Elsie is smiling again.
‘I knew Master Creon wouldn’t sell you. How could he after what the Chaldean said? So I brought you home. Master and Mistress agreed that I could look after you, though by law you would be their slave. I named you Silva. But as you grew older, Master Creon could never remember your name. He’d see you in the atrium, or under the colonnade, or at the fullery, and he’d ask, “And who is he?” And I’d say “Silva”, and he’d say, “But Silva is dead.” Then, one day, he told Mistress you needed a new name, so he wouldn’t be confused any more. Master said, “Let’s name him after a consul. We’ll never forget a consul’s name.” It was September and the consuls were Marcus Arruntius Aquila and Marcus Vettius Bolanus. So they named you Marcus, and you’ve been Marcus ever since.’
Elsie’s story makes me feel better. (She always makes me feel better.) But I still don’t know who Hector is. It used to be she was the only person I could ask questions; she was the only person I knew who wouldn’t laugh or yell at me. And if she didn’t know the answer, then I’d never know it. But now . . . now there is someone else.
NERO
22 July, afternoon
City jail IV, Rome
The boy and I have a routine now. He visits in the afternoon and, as I take my bread and water, we talk. We discuss – or, more precisely, I lecture and he listens – about any manner of things. I tell him stories about my grandfather, great-great grandfather, or the Divine Julius. Or I explain which wine to pair with wild boar, or duck, or venison. I talk and talk and talk, sometime with purpose, but usually to fill the hours. He listens quietly, occasionally asking questions. We rarely talk politics and I don’t press him for information. He remains nervous about engaging with me and I don’t want to scare him away. I enjoy his company; at the moment, he’s all I have.
Besides, when it comes to politics, the boy only understands half of what he hears. When he does provide me with information of his own volition, it often requires considerable parsing. From what I understand, the current state of affairs is this: the Hunchback, the newly appointed emperor, is now making his way from Spain to Rome. The city waits in suspense. Violence has occurred on occasion, but hasn’t yet taken root. The city is teetering on a precipice. Yet Galba is dawdling in Gaul, securing cities and dolling out punishment to those who took their time flocking to his cause. He is not due in Rome for some time. I wonder whether the Empire will last in the meantime.
I don’t know why I’m still alive. There could be any number of reasons. I am in the dark, literally and figuratively. Thankfully, the pain is lessening. I will never be self-sufficient; my eyes will never miraculously unpluck. But as the fog of pain lifts, I am regaining my wits. And with my mind intact, I will have agency – and with agency I can find the men who did this to me.
As I see it, I have two immediate problems. Escaping this cell is one; coin the other. By now the Hunchback, or possibly the senate, will have appropriated the Imperial treasury. There is a chance I have another fortune at my disposal. But Africa feels a world away. And I won’t know for certain until I lay my hands on it. I have time, though. I am content to rest and recover my strength. I am content to plan and think of the days and months ahead. Apollo willing, I will be away before Galba reaches Rome.
The boy lingers this afternoon, more than usual. He asks me who Hector is. Hector. His chronic ignorance is galling, even when one takes into account his station. Since he knows next to nothing of Homer, I have to start from the beginning. Son of Priam, husband to Andromache, brother to Paris, saviour of Troy until he wasn’t, until he fell victim to the Greeks, to the terrible Achilles. I tell him how after a valiant fight, Achilles killed Hector and dragged his body around the walls of Troy, tied to his chariot, while carrions circled overhead and Hector’s wife, up on the walls of Troy, wailed. This upsets the boy; I can hear it in his voice. I tell him there is no reason to be upset. Hector fought with dignity and his name lives on. It didn’t matter how long he lived. I make the argument from memory, without conviction, while rubbing my shard of terracotta brick.
MARCUS
27 July, sunset
The home of Proculus Creon, Rome
The guests arrive before sundown. There are seven of them, each with their own slaves. One guest named Otho shows up with ten slaves. Ten! I heard Master talking with Mistress about him this morning. He said Otho is a senator, ‘very important, very important.’ He’s a close friend of the Hunchback. Master invited him but couldn’t believe he said yes.
