David

by Barbaree Deposed

  I shake my head in frustration. At the moment, these questions are impossible to answer.

  I say, ‘Have you heard anything further on the Imperial staff?’

  ‘No,’ Doryphorus says. ‘Your freedmen have all gone into hiding. It’s not safe for anyone who was one of your favourites.’

  ‘When they begin to resurface, we will have a better idea of their complicity.’

  Doryphorus sits beside me. I can hear his stocky frame flap against the ground and his sigh as he relaxes against the wall. He places his hand on my knee. An innocent act meant to imply less innocent outcomes. Am I still attractive in my current circumstance: eyeless, broken and imprisoned? I’d never have guessed. Or maybe Doryphorus’s tastes have a deviant side. In any event, it doesn’t matter. I pick up his hand and cast it aside. I do not explain myself; nor should I have to. I am no longer the man I was. I have only one purpose now, and reaching orgasm is not it.

  Doryphorus leaves without a word, but I know he will be back tomorrow. As I wait for sleep to come, I hold the wax tablets with my left hand and run my right across the names. The list is a work in progress. But at the moment, I have nothing but time.

  X

  The Exchequer

  A.D. 79

  TITUS

  13 January, sunset

  The Imperial palace, Rome

  I find Father in the palace, sitting on a balcony, looking south. On the edge of the valley below, running south-east and away from the palace, is the aqueduct. Three storeys of arches, endlessly repeated, it looks like a giant caterpillar of brick easily stepping over whole apartment blocks, then green fields, before disappearing over the horizon. Directly below us, rising out of the valley floor, is Father’s amphitheatre, a hill of stone and shadow, surrounded by scaffolds. Beside it, taller than any building in Rome, is a bronze statue of the sun god. The ghostly sound of hammers striking chisels drifts through the air: chip chip chip.

  Father points at the unfinished project. ‘I thought they would be farther along now.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Father is leaning back in his chair. A slave on her knees is massaging his swollen, gout-ridden feet. She is as old as Father: grey hair, withered shoulders. The balm she is applying is a sticky grey paste, a mix of wool-grease, woman’s milk, and white lead. It burns my nostrils, even from a distance.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I was hoping they’d be done. Was that too much to ask?’

  ‘It was.’

  Caesar snorts. ‘What happened to my son the general? I used to say, “Titus Flavius gets the job done. Give him a day and he’ll take the hour.’’’

  Father considers himself a motivator of men. He takes different tacks, depending on the subject. With his eldest son, he provides equal parts pride and disappointment. Historically, it has been quite successful, especially when I was the young soldier trying to prove himself. On this occasion, however, it will miss the mark. The valley below was once home to Nero’s golden palace, a sprawling marble complex surrounding a garden and man-made lake. After the civil wars, Father wished to remove all memory of Nero and the illustrious Julio-Claudians, so he had it torn down. In its place, he wanted the largest amphitheatre ever built. The message: Nero built for himself; Vespasian builds for the people. It was a monumental task and it is coming along at a reasonable pace. I tell Father as much. I also blame the engineers who continuously change their plans and budget.

  Father winces as the slave continues massaging his aching feet. He asks, ‘Will it be complete by the end of the year? You never know which will be my last.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I say, ‘you’ve years left.’

  ‘Do I?’ He frowns sardonically. ‘If my procurators are being struck down in the capital, and members of the Plautii, our family’s closest friends, have gone missing – how long until Caesar is struck down himself?’

  Today, it seems, Father intends to rely more on disappointment, rather than pride, in his interminable quest to motivate his eldest son. I try to keep calm. ‘Halotus was killed yesterday. You may want to allow more time than the morning to find his killer.’ My voice remains low, but there is an edge to it. ‘Don’t worry, Father. You sit here on your balcony, enjoying the view, and I will find those responsible for the eunuch’s death. And I will find Plautius.’

  ‘You will? Oh good.’ Father’s tone is sarcastic. ‘I was worried you wouldn’t be able to find Plautius, seeing as how you’ve been completely unsuccessful up to now.’

