‘Galba’s time as emperor was –’ Epaphroditus again chooses his words carefully ‘– unfortunate. The decimation, the riots, his choice of heir. He did not last beyond January the next year. But by then he’d already installed me in the palace again, though he moved me from secretary of petitions to the exchequer, a promotion for killing the tyrant. The emperors who followed Galba left me where I was.’
‘Fortune and the webs she weaves,’ I say.
‘I was fortunate,’ he says. ‘I won’t deny it.’
I lean in, conspiratorially. ‘What was it like? Cutting the throat of the emperor?’
Epaphroditus’ back straightens; his eyes divert, nervously. ‘Treasonous,’ he says coolly.
His answer is rehearsed – one he has given for years. Now that I’ve heard it, I’m not sure there was any other he could have given. (He is talking with Caesar’s son, after all.) I hate asking questions that have only one answer. I appear slow-witted.
I stand to go. ‘Find out what you can on Vettius. Do it as soon as you can.’
Before turning to leave, I take in Ulysses’s smile one last time. I think: I’m not smiling – that’s obvious. Hopefully, I’m the one steering the ship. Then again, this ship – the Empire – it’s so vast, so amorphous, it often steers itself.
XI
Rumour’s Sparrows
A.D. 68 to 69
MARCUS
24 September, sunset
The home of Proculus Creon, Rome
Master and Mistress are eating dinner. Master says, ‘I’m telling you –’ he swigs his wine and then wipes his mouth ‘– it’s getting to the point where it’s affecting business.’
‘Oh?’ Mistress asks.
Master waves me over. I take three quick steps forward and pour wine into his empty cup. He puts his hand up and I stop. Socrates follows with water.
Master says, ‘I don’t know why they need to do it in the forum. Can you imagine? I’m there trying to negotiate a deal and then we hear murderous chanting.’
‘How did they do it?’ Mistress asks.
‘There were dozens of them. They dragged the poor bastard, kicking and screaming from his litter. I don’t know how they spotted him behind the curtains, but they did. They dragged him right into the middle of the square and then started scratching and tearing at him, until he was a bloody mess – I think, anyway. I ran. I didn’t need to see that.’
Mistress shakes her head. ‘Terrible. Though he was rotten from what I heard.’
Master shrugs. ‘I never had any problem with Phaon. Out of all of Nero’s freedman, there were worse. Believe you me.’
I try my best to remember what Master says. Nero will want to know. Phaon. The forum. Bloody mess.
NERO
25 September, afternoon
City jail IV, Rome
We cross Phaon off the list. It’s possible that, despite his murder, he was nevertheless involved in the coup. Possible, but I don’t think so. It likely happened as the boy’s owner thinks: old scores were settled and Phaon’s life was the only payment that could square the account. Either way, he’s gone now, so we cross him off the list.
Guilty
Guilt unknown
Terentius (centurion)
Epaphroditus (chamberlain)
Venus (soldier)
Phaon (chamberlain)
Juno (soldier)
Spiculus (bodyguard)
Nymphidius (Praetorian prefect)
Tigellinus (Praetorian prefect)
Galba (False Emperor)
Otho (covets the throne)
The Black Priest (?)
It’s unfortunate I can’t help those who were close to me and now find themselves in danger. But where were they when their emperor’s eyes were being plucked out? Asleep in their beds, fat and rich on the spoils of empire – that’s where. Phaon sealed his own fate. He took bribes, extorted, embezzled. I turned a blind eye because he did as I asked and he was capable. If men are seeking revenge now that I’m gone, it’s no fault of mine.
These random murderous outbursts have Marcus spooked. Phaon isn’t the only man to be killed since my fall; nor will he be the last. So long as the Hunchback remains absent from the city, and with Nymphidius pursuing his own ambitious ends, chaos will replace the rule of law. It will be the same as when a city is sacked: no one is watching, so do as you’d like. But what can I tell the boy other than to keep his head down and avoid it as best he can.
