‘Will he take orders?’ Nerva whispers. ‘I’ve heard they can be difficult.’
I shrug to let him know I haven’t the faintest idea.
Nerva says to the slave, ‘Do you speak Latin?’
The slave looks up at Nerva. His eyes are bluer than the Tyrrhenian.
‘No,’ the slave says. He says it in Latin. He goes back to staring straight ahead.
‘Stand up,’ Nerva says.
The Batavian’s eyes slowly circle up to take Nerva in, before circling back, unperturbed. He doesn’t move.
Nerva takes me aside. ‘He’s wild. He could prove difficult.’
I shrug. ‘Resale value alone . . .’
‘Can you help?’
‘I’m no slave driver, am I? I wouldn’t know where to start.’ I look over my shoulder at the Batavian. Nerva does the same. ‘Unlikely you’d break him. Not in this lifetime. But you’re smart, aren’t you? Can’t you outsmart him?’
Nerva – always a man of commerce – says: ‘Fetch me a good price.’
*
The traders agree to a good number, considering the return. After Nerva pays, I squat so my face is level with the Batavian. My Aedui is different than his Chatti – night and day, really – but I know some Cananefates. Seeing as how they neighbour the Batavians, he should be able to understand. So I ask the Batavian if he’ll come like a good boy or whether he’s going to put up a fight.
He answers. His accent is a kick to the ears, but I get the gist. He says, ‘How does your Roman master –’ he nods at Nerva ‘– normally take you. The arse or the face?’
I shake my head at Nerva. He signals for help and four traders surround the Batavian. I figure he’ll lash out, get beaten to a pulp, and then dragged off to Nerva’s. But the boy’s got some sense. He sees the traders and just lies down on the sand, with his legs and arms spread wide. After a moment scratching their perplexed arses, the traders unlock the chain tying him to the post, then each of them grabs an arm or a leg, and they hoist the Batavian into the air and carry him out.
10 January (from Capri)
Dear Domitilla (in Rome):
Capri is beautiful, sister. I wish you had come. It has been the escape I had hoped for. Julia and young Vip have been a pleasure. (Thankfully, Julia did not inherit her father’s dourness. She can enjoy a holiday.) We have spent our time reading and going for long walks in the sun. One of the palace slaves has shown us the island. He took us to where Augustus wrote his last will and testament, and where Tiberius Caesar performed those wicked acts that brought his mother endless shame. He may have given too much detail for the girls’ young ears, but he is old and meant no harm by it. Anyway, I do not believe they understood half of what he said.
As you predicted, I have had time to reflect; indeed, I have had nothing but time these last three weeks. I have thought often of what Titus has done, examining it from every angle. When we parted, you were certain I would eventually forgive him. You said I would see his act as necessary, one made to protect our family. Give it time, you said.
I am sorry, sister, but I cannot forgive Titus. My husband was not guilty of anything other than telling a joke that was not funny. He had no intention of taking the title ‘Caesar’. That was the joke. He was lazy, selfish and unintelligent. He did not desire the principate; nor did it suit him. Our brother murdered my husband for a punchline gone wrong.
I did not love Asinius. He was mean, a quality which makes one hard to love. And I do not think he cared for women. He took me the one time, on our wedding night, but it was mechanical. After that, he did not so much as look at me. He preferred the pretty young men he kept company with, and he was not jealous when I pursued love outside of our marriage. We were strangers, really.
I did not love Asinius, but I cannot forgive Titus. It was an embarrassment – one that I shall never truly recover from. My own brother murdered my husband. He didn’t arrest him or put him on trial. He didn’t investigate the claims against him or interrogate anyone allegedly involved. Why would he? Our brother’s sole aim is power – or at least the artifice of it. Is it any wonder Domitian has turned out the way he has?
I have been thinking about our brothers. How they are so very different and how that came to be; why Father favours the one and shuns the other; why one will succeed Father as emperor and the other is already forgotten. I’ve concluded brothers, like everyone, must carve out their place in the world, but they must do so in a manner that will not intrude on their sibling. Titus came first. He took certain qualities as his own: confidence, boldness, strength. Domitian came nearly ten years later. He took what was available to him: cunning, cynicism, fecklessness.