  This is how Father governs. He is with you, until – suddenly, out of the blue – he is against you, and then you’re buried under a mountain of bitter complaints. ‘You are exaggerating,’ I say. ‘It was only confirmed two days ago that Plautius was missing.’

  Father swats at the air. ‘Bah! Excuses, excuses. And what about that damned hand? Where is your answer for that? At the moment it’s causing me more trouble than anything. The hand and this godsforsaken cold streak. The people think the gods are against me.’

  ‘Since when do you care what the people say?’

  The slave gently places Father’s foot down onto the stool before starting with the other. Father sighs with relief.

  ‘It matters, Titus. All of it matters.’ His voice is calmer now that his pain has lessened. It’s often this way: his frustration with governing rises and falls with the pain in his legs. ‘Omens matter – real or fake, whether or not the gods are involved. If the people think power will change hands because a dog dragged some poor buggers hand to the forum, they will be indifferent to treason. Or they will expect it. And it emboldens the ambitious. It’s the same with my procurator being killed or a Plautii missing on the Bay.’

  I had planned on telling Father of the Germanic scroll found on Halotus, which Secundus is attempting to translate. But it’s best to keep this to myself for now. I will wait until I have something more concrete to report. There is no point in aggravating Father’s anxieties.

  Father points at his left foot; the skin is bloated, with a marbled-purple hue. Half in jest, he says, ‘I suppose my health doesn’t help, does it? I don’t inspire confidence. Not any more. I used to be something fearsome, but now I’m not much more than a cripple. I rely on you to protect our family and the party. We’d be lost without you.’ He pats my hand. His tone is conciliatory now. ‘Move quickly, Titus. Crack whatever heads you need to. Just find out who is working against us. Expose them and bring them to justice.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ I say, as though this was not already patently clear.

  Father adjusts his position; he winces. ‘Speaking of cripples, I understand you’ve been invited to dine with Ulpius.’

  ‘I have. Why?’

  ‘Are you planning to attend?’ he asks.

  ‘I thought it would be prudent, to learn more of this rich provincial.’

  ‘Prudent, yes,’ Father mumbles, ‘but behave civilly, please. Our family owes the Ulpii.’

  ‘What? I’ve never heard of the man. You know his family? How?’

  ‘There were several families who provided financial contribution to us during the civil wars. The Ulpii were one of them. And one of Ulpius’s kinsman served in Judea, during the rebellion. He’s now posted in the provinces. You should try harder to remember the soldiers who bled for you.’

  ‘I’d forgotten. Very well, I will be civil.’

  Now that we’ve discussed Halotus, I’m waiting for Father to finally ask about Marcellus. He sent me, after all. He should have to ask.

  To fill the quiet, I say, ‘Cerialis has written again. He’s confirmed the False Nero is missing. He believes he’s run east.’

  Caesar nods. ‘I’ve heard. Another embarrassment.’

  ‘Having Cerialis pursue the False Nero may make practical sense, but it will hurt us politically. It gives the man more credence.’

  ‘And what would you suggest?’

  ‘I thought we could bring Cerialis back with the rebels he has captured. Give him honours and a parade. A show of force to remind th
e people of Caesar’s might.’

  ‘Not a triumph, surely.’

  ‘No, no,’ I say. ‘Something smaller. But the games will be sizeable, and that is what the people care for anyway.’

  Loath as I am to admit it, when Father nods and says, ‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ bubbles of filial pride well up inside of me, an echo of my days as a boy, constantly seeking the general’s approval.

  The slave on her knees rises, packs up her balm and towel, bows and leaves.

  Father circles back to Plautius – a topic we have already covered. He is avoiding speaking of Marcellus.

  ‘What of Plautius then?’

  ‘He remains missing,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, obviously. Have you had any more information? What is your plan?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  For a change, rather than simply complaining, Father offers advice. ‘What about the knight Plautius mentioned in his letter? Do you know anything of him?’

  ‘Vettius? No,’ I say. ‘Not yet. All we have is the name. It is difficult to make inquiries without more information.’

  Father considers this, then says, ‘Ask the exchequer. Get his people on this.’

  I nod. ‘Yes, good idea.’