The latest news is that the Hunchback is now in Gaul, killing whomever he pleases and solidifying his position. Meanwhile, my pain lessens and my strength grows. Hopefully, I will be ready by the time Galba comes to Rome.
MARCUS
3 October, first torch
The home of Proculus Creon, Rome
Belly and Mole are visiting Master. They’re sitting with him under the colonnade. Belly brought mead. They have been drinking for hours. Usually they’d be drunk by this time, but not today. Today they’re quieter.
Belly and Mole aren’t their real names. I don’t know their real names. I call Belly ‘Belly’ because he’s so fat his belly sinks between his knees. And I call Mole ‘Mole’ because he has a brown mole on his cheek the size of my thumb. It’s round like a hill, with three thick hairs that stick straight out and wobble when he moves. Belly and Mole are merchant freedman, like Master Creon.
‘Mad as a Thracian,’ Mole says. ‘I always knew it.’
‘You didn’t,’ Belly says.
‘I did!’ Mole says. ‘I told you more than a month ago: Nymphidius thinks he’s Caesar.’
‘You didn’t!’ Belly says again.
Master says, ‘Hold on, hold on. You may have said that, but you didn’t know this would happen. Did you?’
Mole says, ‘I had an idea.’
‘Like hell!’ Belly says.
Master looks over to me and Socrates who are standing with the pitchers of mead. ‘Marcus, get us some more olives. And tell Elsie to cook something, for fuck’s sake.’
I go to the kitchen, tell Elsie what Master said, fill a bowl with olives, and go back outside.
‘Do you think it was true?’ Mole asks. ‘Do you think Caligula was his father? His mother was a slave in the palace.’
Master says, ‘Doesn’t matter whether it’s true or not. How many slaves do you think Tiberius or Claudius conferred children on? You could fill the circus with them. Even Augustus – a prude by all accounts – even he had little Octavians running around the city. But none of them could ever be emperor. They were born to a slave for the love of Jove.’
Mole shakes his head. ‘Mad as a Thracian.’
‘Still,’ Belly, says, ‘his men turned on him awful quick. Cut his throat in the blink of an eye.’
‘Those Praetorians are cold-blooded,’ Master says. ‘I heard it was his centurion that gave him up. Stole Nymphidius’s letters and told the whole camp what he’d planned. Man by the name of Terentius . . .’
My heart jumps up into my throat when I hear the Fox’s name.
‘. . . he’s named himself prefect in Nymphidius’s place. The other prefect, Tigellinus, is still missing.’
Mole says, ‘I’m not sure I blame them. The Hunchback has been cutting disobedient throats in the provinces. What’s he going to do when he gets to Rome and sees the head of the Praetorians saying he’s Caligula’s love child and he should be emperor? Galba would’ve killed Nymphidius and anyone he thought was with him. No, I can’t say I blame them. I’d’ve done the same.’
*
Later in the evening, when they are eating dinner alone, Master says to Mistress, ‘Otho will be adopted by Galba once he gets to Rome. And then Otho will be the next in line for the purple. Then the principate will owe me – me! – a cool million sesterces. We will be set for life, my dear. Any appointment, any business venture – anything we want, will be ours.’
Mistress is doubtful like she always is. ‘And how do you know Galba will adopt Otho. How do you know? I’
ve heard there are other candidates.’
Master snarls. ‘Who? Who is being considered?’
‘I heard it will be one of the Pisos.’
Master laughs. Crumbs fly from his mouth. ‘One of the Pisos? Please, my dear!’ He puts his hand up like he is being attacked. ‘Please stop turning your mind to the world of men. You have no conception of politics, of Rome in its eight hundred and . . . in its current year. Those old families are just that: old. They are relics, ancient and dusty and dying. The senate will be rejuvenated with men like Otho, with families from Beneventum, Ferentum. Families from the Sabine hills. And while those men move up to the senate, who will fill the classes below?’ He points at himself. ‘Entrepreneurs. Men of Minerva, like your dear husband.’
