At this point in the story, my mother would ask, And do you know what he did next? and she would always pause for effect, daring her audience (usually her young son) to interject. I try to think of a way around it, but nothing comes to mind.
‘And do you know what he did next?’
One. Two. Three.
‘He stopped for dinner. He sat down by the fire, crossed his legs and ate: roasted rabbit and bread. And, when he was done, he washed it down with a draught of wine. Then he stood up, wiped his mouth, stepped over the sleeping bandits, removed the standard and made his way back to the coast. He’d marked his path as he’d followed the bandits through the forest, etching an “X” into trees with his knife. So he followed this path back to the sea and reached the coast the next evening. The following day, my eleven-year-old grandfather had a new caravan assembled and he was on his way to meet my great-grandfather, legionary standard in hand.
‘Now Corbulo,’ I continue, ‘Corbulo did not count himself among the Germanici of the world. Fear affected him. It might even have crippled him. But in the end, this didn’t matter. He’d found that foresight and training could overcome this handicap. He trained harder than any other soldier when he was rising through the legionary ranks. He studied harder and longer than any other man. Before he would go to battle, he would set out a detailed plan, anticipating any contingency, so that he did not have to think when danger was before him. The lesson lacks the mystique of tales told by other generals, but I think it honest. At dinner parties, Corbulo would be asked, “And how, great general, did you bring the Parthians to heel? Bravery? Unmatched physical strength?’’ To which he would reply, “Diligence and long nights,” and the party would give a collective groan. He was a particular type of Roman, now rarely seen: an honest man who outworked his rivals.
‘I doubt you are a Germanicus, Marcus. You are young – nothing is impossible – but I think it unlikely. In the end, though, it doesn’t matter. You can make yourself a Corbulo. I will rehearse with you what must be accomplished. We will rehearse until you have it perfect. You will outwork fear.’
MARCUS
29 July, vesper
The Happy Cock, Rome
The canteen has four long, wooden tables, with large men sitting around them laughing and yelling and swigging wine. Shadows rise and fall in the lamplight. No one notices me when I slip in. I walk to the bar, stand on it and say, as loud as I can: ‘If Doryphorus is here and would like to make some coin, he only needs to ask.’
I say it all like Nero said, just like we practised again and again. He wouldn’t let me leave until I had it perfect. I was worried they’d laugh at me or yell and tell me to leave. But Nero told me they wouldn’t. ‘Every man in this city desires two things,’ he said. ‘The first is coin – mention silver and you are credible, immediately. The second is what you are trying to avoid giving to Otho, so there is no point in offering it up.’
Nero is right: no one laughs or tells me to go away. They all went quiet to hear what I said and now that I’m done, they’ve gone back to doing whatever they were doing before.
I sit down at the table and a man takes a seat beside me. He’s short and pudgy, with eyes the colour of ice, and a beard, mud-brown and bushy. ‘And who might you be?’
Nero had told me about Doryphorus. ‘The man is an actor by trade. You cannot do your sad, quiet routine with him. He takes directions for a living. So tell him what you need from him, not the other way around.’
‘You’ll need to shave,’ I say, just like Nero told me to.
The man laughs. ‘Is that so?’
‘How’s your patrician accent?’ I ask. ‘And your Greek?’
‘Come now, boy. You’ve got me salivating. What’s the plan? Who sent you?’
*
The next morning, I meet Doryphorus in the forum. His beard is shaved and he’s wearing a toga, white and clean.
‘Good morning, slave-with-a-consul’s-name.’ This is what he calls me. It takes him a long time to say but I think that’s part of the joke. He laughs every time he says it.
‘Morning,’ I say.
He asks, ‘And how do I look?’
‘Fine,’ I say.
‘Better than fine, I’d wager.’ He looks himself over. ‘Well, best get on with it, haven’t we? Lead the way.’
*
The magistrate is bent over his desk, squinting at a ledger. His eyes are swirls of milky white, like his hair. ‘You said your name was what?’