  ‘And go visit Plautius’s wife again. Read whatever letters he’s sent. There may be something more in those letters. And who do you have in the south now, making inquiries.’

  ‘Domitian continues to search.’

  Father makes a face, like he’s bitten a rotten fig. ‘I don’t know why you gave such a task to him. It is beyond his capabilities.’

  ‘You underestimate your youngest son,’ I say. ‘He is capable. He only requires the experience. That is why you should name him suffuct consul this year.’

  Father laughs. He once again has a sarcastic tinge to his voice. ‘What? You’re not serious?’

  ‘Yes. He needs the experience in administration. He needs to learn how to lead.’

  ‘Why? What does it matter what experience the boy has? You will lead when I am gone. You will have a son.’

  ‘You can’t be certain of that.’

  Our voices are rising again. We have had this argument before, but every time emotion gets the better of us.

  Father says, ‘I’m certain Domitian would be a disastrous emperor.’

  ‘Not with the right training.’

  ‘I will consider it,’ Father says, ending the discussion.

  We sit in silence for a moment. Finally, Father asks about Marcellus. ‘And how did it go? The proposal.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘He accepted?’

  ‘Yes, though he wouldn’t admit it. He intends to make us wait. I gave him until this evening to give us his answer.’

  Father nods. ‘Good. You did well.’ Father looks at me and sees something. Disgust, maybe. He pats my hand. ‘He won’t be such a bad husband,’ he says. ‘There have been worse.’

  I think of the girl in Marcellus’s study, naked, bruised and relegated to the corner. I think of his thin, serpentine lips.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  *

  I call on Antonia, Lucius Plautius’s wife, in the afternoon. At my request, she takes me to Plautius’s library and shows me his letters.

  Rather than leave me alone to read, Antonia sits on the arm of my chair, her soft, warm hip resting against my arm. Occasionally, she will lean in to read over my shoulder, twisting her torso so her breast touches my shoulder. Slaves slowly retreat from the room, sensing their presence is not desired. I find myself skipping words as I read.

  It was Antonia who seduced me all those years ago. We both happened to be staying with the governor of Syria. I was there to raise more troops for the war. Plautius had gone south for some reason or another. On my third night, after days of what I considered harmless flirting, I returned to my room after dinner to find her lying on my bed, naked as the day she was born. She hadn’t been touched in months, she told me afterwards, as we were enjoying a cup of wine in the lamplight. She was unhappy and lonely and nothing filled the void better than a general, fresh from war. We spent every night together for the next month. Then I went back to war and we never spoke of it again. Is she hoping to pick up where we left off? Stealing a man’s wife is unethical, but especially so when that man is missing and possibly dead.

  I stand up suddenly. I move so quickly, Antonia almost falls when she jumps to her feet.

  I start packing up the letters. ‘I will have my staff review these.’

  Embarrassed, Antonia looks at the floor. ‘Very well. I shall have someone see you out.’

  *

  A slave announces my presence.

  ‘Master, prefect Titus is here to see you.’

  The exchequer, Epaphroditus, looks up from his cluttered desk.

  A ribbon of incense meanders through the murk.

  The freedman stands. He is built like a spear: tall, skinny, no curves whatsoever. As always, he is immersed in black – black eyes, black hair, black robe; his dagger-like goatee is the outlier, which, though black, is dusted with white. He says, ‘Prefect Titus. Sir.’ He wipes his hands on his thighs and then waves his right at the chairs opposite his desk. ‘Please.’

  I move slowly, taking in the room. Taking in the rolls of papyrus, the ledgers, and the clerks against the far wall, who slide their chairs back and silently depart. Taking in the mosaic behind the exchequer’s desk of Ulysses tied to his ship’s mast, smiling.

  Epaphroditus sees me staring over his shoulder. He turns to look. He says, ‘I’ve spent nearly ten years in this room. I often forget he is there.’

  ‘He looks happy,’ I say.

  ‘Does he?’ Epaphroditus frowns. ‘I thought him mad. Temporarily, at least. If he weren’t tied to the mast, the call of the sirens would have him steer his ship into the rocks.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true,’ I say. ‘But isn’t life more enjoyable when someone else is steering the ship?’