It is the same with sisters. Is it not? You came first. You took decorum, intelligence, pluck. When my turn came, I took what was available: vitality, wit, desirability.
Proof of my theory is the rivalries we often see between siblings. You and I have disagreed over the years, though we love each other. Titus and Domitian have also fought – though, given the ten-year gap between them, it has always been less of a fight, and more a child lashing out at a man.
If it were Domitian who’d murdered my husband, I would be angry, but I would understand. The world has dictated its terms to Domitian; he grew into a mould. Titus, however, chose to be the man he is. He chose to be Father’s attack dog. He wants the Empire to shiver as he passes by. He chose to be the man he is. I cannot forgive him.
I will remain in Campania until the weather turns. The girls may stay with me. As I said, they are a welcome distraction.
Please send word from Rome. I miss the city, its politics and – yes – the gossip.
With all my love,
Vespasia
DOMITILLA
12 January, afternoon
The Imperial palace, Rome
‘He wasn’t perfect,’ Lepida says. ‘I’ll be the first to admit it . . .’
She scrutinises a fig with narrowed eyes. Beside her, a slave stokes the coals of a tired brazier.
‘And,’ she continues, ‘I’m sure Titus had his reasons. He is prefect of the Praetorians after all. I know it falls to him to keep Caesar alive and the Empire safe.’ She looks up from her fig. ‘May I ask, Domitilla: are these figs from the palace gardens?’
‘Somewhere from the south,’ I say. ‘This recent cold streak has wreaked havoc on the palace gardens.’
Lepida smiles. ‘Too bad. I’d heard such fantastic tales of the palace figs . . .’
Finally, she takes a bite – no, not a bite; it is a mouse-like nibble.
‘. . . I only wish Titus to know – and you are his sister, so I know you will tell him – I only wish him to know I had nothing to do with whatever it was that happened in Baiae . . .’
Lepida drops her nibbled fig on a side table and adjusts her shawl. She is dressed in black – black stola, black shawl. She is in mourning. Even so, beneath her shawl, her blonde hair is quaffed and teased and pinned up into elaborate, fashionable curls; blue eye-shadow darkens her lids; and gold hangs from her neck and wrists. She may be in mourning, but that is no excuse to look drab.
‘. . . maybe my husband was a traitor,’ she says. ‘Maybe he was in league with Asinius. A trial may not have been necessary. But please understand I had nothing to do with any of it.’
As I always do, I come to Titus’s defence.
‘There is more to the story than we realise,’ I say. ‘We don’t know what information Titus had or what steps he took to ensure their guilt. Nor is it our place to question his tactics.’
‘I agree,’ Lepida says. ‘I agree wholeheartedly. But, as I’m sure you can appreciate, a wife cannot control her husband, and she is not always privy to his affairs. Your sister was obviously not involved. How could she have been? She is Caesar’s daughter after all. I hope your brother won’t hold me to a different standard.’
Last month Titus put to death two men: Asinius, his brother-in-law, and Lepida’s husband, Iulus. Acc
ording to Titus, both were plotting against Father. Lepida is here to make sure Titus won’t turn his scrutiny to her. Her plan – and it is not a bad one – is to link herself with Vespasia, my younger sister, Asinius’ wife. But I think she has overestimated my influence with Titus.
Lepida asks, ‘How long was Vespasia married to Asinius?’
‘Ten years, I think.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Ten years.’ She smiles. It is a joyless smile. ‘Not much longer than I was married to young Iulus. And I think Vespasia held her husband in as much esteem as I held mine.’
‘Yes, well, Asinius was an unhappy man.’
‘As are all men who fail to find Caesar’s favour,’ Lepida says. ‘He probably expected more as the Emperor’s son-in-law. But there is only so much of it to go around.’
Her joyless smile, her light-hearted tone – Lepida is surprisingly at ease given the circumstances.
‘Speaking of Vespasia,’ Lepida asks, ‘where is she? Is she still in Rome?’
‘She’s gone south, to our home on Capri.’