I try to remember all these names. Otho, Piso, Galba the Hunchback. I keep saying the names, so I can remember tomorrow. Otho, Piso, Galba.
Otho, Piso, Galba.
Otho, Piso, Galba.
NERO
4 October, afternoon
City jail IV, Rome
Today Marcus brings more news. He’s becoming quite the little spy. And his Master’s precocious participation in politics has proven useful.
Nymphidius is dead. He was clearly involved in my downfall. But he is gone and therefore unable to atone for his crime. So I am crossing him off the list.
Guilty
Guilt unknown
Terentius (centurion)
Epaphroditus (chamberlain)
Venus (soldier)
Phaon (chamberlain)
Juno (soldier)
Spiculus (bodyguard)
Nympidius (Praetorian prefect)
Tigellinus (Praetorian prefect)
Galba (False Emperor)
Otho (covets the throne)
The Black Priest (?)
This man Terentius – the one Marcus calls the Fox – is more treacherous than I’d imagined. We must be cautious. Clearly he believes there is value in keeping me alive. But once his opinion changes, he will act swiftly.
Doryphorus has news as well: he has learned where Tigellinus is holed up. He was once the most hated man in Rome; so the mere fact that he’s alive points to complicity in the coup. But I cannot be certain. I must speak with him. I want to look him in the eye – so to speak.
Answers will come. In the meantime, we wait.
MARCUS
7 October, afternoon
City jail IV, Rome
We’re in the middle of a lesson when he comes in. The Fox.
I haven’t seen him since I snuck into the palace. He walks into the room slowly. He’s holding his helmet at his hip and his armour makes a rattling clink-clink-clink with each step.
Doryphorus whispers under his breath, ‘Terentius,’ so Nero can hear.
The Fox is smiling, but it’s a strange, unhappy smile. Another soldier – the one Nero calls Venus – waits by the door. The Fox comes to a stop outside the cell. The door is wide open. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor. Nero and Doryphorus are on the bench.
The Fox sees me and sneers. ‘You do have a passion for slumming it, don’t you, Nero?’ He clasps his hand on the cell door and moves it back and forth. The rusty hinges screeeech. He sees the amphorae of fish sauce and wine. ‘Industrious, even without your eyes, I’ll grant you that. But you’ve taken the freedom I’ve allowed a bit far, haven’t you? What’s next? Bludgeon the guards outside and retake the throne?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry,’ Nero says. ‘My ambition left with my eyes. Maybe you inherited it?’
The Fox sneers. He looks at Doryphorus. ‘You do keep yourself informed here, don’t you? I suppose you’ve heard I’m prefect now. What of it? I didn’t hasten Nymphidius’s demise. He did that himself. I had nothing to do with his decision to claim he was Caligula’s love child. I didn’t make him lust after the purple.’
The Fox notices the wax tablet in my hands. ‘Lessons?’ he asks. ‘What on the gods’ green earth could you wish to teach some frightened slave boy?’
Nero says, ‘Slave? I see no slave.’
The Fox frowns. ‘Your lack of eyesight notwithstanding: a slave is a slave. Teach him what you want. He will remain a slave or, at best, a freedman. Your efforts won’t change that.’
‘I disagree,’ Nero says. ‘I have a pupil named Marcus. He has an aptitude. He absorbs information like a sponge. I know of no slave.’
This isn’t true. It takes me for ever to learn anything. And I’m a slave. That’s obvious. I don’t know why Nero said I’m not.
‘He is chattel,’ the Fox says. ‘I can cut his throat to prove the point. I would be within the law, so long as I pay his master compensation for the loss.’
For a moment, no one speaks.
The Fox smiles. ‘Yes, maybe I will do that. I will cut the boy’s throat. Not today, but I will murder – no not murder, he is chattel after all – I will ruin a man’s property. This will prove the point. Will it not?’
My heart is beating loudly now, faster and faster – so loud I think it might explode – and my legs feel flimsy.
