‘There,’ he says in between angry puffs. ‘That’s an “R”.’
Nero is sitting cross-legged on the floor of his cell with his back against the wall. A clean bandage is wrapped around his eyes. His coppery beard is getting long.
‘At this rate,’ Doryphorus says turning to Nero, ‘he’ll be my age when he learns to read.’
Nero doesn’t answer Doryphorus. To me, he says, ‘Marcus, will you come sit with me a moment.’
I sit beside Nero, outside his cell, with only the prison bars between us. He’s rubbing a scrap of red brick with his thumb. The one that’s shaped like a spearhead and he carries around with him everywhere.
‘Are you enjoying your lesson today?’ he asks. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. ‘Don’t let the actor fool you. Learning one’s letters is difficult. The “P” and “R” are very similar, twins almost. The Castor and Pollux of letters. It will take time to learn all of this. But the effort will be worth it.’
Doryphorus is fiddling with the wax tablet. The sad afternoon sun is coming in the window and three rusty bars cast long shadows across the bricks.
‘Do you want some advice?’ Nero asks. ‘A titbit of wisdom I had to learn the hard way. Maybe, if you hear it now, you can avoid future heartache. I have found that the pupil has the tendency to form an opinion of the master, to hold him in esteem, before understanding who the master really is – the parts that make up the whole. Take Doryphorus, for example . . .’
Doryphorus is watching us now. He’s scowling.
‘. . . yes, he knows his letters. But he remains just a man; he has faults and vices like any other. What vices, you ask? Well, he has a temper. That’s obvious, isn’t it? Don’t grow up to have a temper, Marcus. Believe me. All it does in the end is make people uncomfortable. Can you imagine listening to a man yell at a boy as he’s trying to learn his letters? Do you know how uncomfortable that would make an audience? Why it’s as awkward as a first kiss. Worse even. At least with a first kiss there’s the hope – the faint echo – of the orgasm to follow.’
‘Are you done?’ Doryphorus asks. He’s still scowling.
Nero ignores Doryphorus. To me, he says, ‘What I’m trying to say, Marcus, is this: make sure you understand the man before you take anything he says to heart. Doryphorus knows his letters. Listen to him. Learn from him. But don’t take anything he says to heart. Not until you’re ready. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Good,’ Nero says. ‘Now run along. You should be getting back to Creon’s.’
*
These are my days now. Each day Nero and Doryphorus take turns giving me lessons. In the morning, I learn history and literature and sums; in the afternoon, I learn my letters. I have to learn my letters before I can learn to read. But so far, things aren’t going very well. Doryphorus is probably right: I don’t know if I’ll ever remember them. Each one is a mystery. So when they are jumbled together on a page or carved into buildings – the mystery seems impossible. It’s like when I stare at all those temples in the forum and wonder how they were built – how did people do that?
My lessons started the day after Doryphorus found us. That day, Nero told me to leave, so he could talk with Doryphorus alone. The next day, when I came back to the jail, Nero’s blindfold was off and Doryphorus was sitting on a stool, with his arms through the bars, applying a strange green paste to Nero’s cuts and the tender pink scars where his eyes used to be.
While Doryphorus and Nero talked, I prepared Nero’s bread, tearing it up into little pieces, and I poured out the wine and fish sauce Nero had tricked Master Creon into giving him. They talked about people I didn’t know. Nero would name a person and Doryphorus would tell him what he knew – where the man was, what he was doing.
When Nero was finished eating, he told Doryphorus that he was tired and needed to rest. They spoke in voices so low that I couldn’t hear. And then when Doryphorus stood up to go, I heard Nero say: ‘And see to the boy.’
Doryphorus glared at me. Then he grabbed me by the tunic and dragged me out of the room, all the way to the top of the steps. He knelt, so our eyes were level, shook me by the tunic and said, ‘What of your education?’
I didn’t know what he meant, so I didn’t say anything.
He said, ‘Don’t clam up on me, boy. I don’t have time for your silent act. I want to know what kind of work we have ahead of us. Your education: how far has it progressed? Can you read?’