‘Ah, to escape the gossip. A wise decision.’
‘To relax,’ I say. ‘To relax and to reflect. It’s a difficult event, losing one’s husband. Something you can appreciate.’
‘Well,’ Lepida says, ‘I would leave Rome as well, but I fear how it would look. With my past . . . your brother might think I was running away.’
Lepida speaks of her past so casually one would never know she was once accused of treason. Many years ago, her first husband, Caius Cassius, was caught plotting to kill Nero. She was implicated as well. I wasn’t in Rome at the time – I was too young and Father made sure I spent most of Nero’s reign away from Rome, on our family’s home in Reate – so I’ve only heard the rumours. But it’s said Lepida and her friends were performing ‘ghastly religious practices’, whatever that means. Lepida’s husband was banished to Sardinia. Another man was put to death. Lepida miraculously escaped punishment other than one month’s house arrest. She seduced Nero, people said, with her green eyes and feminine wiles. (She’s a bit older now, but in her heyday Lepida was a great beauty.) Others said she cast a spell on Nero. But these are very familiar Roman refrains: women are matrons, pure as the driven snow, or witches poisoning their husband’s dinner. As a girl, it would drive me mad studying history. It still does. If I am no more than a line in the record books, I will consider it a life well lived.
Lepida slides to the edge of her chair. Earnestly, she says, ‘We’re friends, Domitilla. Isn’t that so?’
This is the first time I’ve spoken to Lepida in a year. She is only here because she’s concerned for her safety. She is only here to ask Caesar’s daughter for a favour. We are far from friends.
‘The very best,’ I say.
Lepida smiles her joyless smile. ‘Good. Then I know you’ll do what you can with your brother. You’ll speak to him of my innocence.’
‘Of course.’
*
Later, after Lepida has left, Titus pays me a visit. A dog – all sinew and bone – slinks in after him.
‘I’m late.’
‘Titus Flavianus is a busy man,’ I say, teasing. ‘His relations are merely happy that he calls at all. Something to eat?’
Braziers crackle with welcome warmth.
‘I can’t stay long.’ Titus collapses into the chair beside me. His shoulders slump, as though a cord were suddenly cut. He rubs his hairline, which is retreating, like his enemies of old. He does this often now, as though he hopes to drag his hair back towards his face. What happened to my eldest brother? Where is the young man who would ride into Rome unannounced, with stories of foreign lands and epic battles that would leave his younger sister in awe? His hair was full then, the colour of sawdust, and his shoulders stout. He would talk of danger and war with a gleam in his eyes that made his family puff up with pride. Vespasia and I thought he was invincible. Now? Now he looks tired and hungry, with his bloodshot eyes and cheeks studded with bone. He looks lonely – though his sister who loves him is sitting beside him. Prefect of the Praetorians does not agree with Titus: the petty squabbling, the sycophants, the violence. Father relies on him too much, expects too much.
‘Jacasta,’ I say. ‘Bring my brother some water. Maybe something to eat as well.’
Jacasta is under the arch leading to the tablinum. She signals for two slaves to carry out my request. They will probably delegate the task a third time, and so on down the line until the slave on the lowest rung in the household fills a pitcher with water.
‘Wine,’ Titus says. ‘Something sour.’
I stare at him disapprovingly.
‘Please do not give me that look, Domitilla.’
‘What look?’
‘It’s one cup.’
I wave my hand nonchalantly, like I’m indifferent to my brother’s consumption of wine. The last thing he needs is more criticism.
‘And what is that?’ I ask, pointing at the dog, which is now curled up under a table.
‘Her name is Cleopatra,’ Titus says.
What he doesn’t say – what he wants the city, including his dear sister – to be left guessing, is whether this dog is the same one that dragged a man’s hand into the forum on the Agonalia. The act is very Titus-like, to usurp a bad omen and make it his pet.
A slave – a newer one that I don’t know, young and pretty – brings a bowl of olives and almonds. I catch her flashing Titus a smile as she bends down to hand him the bowl. She brushes up against his knee and he returns the smile. I thought my brother was looking old, his days of womanising behind him, but clearly he hasn’t lost all of his charm.