We’re sitting on the other side of his desk. The room is all marble, emerald green with black, swirling lines. Outside, the forum grumbles and hums.
‘The deceased’s nephew.’ Doryphorus’s voice is different with the magistrate. He pronounces each word exactly, and he uses long words, like a proper patrician.
‘And him?’ The magistrate points his wrinkly finger at me.
‘My slave.’
‘And you’ve arrived from Alexandria today?’
Doryphorus answers in a different language. He leans back in his chair, satisfied with himself.
‘Fortune is smiling on you, sir,’ the magistrate says. ‘The estate – your unclaimed portion at least – was to escheat to the Emperor at the end of the week.’
‘Was it?’ Doryphorus says, as though he’s surprised, even though I told him as much, after Nero told me. ‘I left Alexandria as soon as I received your letter. But the seas were terrible. We spent several weeks in Sicily, waiting for clear passage.’
‘Yes, well, it is of no consequence now. Here you are. Once you provide some information to confirm that you are who you say you are, I will be able to sign over your inheritance.’
‘Please.’ Doryphorus opens his arms wide, like he’s looking for a hug. ‘Ask me whatever you like.’
Nero has been right about everything so far. He knew senator Florus had recently died and his estate hadn’t been distributed yet. ‘Because I kept the letters to his beneficiaries,’ Nero told me. ‘Leading the Empire isn’t all campaigns and banquets. It’s also about fulfilling the state’s needs, including its coffers. If a beneficiary doesn’t come to collect, then it escheats to the Emperor. Now, I suppose, Florus’s money is to go to the Hunchback. But not if we get there first. Find Doryphorus,’ Nero said. ‘Tell him to impersonate the deceased’s nephew. But do not give him all the information. He is trustworthy, but only up to a point, like any man.’
The magistrate asks Doryphorus all sorts of questions, about him, about his dead uncle, and Doryphorus knows each answer. Then he asks: ‘And could you please produce the letter I sent to you?’
Doryphorus looks to me. From my tunic, I pull out the letter I’d taken from the palace and hand it to the magistrate. He reads it closely. Then he says, ‘Excellent. I will get everything in order.’
‘Sir,’ Doryphorus says. He wiggles to the edge of his chair. This is the trickiest part. ‘If I could trouble you . . . your assistance would make my affairs here in the capital much easier than they need be. You see I have two debts that require payment immediately. Rather than making out one letter of credit to me, if you were able to make out two letters of credit, one to a man named Doryphorus, the other to a freedman named Creon.’
The magistrate looks up at us with his milky eyes.
My heart drums. Thump thump thump.
‘As you’d like,’ he says. He starts to write. ‘I commend you, sir, for your sense of responsibility. These days, most would run back to Alexandria, silver in hand, leaving his creditors out in the cold.’
*
Later that night, I’m called into the atrium before dinner. I find Master sitting with Doryphorus.
‘This is the one?’ Master asks.
Doryphorus says, ‘He is, indeed,’ and then hands Master a little roll of paper. Master gapes. Without looking up, he tells me that I’d been selected to assist at the Imperial palace. I am to attend each day and only return at night, when they were done with me. ‘You’re on loan, boy. So don’t embarrass m
e.’
This was Nero’s plan. He didn’t want to purchase me outright because he didn’t know where I’d live or how I’d eat. He also didn’t want anyone new being sent to the prison. ‘I’ve grown used to your company,’ he said.
‘Are you forgetting something?’ Doryphorus asks.
‘Hmm,’ Master looks up from the letter of credit. ‘Oh yes, of course.’ To me he says, ‘You’re to bring two amphorae to the palace each week, one of wine and one of fish sauce. Why the palace needs my fish sauce, I’ve no idea. But there you have it.’
‘Now Creon,’ Doryphorus says, ‘there will be no hitting or touching of an Imperial slave. Do you understand?’
Master makes a face: who me?
‘I see the bruises, and I’ve also asked around. This boy is now Imperial property. Keep your hands off or your hands will come off. Understood?’