I shook my head. No.
And he said, ‘Do you know your letters?’
I shook my head. No.
‘Gods. You’d no education before you were taken slave?’
I shrugged.
‘Well, slave-with-a-consul’s-name,’ Doryphorus said. ‘Our friend has decided that you are to be educated. It is your reward. Is it a fair price for a few sips of water and a loaf of bread? Who am I to say? It’s only my time and energy. Your lessons start tomorrow. Be here bright and early.’
And my lessons started the very next day.
NERO
2 September, afternoon
City jail IV, Rome
I took Doryphorus to bed on his seventeenth birthday. He was a palace freedman at the time, so he had no choice in the matter. Nevertheless, given his artless attempts to seduce me for several months prior, one can assume he was a more than willing partner. Ever since, he has loved me unconditionally. Even after my decision to discard him, weeks later, once the inevitable sense of boredom set in.
In my sexual tastes, I generally inclined to females, blondes in the main, at least one foot shorter than me. (Caesar cannot feel petite.) On very rare occasions, something different would catch my eye. In contrast to my choice in women, I preferred young men with a dark complexion and whose body types mirrored my own: lean, muscled, effervescent. At the time, Doryphorus met the bill: slim, short but not too short, and thirty-three puddle-shaped moles from head to toe. (I vaguely recall counting them one morning, tracing my hand across his swarthy flesh.) Without my eyes, I’m no longer able to see whether he still meets my prior standard. Yesterday, however, he was sitting beside me and my elbow grazed his midriff. I was shocked at the blubbery give. Age, I suppose, catches up with us all, and with it loose skin and fat bellies.
I was generally fair to my discarded lovers. I would provide stipends and a place to live once I was bored with them, if I wanted them clear of the palace out of respect for whichever woman happened to be my wife at the time. My enemies would often try to exploit my kindness, to claim it evidences some sort of weakness on my part; stories would circulate from time to time. I vowed not to let this dictate how I behaved. Doryphorus, however, is a rare, unfortunate example of Caesar falling short.
I took Doryphorus not too long after Piso’s conspiracy was unearthed. The senate felt anger and unease after so many of their own were sentenced to death. Doryphorus provided my enemies with an opportunity to manufacture weakness. Rumours began to circulate that Doryphorus made love to me, not the other way around – a common refrain in Roman politics, but one which nevertheless causes harm. So when I grew bored of Doryphorus, with these rumours circulating, I did not provide him a stipend or a residence, as was my usual practice. Instead, I showed the manly virtue of indifference: I sent him packing from the palace without a coin to his name. I also had one of my staff start a rumour that I had Doryphorus killed for some trivial offence. Better they think Caesar unpredictable and cruel than sentimental.
One month later, I was plagued with guilt. It came on me suddenly and unexpectedly. I sent Spiculus to track him down. The gladiator returned the next day. He’d found Doryphorus acting with a troupe in a canteen near the circus. He was, according to Spiculus, alive and well. As I’d instructed, Spiculus presented a gold piece, holding it up so Doryphorus could see my face embossed in the shining ore, and told Doryphorus I was sorry and wished him well. Apparently, Doryphorus began to cry. (‘Blubbered’ was the word Spiculus used.) Doryphorus said he
loved me and was happy to be wherever Caesar thought best. If it was away from the palace, acting in a troupe, then that is where he would be.
I met Doryphorus once more, years later, when attending a play in the Subura. On certain nights in Rome, under the cover of dark, with a small retinue of friends and disguised guards, with swords strapped under their togas, I would escape the palace and make my way amongst the commoners. We would attend plays, brothels, canteens – wherever the night took us. On the night in question, we attended the Happy Cock, a canteen which doubled as a theatre. That night, the long tables were removed and replaced with seats all aimed at the stage; firelight danced along the brick walls.