I know it’s an important dinner because Master spent money on oysters, good ones from somewhere called Lucrean. They’re the first course. We spent all morning cleaning and opening them and laying them on ice from the Alps. Next will be peacock, roasted with its feathers on. (Elsie says the feathers have to stay on or the taste isn’t right.) There’s also a boar that’s bigger than me. Elsie and Socrates had to lift it onto the counter together. They skinned it, stabbed it with a long spit, and roasted it all day.
Otho is the last to arrive. His ten slaves walk in first. The one at the front announces his master by name and then Otho walks in. His hair looks like a rug, blond and tufty and thick, with little twists that fall in front of his eyes, and his smile is as wide as the front door. He sees me in the front hall, as he walks inside, and says, ‘And who is this?’ He bends down and, with his hand, tilts my chin up until our eyes meet. He does it gently. I don’t like it. He says to Master, ‘Is he yours, Creon? What’s his name?’
Master’s smile is from ear to ear. ‘Marcus. His name is Marcus.’
‘Marvellous.’ That’s all Otho says before introducing himself to Mistress.
Dinner is served in the triclinium. Lamps are lit as the sun goes down. Guests are given their very own couch. Master’s made sure he’s right beside Otho. Master tells me to wait on Otho personally, so I’ve got to stand directly behind him, holding a jug of wine ready to fill his cup when asked. All the other guests want to tell Otho how great he is and how great Galba is. (No one calls Galba the Hunchback in front of Otho.) They say Galba is going to adopt Otho, so he’ll be next in line for the throne. Otho looks in to his cup, a big smile on his face, and says, ‘It’s impertinent to speak of such things’. Even I know he doesn’t mean it.
The boar is brought in and everyone claps.
Otho says, ‘As grand as any meal in the palace,’ and Master looks like he’s going to faint.
Master and Otho start talking between themselves.
‘I suppose you’re wondering why I accepted your invitation?’
‘I was honoured, senator. Properly honoured.’
‘I don’t make it a habit visiting the homes of freedmen, Creon. It can hinder the reputation of a man of my standing. But it can be done strategically, on certain occasions.’
‘Yes. Of course. Of course.’
Master Creon talks differently with Otho. He nods his head, instead of shaking it, and he hasn’t yelled, not once.
‘My presence here tonight means that you are remarkable, and I will tell you why. You’re rich, Creon, but in Rome, there are many rich freedman. I’ve been told that something sets you apart from your nouveau riche contemporaries, that you’re a man with vision. Are you such a man?’
‘You’ve heard right,’ Master says. ‘I built my little empire up from nothing. I owned one apartment when I started. Now I’ve got six, a jail, and a fullery that’s just humming along.’
‘Yes. I’ve heard. You have done well in business. However, business is not the arena in which a Roman, a true Roman, defines himself. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘No . . . I mean, yes, I’d agree.’
‘Politics, Creon, that is how a man truly makes his name live on. Not those massive graves your fellow freedman erect. Pouring all of their money into four walls of stone, engraving “here lies so-and-so, who made a fortune doing such-and-such,” as though the world will remember a baker once his ashes are cold. I hope you have grander plans than that.’
Otho looks into his glass and sniffs. Master snaps his fingers, which means, come fill the man’s cup. Otho smiles at me as I’m pouring. My skin feels itchy.
Master says, ‘But I’m a freedman. I’m not likely to get into the senate.’
Otho’s eyebrows shoot up into his forehead; he laughs. Everyone in the room smiles, even though they couldn’t hear what made him laugh. ‘Oh, Creon! You misunderstand me. You’ve no place in politics yourself. Come now. But you can align yourself with a politician. That’s how you can move into the political realm. It is, after all, your civic duty.’
Master looks into his cup. ‘You need money.’
