium, even with freeborn men like me. Nothing to be done, though – nothing except to leave the bounds of his kingdom as soon as possible.
‘Let him know that I’m here, will you,’ I say.
‘No need,’ Appius says, reluctantly. ‘He is expecting you. Follow me.’
I follow Appius down the hall. The old man in the faded blue tunic keeps his head bowed as we walk away.
We find Nerva in the colonnade. I spot his little frame and big nose from a mile out. Behind him, in the garden, there is a slew of green, trees mainly – olive and fig, I think. Between the trees are paths of polished stones, white ones, worming their way across the yard. Nerva is sitting in a chair, his legs barely touching the ground, presiding over the woman in front of him, who’s on her knees, kissing his gold ring. Behind Nerva, one slave is holding a jug of something; another’s standing guard over a wooden chest; a third is holding rolls of papyrus.
‘Thank you, Nerva,’ the girl says. She looks young except for the lines around her blue eyes.
‘Of course, child.’ Nerva says. His voice is always just above a whisper, which makes me always have to lean forward to hear him. ‘But if you will excuse me, I must attend to my next guest.’
As the girl walks away, Nerva says, ‘Two children, a dead husband, and barely eighteen. Sad, isn’t it?’
‘Life is hard,’ Appius says with a shrug. ‘Don’t spend too much time with this one,’ he says pointing at me. ‘We still have a lot to get through and the day’s already half done.’
‘Fine, fine,’ Nerva says, waving Appius away with his hand.
When Appius is gone, Nerva says: ‘Well?’
‘Caecina hasn’t left his house after dark all week.’
‘No? Not once? I find that very surprising. I’d heard differently. Is it possible he’s sneaking out? In disguise?’
I shake my head. ‘No. After sunset, no one’s gone in or out.’
‘Well, keep watching the Turncoat. He’s planning something. I want to know what.’
Nerva has had me following Senator Caecina for weeks. He’s never said exactly what he’s looking for. He hints that Caecina is up to something, but I think he just hopes he’s up to something. Senators are like children, waiting for the moment when they can rat each other out; it’s a proven way to rise. And Nerva has proved quite able. If the Turncoat gives him an inch, Nerva will turn it into mile – especially with Caecina’s reputation.
‘OK,’ I say.
Nerva doesn’t get out his purse, so I change the subject. ‘Is it true what they’re saying? About what happened yesterday, at the Agonalia?’
Nerva smiles. ‘Is the city talking about that already? What exactly are they saying?’
I tell Nerva what Fabius told me. I ask: ‘You were there?’
‘Of course.’
‘Is it true?’
‘It wasn’t a wolf,’ Nerva says. ‘It was only a stray dog.’
‘What about the hand?’
‘Yes, that part is true.’
‘Bad omen, that.’
‘Bad? It’s an embarrassment, is what it is.’ Nerva says. ‘Nine years ago, after the civil wars, Vespasian arrived in Rome with an army and a story – well, he had a few stories, but the one the people liked, the one that stuck, was the story of the hand. He claimed a dog came to him at dinner one evening, carrying a man’s hand. A divine omen from the gods, he said, a sign that power would change hands. Complete nonsense, but the people liked it. After more than a year of civil war they’d like any story. But now, nine years later, it actually happens, and while he’s emperor?’ Nerva shakes his head. ‘An unmitigated embarrassment.’
‘Something like that,’ I say. ‘It can’t be an accident. Can it?’
‘Who’s to say?’ Nerva says. ‘But I will say this: our fair city never ceases to surprise me.’
Strange to hear Nerva talk badly of Vespasian Caesar. He was close to him once – I’d thought, anyway. Nerva was named consul a few years back – and that’s the highest honour for a senator. It’s hopeless for an old pleb like me to follow politics. It’s like watching the races from outside the stadium, and all you have is the roar of the crowd to judge who’s in the lead.
Nerva snaps his fingers and a slave runs in with a purse of coin. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘This should cover your services to date.’ Nerva tosses me the purse. I catch it above my shoulder. It has a good weight to it. ‘Before you go,’ Nerva says. ‘There is one more thing. There are two provincials coming in from Spain tomorrow. They will arrive in Ostia. I need you to meet them there and bring them to the city.’
‘Who are they?’
‘A man named Ulpius and his nephew.’
‘A senator?’
Nerva sneers. ‘With this Emperor, anyone can buy a seat.’
‘Ah, they’re rich,’ I say. ‘You’re planning on squeezing a bit of juice from the lemon?’