My companions and I entered just before the show was to begin. There was a hush followed by a buzzing sense of glee – the Emperor is here! Here. Space near the front was cleared; half-drunk plebs gave up their seats. One man cried like a little girl. The show began shortly afterwards. Poor Doryphorus: he didn’t know I was in the audience until he was on stage. He nearly fell over when he saw me.
When the show was over, I sent word backstage that I wished to speak with him. Out he came, nervous, angry, bewildered, and still as lovesick as when we parted, though he tried to hide it. He said that he had been acting with the same troupe for two years. He was happy. When we parted, I gave him a feathery kiss on the cheek. My guilt, if I had any left, eased. I wouldn’t hear his voice again until my eyes were gone and my Empire lost.
The day he found us, Doryphorus bribed the guards out front to gain entry to the jail. After speaking with me and learning the centurion appeared to be the one in charge, he bribed the rank and file again to organise a meeting with the centurion, the man Marcus calls the Fox and we now know is named Terentius. He then bribed Terentius for the privilege of visiting me on an ongoing basis. Doryphorus thought he seemed completely at ease, even phlegmatic. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Because,’ Doryphorus said, ‘the world thinks you’re dead. Or off in the east somewhere raising an army. And no one would believe a washed-up actor anyway. Why not make the extra coin?’
According to Doryphorus, the jail is now guarded by four soldiers at all times. They rarely come into the jail, preferring to drink and dice outside. Other than those we know are involved, Doryphorus believes the rest have no idea who is being held inside. They are content because they have been given one of the more comfortable posts a Praetorian can have.
I don’t know why Doryphorus followed Marcus here. He claims he had a hunch I was alive. I have my doubts. I wonder if he had a change of heart and intended to bludgeon the boy, once he figured out how to make a profit from it. But when he saw me, all of his old feelings came back (or so he says). He is devoted to me (I think). Whatever his motivation, I am not in a position to be turning away friends.
Doryphorus thinks I should take back the purple. He says the people would rally around me once they knew I was alive. I have my doubts. True: the people love me still – how could they not? But at the moment, from what Doryphorus tells me, and from what I have gleaned from Marcus’s tales, Nymphidius, the remaining prefect of the Praetorians, has taken over the city in Galba’s absence. He is holed up in the palace and executing those who question his authority. He has even killed a senator. If – and it is a big ‘if’ – we were able to overpower the gaggle of guards out front and escape, Nymphidius would have me cut down before I’d mounted the rostrum.
I also remain physically helpless, pathetically so. An Emperor must be able to lead his troops in the field; he must be able to watch the look of contrition form on a foreign king’s face as he bends the knee. I, however, can’t even manage my meals on my own. The boy effectively chews for me, when he rips up my bread and douses it in fish sauce, like a mother bird tending to its chick. In any event, there is something I desire more than the principate; more than the title Caesar; more than the godlike power I wielded. Retribution.
Doryphorus has procured us two wax tablets, the kind clerks use or schoolboys when learning their letters. The first we use exclusively for Marcus’s lessons. On the other Doryphorus has written out a list of those who may have been involved in the coup. I cannot see it, but I can trace my fingers over the indents in the wax; I can run my hand across each name, line by line, and I can feel the names of the men who have, or may have, broken their oath.
Plots against Caesar spread like wildfire. Once a man gets wind of a chance to rise, he inevitably wants to be involved; and given the nature of Rome and its politics, and the measures I had in place protecting my person, any successful plot would require Imperial secretaries, soldiers, and senators, all working together to bring me down. We have a list of eleven names so far, four of which we know were involved.
Guilty
Guilt unknown
Terentius (centurion)
Epaphroditus (chamberlain)
Venus (soldiers)
Phaon (chamberlain)
Juno (soldiers)
Spiculus (bodyguard)
Nympidius (Praetorian prefect)
Tigellinus (Praetorian prefect)
Galba (False Emperor)
Otho (covets the throne)
The Black Priest (?)