Master – still looking at the letter of credit – waves his hand. ‘Yes, yes.’
‘I’ve heard that Senator Otho was interested in purchasing the boy,’ Doryphorus says. ‘I don’t need to tell you that he is now Galba’s property, the Emperor’s property.’
‘Otho was going to buy the boy. But you beat him on terms, fair and square. I’ll find him a different boy, there are thousands in this city. It’s easily done. See our guest out, Marcus.’
I follow Doryphorus to the front door. In a loud voice he says, ‘Tomorrow, boy. Be at the palace bright and early.’ Then, pretending to adjust his sandal, he bends down and whispers, ‘A pleasure, Marcus. Whoever cooked up your little plan, I don’t give a fig. Just give him my thanks. And let him know Doryphorus is a man of his word. I didn’t have to do this last bit, fooling your master. I could have taken both letters of credit and ran. But I did as I promised.’
Doryphorus turns and leaves.
NERO
30 July, afternoon
City jail IV, Rome
The boy recounts the story like a conquering hero. The canteen, the magistrate’s office, his master’s ignorance – it is the greatest day of his life. He relishes the ruse played on his master the most; I can hear it in his voice. Yesterday, he was sick with dread at the thought of providing false information to this Creon character, as though his master were something more than a freed slave, but now he is content with his victory.
He did well, all things considered. I’d thought he’d wither at one point, collapse under the weight of his own cowardice. But he didn’t. There’s even a tinge of confidence to his demeanour this morning, a slight hint of swagger.
He’s how old? Nine? Ten? It’s hard to say without laying eyes on him. But he lacks the croaking voice and stinking torso of a teenager . . . I was his age, or thereabouts, when I rode in the games of Troy. I was tiny then, so small that my helmet didn’t fit. Before the manoeuvres, mounted in the yard, it kept sliding forward, covering my eyes. I’d push it up, but it would only stay a moment before sliding down again, with each rollicking step of the horse. Uncle Claudius told me to dismount. ‘You’re too young,’ he said. ‘You’ll be hurt.’ Mother wouldn’t have it. She kissed me on the cheek and gave me one of those talks only she could give. ‘You carry the blood of two great families,’ she said. ‘From the Julians, you have inherited fortitude, from the Claudians pride. You and I share the same blood and thus the same qualities. If you fail today, if you embarrass me, it will wound me deeply because I am a Claudian. But I will be able to bear it because I am a Julian.’
The other boys were older than me, teenagers all. We cantered out into the arena to a beating drum. When the crowd saw me, they thought my presence precocious. There were cheers and whistles at each turn I made. My helmet fell, but I kept my position and finished without it. ‘Little Germanicus,’ they yelled, ‘like his grandfather.’ Mother, however, was apathetic. ‘You did nothing to set yourself apart.’ I waited until she had left the yard before starting to cry.
I make a point – maybe out of spite, I’m not sure – of telling the boy he did well. He is struck dumb – again. It may be the first compliment he’s ever received.
Later, he asks me about Hector. He hasn’t forgotten what I told him; he only wants to hear it again, like going back to a good bottle of wine: you remember the taste, but you want to feel it on your tongue. I take my bread with fish sauce and a cup of white, my spoils from our little plot. As I eat, I tell him the tale.
I’m in the midst of my story when we hear the creak of the door.
The boy goes quiet, as do I.
I hear feet shuffling across the dusty brick.
Then silence . . .
To Marcus, I whisper, ‘Who is it?’
‘The actor,’ Marcus says.
More silence, then, quietly at first, no more than a whisper: ‘Caesar.’ The voice grows louder, more passionate. ‘Caesar, is that you?’
It’s good to hear that title again, to hear it spoken with reverence.
‘I knew it! I knew you were alive.’ The voice – Doryphorus’s voice – morphs, from reverence to incredulity. ‘Three-fucking-figs, Caesar! You look awful.’
VIII
An Invitation to Dinner
A.D. 79
CALENUS
12 January, dawn
The slave market, Rome
‘What did you do with the bodies?’