Nerva smiles. He thinks I’ve paid him a compliment. This won’t be the first time he’s taken advantage of a provincial; I’ve seen him do it before. Wealt
hy families will come to Rome, hoping to make a name for themselves, and Nerva will offer his assistance. He’ll make the right introductions, organise a meeting or two with an influential senator or an Imperial secretary. And soon enough they’ll be indebted to him, and they’ll be willing to lend Nerva coin, favours, votes – whatever he needs. Nerva must have spies in the provinces letting him know when a big fish makes his way to Rome.
‘Make them feel welcome,’ Nerva says. ‘They’re my honoured guests, et cetera, et cetera. Get them to Rome safely and let me know immediately when they have arrived. I am told the older one is a cripple. At least you will have something in common. Keep your eyes and ears open. I want useful information.’
On my way out, I push my way through the crowd of men and women come to beg Nerva for coin. I tell myself what I’m doing is different. I may no longer be a soldier, but at least I’m working, at least I’m earning my coin, rather than begging for it.
TITUS
10 January, morning
The home of Lucius Plautius, Rome
We are in the tablinum. There’s a breeze coming in from the garden. It’s another cold January day. Antonia is wearing a blue stola, hemmed in gold, with fur draped over her shoulders. She’s sitting on the edge of her chair, leaning on the arm. Her big eyes are staring straight into mine.
I remind myself why I’m here: Plautius. I am looking for Plautius.
‘You must have something to eat,’ she says. ‘It’s really no trouble.’
‘Thank you, Antonia,’ I say. ‘But I really can’t stay long.’
She looks slightly older than I remember. Her thick brown hair is less thick, less lustrous, and her eyes . . . she still has the eyes of an ox, but they’re calmer now, more distinguished. She’s still beautiful, though. She was always very beautiful.
A slave pours wine into my cup. Another pours warmed seawater. Steam slithers out; cinnamon and cloves perfume the air.
‘I cannot believe you are here,’ she says. ‘How long has it been? Five years?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well, it’s been too long.’
She looks down at her wine.
Finally, I ask: ‘Have you heard from Plautius?’
Her husband’s name breaks the spell. She sits back in her chair. ‘Not for a few days,’ she says. ‘Maybe a week.’
‘When do you expect him back to Rome?’
‘I thought you’d know better than I would. He said he was staying on to finish up something for you?’
Antonia’s fur slides off her shoulder exposing a smooth white collarbone.
Memories – nothing more than fragments – occur to me for the first time in years. A lamp-lit room, frankincense burning, an arched back. She had a particular smell, if memory serves; a sour, slightly bitter willingness.
She pulls the fur back onto her shoulder.
I try to focus on the task at hand. ‘Did he tell you anything else?’
‘No. Other than that he called it his “mission”, whatever that means. I assumed he was buying you some expensive vintages. He never understood that you prefer the cheaper blends.’ She gives me a subtle look that says she’s always understood this. ‘Why? Don’t you know what he’s doing?’
Plautius said in his letter he’d be in Rome by now. It doesn’t auger well if his own wife hasn’t heard from him.
‘I’m afraid not,’ I say, trying as best I can to hide my unease. ‘I’ve received only one letter from Plautius. He said he’d be back to Rome by now, but apparently his plans changed.’
‘I see,’ Antonia says. She sips her wine. ‘You know I’ve been back in Rome for several weeks now. You haven’t visited.’
‘An oversight,’ I say. The word is wrong, too formal. ‘My duties keep me very busy.’
She looks down at her wine.
I feel compelled to add, ‘I’ve wanted to.’
‘Well,’ she says. ‘I’m sure you have more business to attend to today. I don’t want to keep you.’
‘Yes,’ I say and hand my wine to one of the slaves hovering at my side. ‘I should be going.’
‘You promise to come again?’ she asks.
‘I will,’ I say before standing to go.
*
On the street outside, six Praetorians are waiting for me. The four rank and file are standing, their backs straight as arrows. Virgilius, meanwhile, is leaning against the building, with his thumbs tucked behind his cuirass. The mutt is on a leash, sitting quietly beside him. She’s staring at the house and, when she sees me, her tail starts to wag and her whole body sways from side to side as though there is an earthquake.
That morning Regulus and I had split the list of senators in two. We’ve gone door-to-door trying to confirm the whereabouts of each and every senator who is supposed to be in Rome. The aim was to determine by deduction the owner of the hand in the forum and its golden ring – if it indeed belonged to a senator. Regulus may be insufferable, but he was right: the task is monumental. I thought taking a break to call on Antonia might prove more fruitful.
The mutt jumps up when I get close. I pat her head and say (in a sweet tone I rarely use), ‘Yes, yes. I see you.’