‘Yes, obviously,’ Otho says. ‘But I want your money. Fortune is giving you a chance, Creon. A chance to become a friend –’ his voice goes to a whisper ‘– of the next emperor. Are you surprised? Don’t let my feigned modesty fool you. The Hunchback is old and childless. But the senate and the people want certainty. They want stability. Galba knows this. He should be in Rome before the year is out. By that time, I have no doubt I will be named his heir. I have corresponded with his representatives, and the auguries have been propitious. It is inevitable. But I will need money, Creon. Power does not come cheap. I want your money. Call it a loan – one which the Imperial treasury will easily pay back – with interest – when I am emperor.’
Master nods his head. ‘I’m honoured, senator. Honoured.’
*
After dinner, Otho points at me and asks Master, ‘Is the boy for sale?’
Master says yes, he’d gladly sell Otho anything he needs. He starts to name a price, but Otho waves his hand. ‘I am not going to bargain with a freedman. I’ll send someone to come haggle another time.’
When the party is over and I’m cleaning with Elsie, I tell her what Otho said, about how he wants to buy me. She shakes her head. ‘Poor child,’ she says, ‘though you’ve been lucky up until now.’
I ask her what she means, but she doesn’t say.
NERO
28 July, afternoon
City jail IV, Rome
Today the boy gives me an account of his dinner last night, as though it was a feast to end all feasts, not a little meal given by an inconsequential freedman. He alludes to some story about being sold. I feel compelled to ask questions as though I care.
‘A knight, you said?’
‘Senator.’
‘Well, given your age and the way the man talked . . .’ I shake my head. ‘The man’s cupbearer will likely be asked to do more than hold his cup – if you understand my meaning. A bad outcome for you, certainly, but it is better than the mines or the hold of a ship.’
The boy starts to cry; a reasonable reaction, though I doubt he only has a vague sense of what fortune holds for him.
‘Don’t cry,’ I tell the boy. ‘It’s undignified, even for a child your age.’
‘How do I stop it? How do I stop the man from buying me?’
‘You don’t. You’re a slave. You go. You endure.’
‘You don’t know how then?’
The boy’s impertinence is galling. Without my eyes, locked up like a criminal, the proper hierarchy is torn to smithereens, and a slave feels comfortable chastising me. Bile fizzles on my tongue . . . and yet I ask questions despite myself.
‘Who?’ I ask. ‘Which senator wants to purchase you?’
‘His name is Otho.’
I laugh for the first time in ages. I might have cried if I still had my eyes. That bald lecher is back in Rome, is he? I made it quite clear that if I ever saw him or his wandering hands again, I would have him thrown from the Tarpeian Rock. Now that I’m gone, I suppose the coward thought it safe to slink back to the capital.
‘You’re in luck, boy. I will take great pleasure in setting Otho back. Tell me everything you can about Otho and what he said to your Master.’
VI
The Provincials
A.D. 79
CALENUS
11 January, morning
Pier XIV, Ostia
‘I’m looking for someone,’ I say. ‘A man by the name of Ulpius.’
The clerk is sitting behind a desk covered in papyrus, rolls of it, like he’s a librarian or something equally as dull. There’s a green awning overhead blocking the sun. To my left, there are ships – hundreds of them across the bay – bobbing up and down in the Tyrrhenian’s swell. Some are fixed to the pier, sails furled, oars quiet; the rest are cutting through the blue. The air has a chill to it, so my bad knee aches; but the sun is out for the first time in days.
The clerk looks up from his rolls.
‘Ulpius?’ he asks. ‘A strange name, that. A debtor?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘He’s coming in from Spain.’
‘You look like a creditor is all. A man come to collect.’
‘He’s not a debtor.’
‘From Spain, you say?’
The clerk looks down at his papers. His skin is a knobbly mess of callouses, sunburn and wrinkles. He looks old, but with freedmen, after a life of servitude, it’s always hard to tell. Likely, he’s tied to one of the port barons, with nothing better to do with his hard-earned freedom than to work for his former master, doing the same job he was forced to do before he was set free, but this time for a small fee and less pride.
‘Dangerous journey at this time of year, isn’t it?’ he says with his nose buried in the papyrus. ‘Spain to Ostia.’