I hold my hand to my nose to block the stink. Slave markets have a particular smell – like shit mainly, but also the maggoty stink of rot, the battlefield two days after the fight. Nerva’s doused himself in perfume and a cloud of prissy I’m-not-sure-what follows him everywhere he goes. He smells better than the market, but only just. I’m surprised he isn’t retching with that big beak of his.
‘We left them there,’ I say. ‘Away from the road, in the forest aways, but right where it happened.’
Nerva says, ‘And the other two ran off?’
‘Mmhm. The centurion and the other one.’
We’re walking side-by-side between rows of slaves tied to posts. All of them are men, down to a loincloth and dusted with chalk.
‘Him?’ Nerva points at a muscly Ethiopian.
I squat down and tell the slave to open his mouth. He does, showing me brown and yellow teeth. I spread open his right eye and peer in. He has a sad, glazed look to him, like he’s drunk. But this lad – I’d wager – hasn’t had a drink in a long time. No one would waste drink on a man not long for this world.
I look up at Nerva and shake my head. We keep walking, kicking up sand as we go.
‘Could you identify the centurion?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I gave him a nice cut, right below the eye.’
Nerva nods. ‘You come to me first if you ever see the man. Yes? I will pay you for the information. As I always do.’
‘If you want,’ I say.
I point to a man who’s all skin and bones, struggling against his chain. Nerva looks dubious.
‘I was looking for help to guard my person, Calenus. Someone intimidating.’
The slave is bald, thin, with skin the colour of boiled leather. But he’s wily, I think.
‘I like his fight,’ I say.
Nerva frowns, but he trusts my opinion, so he doesn’t say ‘no’. He doesn’t say anything, which means start your due diligence, please.
I take two steps forward and the slave lunges at me. The chain stops him just short of getting his hands around my throat. He claws the air like a wild dog. It’s possible he’s only crazy, not wily. I raise a fist above my head. I’m planning on giving him a good smack to see how he handles it, but the dog collapses to the sand and curls up into a ball.
I shake my head at Nerva. We keep walking.
‘You travelled back to Rome together.’ Nerva asks, ‘How did you leave them?’
‘We didn’t talk much on the ride back. I brought them to their house on the Aventine, as planned.’
‘What were they like afterwards?’
‘Nothing fazed the cripple. I’m not sure he’s all there. As for the others? Th
eir blood was up. You could see that. But otherwise fine, all things considered.’
Nerva considers that for a moment. ‘You think there is more there than meets the eye?’
I shrug. ‘I’m not from Delphi, am I? All I’m saying is they seemed OK during and after the whole mess.’
We walk past an old, hairless man coughing up his insides. Nerva pulls up his toga as he steps over the man’s legs.
‘And why didn’t they call on me? They understood I’d sent you, and that I was expecting them after they arrived?’
‘They knew. But –’ I step over the legs of a man who’s asleep or dead ‘– if I had that much coin, I’d expect people to come to me.’
Nerva strokes his chin, thinking.
‘What about him?’ He says, pointing at a man sitting in the dirt, leaning against the stake he’s chained to, hugging his knees. He looks tall – tall and strong.
‘Perhaps,’ I say. As we get closer, I see a tattoo on his arm, blue ink with a scar running right through the middle of it. If I hadn’t seen one before, I wouldn’t be able to make out what it was. But I’m certain the tattoo – before a blade sliced it in half – was a German battle shield being lapped by blue waves.
‘I think you’re in luck.’
‘Oh,’ Nerva says.
I keep my voice quiet so the traders don’t hear. ‘He’s a Batavian.’
Nerva’s face doesn’t change. He’d be a good dice player.
‘Here?’
Slaves that will fetch a good price are normally shown at auction or taken to the home of rich patricians known to spend. It’s odd to find a prize like this in the market.
‘I don’t think they know what they’ve got. Tattoo’s mangled from the scar. You wanted intimidating. You won’t find better than a Batavian.’
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