  The freedman blushes slightly, embarrassed I have brought philosophy to his room of numbers.

  I change the subject. ‘You are the man who knows where the money is.’

  It’s not a question; nevertheless, he nods.

  ‘There is a man I wish to learn more of,’ I say. ‘A Pompeian knight named Vettius.’

  ‘Do you have any more information? Another name perhaps?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Assuming we can find this man,’ the exchequer says, ‘what do you wish to know?’

  ‘Whatever you can tell me. When he became a knight, what he does. Anything you can provide.’

  Epaphroditus’s lips move, as though he’s whispering his way through sums. ‘Well, obviously I do not know anything of this man, not off the top of my head.’

  ‘That’s fine. Report back to me after you have made the inquiries you need to.’

  ‘Of course, Titus.’

  There is a moment of silence and my mind wanders. I think of the man in Thrace claiming to be Nero and the followers he’s gathered. As I find myself sitting before one of Nero’s old favourites, questions suddenly occur to me. I ask: ‘What do you make of the newest man claiming to be the tyrant?’

  ‘I think him an imposter,’ Epaphroditus says abruptly.

  I weigh his words for a moment and then say, ‘You’ve an odd biography. No man – none that I can think of – has ever cut the throat of their head of state and then continued working for the state – day in, day out – as though nothing happened.’

  His eyes look uneasy. ‘Am I being dismissed? Have I done anything to offend you or your father?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, I didn’t say that. I am merely curious. Another Nero gallivanting around Thrace has my mind wandering.’

  I see wine distilling on a side table. I go to it and pour us two cups, equal parts wine and seawater. He watches me with uneasy eyes. I hand him a cup and retake my seat. I am uncreative in putting people at ease. But wine works – why try anything different?

  ‘I was
in Judea after the civil wars,’ I say, ‘when my father returned to Rome and was named Caesar. By the time I was called back to the capital, those who received pardons were already back to work. Humour me. Explain to me how this happened.’

  He sips his wine and relaxes slightly.

  ‘It happened in June,’ he says, ‘Nero . . . I mean the tyrant’s death. His suicide.’ He takes another sip. The wine gives him confidence and his voice fills out. ‘Not long afterward the senate declared Galba emperor. He was in Spain at the time.’

  I nod. All of this is well documented, but foundations must be set.

  ‘Galba took his time getting to Rome,’ he says. ‘He conquered cities as he went and –’ he considers his words ‘– made examples of those slow to declare their support . . .’

  What he means is that the Hunchback, on whatever pretence he could dream up, killed a good number of men whose loyalty was suspect. When power changes hands, there must be a certain amount of blood spilled. Galba, however, was indiscriminate.

  ‘. . . Galba didn’t arrive in Rome until October, after the Ides. The months before were dangerous. The prefect of the Praetorians, Nymphidius Sabinus, took control of the city. He besieged the palace and intimidated the populace. The senate sent emissaries to meet Galba in Narbonne, begging him to hurry back. The other prefect, Tigellinus, went into hiding. I did the same. I thought it only a matter of time before they had me executed. So I ran to my villa, south of the city. I stayed there for weeks. Nymphidius was mad . . . you remember what happened to him.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘One doesn’t forget a thing like that.’

  ‘When Galba finally arrived in Rome, he put a price on my head, fifty thousand sesterces. But I was to be taken alive. Soldiers found me and dragged me to the palace.’ The exchequer laughs a bitter, incredulous laugh. ‘I thought that was it. But he wanted to congratulate me, for killing Nero – even if it was at the tyrant’s request. He made me his guest of honour at dinner that night and for weeks afterwards. Every night I would have to tell the story, how it happened, what Nero said.’

  Having Epaphroditus repeat, again and again, the story of Nero’s suicide – how he needed his freedman’s help after he lost the nerve – it was useful, politically. But those first weeks after Nero’s fall were crucial. Galba clearly did not do as much as he could. If he had, maybe False Neros would not continue to plague the Empire.