Virgilius smiles. He has never seen me like this, with animal or man.
‘Any luck?’ he asks.
‘No, she thinks Plautius is safe and sound on the Bay.’
‘Is he officially missing then?’
‘Let’s wait to hear what Domitian says. Are you ready to go?’
Virgilius shakes his head. ‘There’s been a change of plans.’
‘Oh?’
‘We had a message from the palace. Your father requests your council.’
The morning is nearly done and we have nothing to show for it. And now useful hours will evaporate at the palace. But Caesar calls. ‘Fine, fine,’ I say. ‘Lead the way.’
*
Long, wide, sun-stealing swaths of dark purple shrink the room. It’s midday, yet the weak pulse of a lamp is the only source of light. The air is stale. Father is sitting at a desk inlaid with a sheet of green marble. Phoebus, the Imperial secretary, stands behind Father’s left shoulder, a letter in his child-sized hands. Epaphroditus, the exchequer, is sitting opposite Father. Both are freedmen – men who began as palace slaves, but who have risen far since earning their freedom. Epaphroditus especially. He was a chamberlain once, charged with wiping Nero’s arse. Now he runs the Imperial treasury.
Senator Secundus is here as well, sitting across from Father, resting both hands on his deluge of stomach. He’s breathing heavily, as he always does, sending eruptions of hot air through his tangle of milky-white beard. Secundus currently has command of the fleet in Miscenum, but Father relies on his counsel so much he is in Rome more often than with his fleet. And finally there is cousin Sabinus, our useless newly appointed pontiff, who is leaning against the wall.
‘General Titus,’ Phoebus says, smirking. ‘We’d given up hope.’
For a freedman, Phoebus is too impertinent by half. He calls me ‘general’ feigning respect, but he means it to sting. From undefeated general to prefect of the Praetorian guard, from hard-earned glory to a post traditionally held by drunkards, philanderers and the odd farmer’s son. It’s not a move to be envied. But Father asked, so I obeyed, for the good of the family, for the good of the party.
To Father, I say, ‘I need to speak with you.’
‘Fine, fine,’ he says. He’s bent over the desk as though his chest is cemented to the marble. In this light, his skin has an unhealthy purple pallor. ‘We will talk,’ he says. ‘Later.’
He motions for me to sit. I cross my arms, letting him know I will stand.
‘As I was saying,’ secretary Phoebus continues, ‘word came this morning from Thrace. Cerialis has finally attacked the False Nero and sacked the city of Maronea, which was harbouring known sympathisers.’
‘Good,’ Father says.
‘But,’ Phoebus continues, ‘it seems the imposter and a handful of
his followers escaped.’
Silence follows Phoebus’s announcement.
This is not good news. Father wanted this handled quickly and quietly. A Nero in Thrace, genuine or not, undermines our position. The damage grows with each day that passes.
Cerialis had been sending his updates directly to me. Did he write to Phoebus this time? Or does Phoebus have a man in Cerialis’s camp? A problem for another day perhaps.
‘So the imposter has run off?’ Father asks, shaking his head.
‘Madness,’ cousin Sabinus says, hoping to contribute.
I ask, ‘How do they know he’s missing? A sacked city is chaotic to say the least.’
‘It’s not a large city,’ Phoebus says. ‘They would know if the false tyrant remained inside its walls. Cerialis is putting some of the survivors to torture to learn more.’
Father sighs. It is the sigh of an old man. He asks, ‘The tyrant has been dead how long? More than ten years, no? Yet we are still haunted by his ghost.’
‘It is interesting, isn’t it?’ Secundus asks rhetorically. ‘Nero was a monster. The rabble remembers, certainly. Yet there persists a fascination. I have often wondered whether it was the way he died, running the way he did, into the night, never to be seen again.’
Eyes in the room look to Epaphroditus, Nero’s former favourite, who was supposedly with the tyrant in his last hours, before he took his own life. But Epaphroditus’s expression – beneath his black goatee and black eyes – is impassive. It’s as though we are discussing the races, not the end of a dynasty he witnessed first hand. No wonder he has survived the rise and fall of so many emperors. The man is as readable as a rock.
Father, always the pragmatist, mutters: ‘Opinion is never universal. I’m sure some miss the tyrant. The extravagance, the pageantry, et cetera, et cetera. We should tell the rabble of the debts he left. That was his worst crime, if you ask me, the Imperial deficit.’
Secundus continues as though no one had spoken. ‘I would think a second factor is the chaos that followed: three civil wars, one after the next. Who wouldn’t believe Nero simply ran east to form an army?’
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