I drank heavily the night I was taken. I remember the soldiers bursting in and the godforsaken cave they dragged me to, but the night is otherwise a soggy blur. Every night, at a minimum, there would have been two members of my personal bodyguard (all ex-gladiators) and two Praetorians outside my door. That night Spiculus and Hercules were the gladiators on duty. I’m almost certain the two Praetorians were Venus and Juno. (I was never given the other rank and file’s name, so I have named him after a goddess as well, as I did for his colleague.)
Only four men had keys to my bedchamber: Spiculus, Epaphroditus, Phaon and Tigellinus. One of them had to be involved, unless they were subdued somehow and their key taken. As for senators, I now no longer think Galba was involved, not directly – not with the letters Marcus found and the conversation he overheard in the palace. The letters show I wasn’t the only person Nymphidius betrayed that day. Doryphorus has read them aloud so often I can recite each word for word.
10 June (from Rome)
Nymphidius:
The tyrant is dead, yet somehow your task was a failure. How could this be?
After the deed was done, you were to bring our chosen man immediately to the Praetorian camp and have him proclaimed Emperor. But you waited too long – far too long – and then the senate – unmolested, free to pick whomever they pleased because your soldiers were not breathing down their necks – named another man emperor. The plan was simple – so simple that, given its failure, we are left with one conclusion to draw: you have betrayed us.
We had a pact, sworn before the dark god, sealed by the Black Priest and bound by blood. You know what we are capable of. The gods help you, because we shall not.
10 June (from Rome)
Servius Sulpicius Galba (in Spain):
The world is changing rapidly, but I believe there is a chance to profit should we work together. Tigellinus is gone. I am now the lone prefect of the Praetorians. I speak for the three cohorts stationed in Rome. On my orders my men blinded and imprisoned the tyrant. I have released your freedman Icelus and sent him to you with this letter. He will confirm my account. Only I and three of my associates know Nero is alive. The world thinks him dead. I leave it to you decide his fate.
The Praetorians require a bonus of 2,000 sesterces a man. I also require one million sesterces for my continued loyalty, and the loyalty of the guard. This is a small price to pay for the Principate. I await your word.
Nymphidius Sabinus,
prefect of the Praetorian Guard
The letters show Nymphidius only sought to seek the Hunchback’s favour once the original plan had gone to shit. The soldiers who stole me from my bed – Nymphidius, the centurion Terentius (or the Fox, as Marcus calls him), and my two goddesses, Venus and Juno – they were working with another group, one that had chosen a different man to tak
e the purple. Who exactly the Black Priest is, who he is working with, and who they wanted to put on the throne – these are all questions we do not have answers to.
This evening, like every evening, after Marcus leaves, Doryphorus and I go over the list. I can hear him pacing, as his voice travels from one side of the room to the other.
‘We know for certain four soldiers were involved,’ I say. ‘Venus, Juno, Terentius, and Nymphidius. The question is whether the other prefect, Tigellinus, was involved.’
‘You are certain Marcus is correct?’ Doryphorus asks. ‘You are certain he actually heard what he thinks he heard in the palace?’
‘You don’t credit the boy enough,’ I say. ‘I think what he reports is more or less correct. Terentius was receiving orders from someone. And the letters he stole are damning, in my opinion. Nymphidius was working with another group, one led by this Black Priest. Once that plan failed for whatever reason, they brought me here, to this particular jail, because only the Praetorians and I know it exists.’
Based on descriptions given by Doryphorus and Marcus, I have determined I am being kept in one of the jails, which is north of the city, near the Tiber. I know the one. It is usually used by the vigiles, to hold runaway slaves or some debtor who hasn’t paid his bill. But emperors and the Praetorian Guard have often used it over the years, to torture and kill whomever they pleased, away from prying eyes. It’s always been maintained by a freedman in return for the prisoners’ urine and the prospect of having connections within the vigiles and the guard. (Marcus’s master Creon must hold the contract.) What a wretched turn of fate that Caesar’s secret prison now holds Caesar himself.
‘If the letters are genuine,’ Doryphorus says, ‘it begs two questions: who is the Black Priest? And who was their “chosen man”, the man they’d pick to be emperor?’
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