Nero doesn’t answer the Fox but instead speaks to me. ‘Marcus, have we discussed an honourable death yet? Its constituent parts?’ His voice is calm, like he’s teaching a lesson. ‘Every soldier will give you a slightly different definition, but the important distinction is this: wounds to the back show cowardice; wounds to the front, bravery. The reason is simple: a cut to the back shows whether you were running from your enemy or not. I raise this point now, Marcus, because, when the time comes, I hope your knife goes into this man’s back and reveals the coward he is.’
No one speaks. My breath squinches up and stops. I think the Fox is going kill me right here and now.
But he laughs; he waves his hand. ‘I see you lost your mind with your eyes. How far the mighty have fallen.’ Then he turns to me. ‘It appears, boy, a compact has been made, between you and I.’ He’s still smiling but his voice is hard. ‘Good luck.’
I want to scream. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t threaten to stab him. I didn’t call him a coward. But I clam up like I always do and the skin on my face starts to boil.
‘We’ve paid you good money, Terentius,’ Doryphorus says.
‘Yes . . . yes, you have. And I’ve given you generous allowances – allowances I can take away at my leisure. Remember that,’ the Fox says. ‘But I didn’t come here to scare a slave. I came for information.’
The Fox looks around the room and sees the stool. He fetches it and places it outside the cell. He sits.
‘Your holdings, personal and the Imperial treasury, which I gather are one and the same, will soon be seized by the Hunchback, if they haven’t already. The Praetorians expect Galba to provide a bonus for ousting you, the bonus Nymphidius promised. I am sceptical. From what I hear, the Hunchback is difficult, the what-have-you-done-for-me-lately type. I knew a man who served under him in Gaul. He said initiative was punished as come-uppity, while loyalty and hard work were not rewarded but considered the execution of duty. I have no interest in taking orders from such a man, and I doubt very much he will provide any bonus, let alone the figure promised by Nymphidius.’
The Fox keeps chewing on his lip.
‘As I said, the Imperial holdings are to be seized by Galba. I cannot benefit. But there is talk . . . of Dido’s treasure.’
‘Those are only rumours,’ Doryphorus says.
‘More than rumours,’ the Fox says. ‘You sent an expedition to Carthage to find it. They acted on bad information, a mistake when unravelling the cypher. But you discovered the error. You cracked the cypher.’
‘Quite the tale,’ Nero says.
‘There’s no point denying it,’ the Fox says. ‘The night we questioned you, you were reluctant to divulge what you knew, even after we took your eyes. Ever since, I have been hunting down your former courtiers, torturing or bribing them, and slowly learning the truth. The world thought your quest for Dido’s fortune was pure vanity and a fail
ure. But I know you cracked the cypher.’
Nero shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint.’
‘I’m making you an offer, Nero,’ the Fox says. ‘I cut your eyes out. So what? You’re alive, aren’t you? That’s a better spot than most would have left you in. We were paid to kill you, but we hedged our bets. We kept you alive, and I intend to profit from it. There’s no point in fighting it. Let’s make a deal. We scrounge up enough coin to leave Rome and go find that treasure of yours. We split it, down the middle. You can spend your remaining days in Greece. You’ll get no better deal from Galba when the old man finally reaches Rome. Hell, if we are partners, I’ll even give you the names of the men who betrayed you. I’m sure you’re dying to know that.’
Nero pauses for a long while. ‘There’s no treasure,’ he says at last. ‘Or if there is one, I don’t know where it is. Everyone knows I had people looking into it. But nothing came of it. People talk and will think what they want to think. But, I’m sorry to say, there is no ancient Carthiginian treasure I’m holding on to.’
The Fox shrugs. ‘There’s no rush. I’m now the only one who knows you’re alive,’ he says. ‘This is your only option. You’ll come to your senses soon enough.’
With that, the Fox and the other soldier leave.
When we are alone again, Dorpyhorus says to Nero, ‘He’s right, you know. His offer – it’s our only option.’
Nero doesn’t answer. Instead, he puts a piece of bread in his mouth and starts to chew.
David Page 16