I travelled most of the night to Ostia, Rome’s port on the sea. I’ve been here all morning looking for Nerva’s rich cripple, walking up and down the pier, and my patience is running thin.
‘Be careful, friend,’ I say before turning to go. ‘You might end up wasting the wrong man’s time.’
I’ve walked only a pace or two before I feel a hand gently pulling on the crook of my elbow. I let him turn me around.
‘Didn’t mean any offence,’ he says. Now that he’s standing, I can see that his back is crooked, and he has to cock his head back to look me in the eyes. ‘You look like a creditor, is all. I see a lot of creditors here, trying to find debtors before they take to sea. Interesting lot, creditors, don’t you think? They come here with coin in hand, ready to spend a few denarii to loosen tongues or hire extra muscle. Sometimes they’ll spend more coin than the debt is actually worth.’
There it is. I’ve lived in Italy for close to ten years now, but I always forget how damned corrupt it is. Even some lowly freedman working the pier expects silver for his trouble.
I reach into my purse and pull out one coin, silver and embossed with Vespasian’s fat cheeks. ‘Well?’
The freedman’s face lights up with a toothless smile.
‘You creditors are a fickle bunch. Just before you ran off, I was about to say –’ he takes the coin from my hand ‘– we had a Spanish ship come this morning. I don’t have all the names presently. But if your man’s from Spain, he’ll be on it.’
He points in the direction of the eastern pier. As he’s turning to go, I grab him by the arm.
‘You can hold onto that coin if you like. But it’s mine until we find Ulpius. Understand?’
His eyes look unnerved but his toothless smile never leaves his lips. ‘Of course, of course. No problem, friend.’
*
We find the Spanish ship on the southern pier, port gunwale parallel to the shore. Men are carrying crates over the gangplank and stacking them onto two carts. They’re all sailors, near as I can tell: exposed chests the colour of old leather, and hair to their shoulders, tied back or braided.
Then I spot two men by the carts who aren’t sailors. One is short, stocky, and dressed like a Parthian: trousers and a crimson jacket embroidered with gold, with matching gold chains, and make-up, black lines traced around his eyes like a woman. The other one is bent over a chest. His skin is dark, his tunic green, and his head as hairless as a newborn’s. I take one look at him and I know he’s a killer. I don’t know for certain – and I’ve been wrong before – but there’s
something in the way he moves; everything is economic and smooth. I’m not sure if he was a legionary, though. I don’t think he would have fit into the standard-issue cuirass. He has the chest of a young buck, all bluster in the spring.
The Big Buck is testing the lock of a chest, giving it a ferocious wiggle. When he looks up, I spot his eye patch, which covers his left eye, and a thick scar that runs across his cheek.
He notices me and we have a moment. We stare at each other, eye to eye. He jumps down from the cart. He’s a bit long in the tooth, but he swings his legs down to the pier smooth enough. A killer for certain.
‘Can I help you, friend?’ he says as he’s walking over.
‘Maybe,’ I say.
He’s in front of me now, closer than I’d like.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ I say. ‘A man named Ulpius.’
‘Lucky you,’ he says.
His tone is casual. It’s hard to tell if he’s angling for a fight or whether I’ve actually found Ulpius.
The clerk takes this opportunity to slink off, my coin in hand.
‘I think what my friend here is trying to say –’ a voice to my right says ‘– is that you don’t need to look any further. You’ve found your man.’
I look to see a man stepping onto the pier. His hair and beard are the colour of copper with patches of white, and wrapped around his head, covering his eyes, is a rag. His left hand is on the shoulder of a kid who’s guiding the way; in his other hand, he’s holding a stick, which he taps as he walks. Tap tap tap.
So, Nerva’s cripple is blind as a rock.
‘You know my name,’ the cripple says, ‘may I have yours?’
‘Calenus,’ I say. ‘Julius Calenus.’
The cripple doesn’t have an accent. I’ve never met a Spaniard before. I was expecting an accent. I thought he’d be rich too. You’d have to be for Nerva to take an interest in you. But this one isn’t dressed the part. His light-brown cloak is almost as plain as my tunic.
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