‘How goes the search?’ I ask.
Titus nibbles on an olive. ‘What search?’
‘For three days now you have been knocking on doors all over the city. Everyone is talking about it.’
‘Who is everyone?’
‘Titus, I am Caesar’s eldest daughter. You forget how many call on me day in, day out.’
Titus frowns. ‘What are they saying?’
I shrug. ‘Different things. Rumours mainly. Some think you’re seeking support against Caecina.’
‘The Turncoat?’ He looks surprised. ‘The people love that rivalry, don’t they?’
It’s remarkable how the people will remember certain events, how a story will grow and take on a life of its own, compared with what they will forget in a flash. One year, when they were both quite young, at a festival (I cannot even recall which), Titus and Caecina fought with wooden swords, the kind gladiators train with. Neither backed down; both were young men looking to prove themselves. They went for near an hour and beat each other to a pulp. The people have never forgotten the story, or the rivalry. Caecina’s conduct during the civil wars hasn’t helped. He changed sides three times, betraying men he’d sworn oaths to on each occasion, before finally defecting to Father’s cause. Ever since, the city has waited for him to do so again.
Titus smiles. ‘I suppose you won’t be taken in by such rumours.’ His sharp edges are beginning to soften. It always takes time for him to let his guard down, to remember he can set aside the city’s politics with his sister.
I return the smile, adding an air of mock-modesty. ‘Never. Anyway, the idea doesn’t make sense, frankly. The city always thinks you’re on a mad hunt to bring a senator down, but I know better. And as far as Caecina goes . . . well, he’s known as the Turncoat, but I think his days of switching sides are over. There’s no side to switch to. Now he’s just a playboy. His schemes and betrayals occur in the bedroom.’
‘You sound like you speak from experience,’ Titus says. His face is pained when he asks. The skin around his mouth and eyes tightens. The Turncoat is the one man he would not approve of.
‘Not to worry, brother. His type doesn’t appeal to me.’
He relaxes again, relieved.
‘Speaking of men calling on me, you received my note about the eunuch Halotus?’
‘I did.’
‘He says you called him to Rome but now refuse to see him.’
‘A half truth – though I suppose we can’t expect more from a eunuch. I never called him to Rome. But it’s true I refuse to see him. I have more pressing matters than to listen to a eunuch’s complaints.’
‘Well, I was forced to meet with him, given your refusal. He was impertinent as always.’
Titus raises an eyebrow.
Before he can start, I say, ‘Nothing you need to worry about, brother. He is harmless, so long as he’s not preparing our dinner.’
Halotus served two emperors before Father. Under Claudius Caesar, he was a chamberlain. Chief taster to be more exact, which meant he was charged with ensuring the Emperor’s food was free of poison. So when Claudius Caesar suddenly died – healthy one day, gone the next – and Nero succeeded him and promoted Halotus, the city whispered that Halotus was behind it. They said that rather than ensuring the Emperor’s meal was free of poison, he guaranteed it. But the allegations never rose above rumour, whispers behind his and Nero’s back.
Titus nods and then nibbles an olive.
‘So are you going to tell me who you’re searching for?’ I ask. ‘Or will you make me guess?’
Titus considers the question, before eventually confiding in me. ‘Lucius Plautius,’ he says and then proceeds to tell me about a letter he received from Lucius just before he went missing.
‘“Caesar” and “poison”?’ I shake my head. ‘That’s all he wrote?’
‘Essentially, yes. Enough information to pique my interest but not nearly enough to act on. And now he’s missing.’
Poor Titus. These plots against Father are growing in frequency, I’m sure of it. Baiae was only last month and already there is another one. The pressure Titus must feel. If he doesn’t catch whoever is involved, no one will.
‘Lucius has always been dramatic,’ I say, offering what little comfort I can. ‘I’m sure he was exaggerating.’
‘Let us hope.’ Titus’s eyes lock onto Jacasta who, at the mention of Plautius’s name, has been watching us intently. ‘Your maid,’ Titus says, ‘I recall Plautius was once quite fond of her. You’ll let me know if she hears anything from him?’
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