The Parthian springs to the door to open it for another guest. After Ptolemy helps me change into my dinner sandals, I take my leave so my host can continue his introductions.
I come upon Nerva and Secundus conversing at the other end of the atrium.
Nerva asks, ‘And what does our great general make of Rome’s newest senator?’
A lyre’s silken notes drift in from the garden.
‘I’m reserving judgement for now,’ I say.
A slave hands me a cup of mulled wine.
‘Eccentric though, isn’t he?’ Secundus asks.
I give a noncommittal shrug of my shoulders. In the garden beyond, I spot Domitilla’s almond curls. Over the notes of a lyre, I hear Caecina’s unruly laugh and I cannot help but frown.
‘I don’t understand the interest he’s garnering.’ Nerva says. ‘A cripple.’
‘Yet here we are,’ I say. I nod my head at the tall, blue-eyed man, standing a few feet away. ‘Is he new?’
‘A Batavian.’ Nerva smiles. ‘You wouldn’t believe the price I paid.’
‘A Batavian?’ Secundus is impressed. ‘I hope you put him to work in the hunt or the gladiatorial matches. It’d be a shame to waste talent like that.’
‘A dangerous breed,’ I say, ‘and stubborn. You’ll have your work cut out for you.’
‘I have my ways,’ Nerva says. Then he asks, ‘Is it true that your father intends to marry your sister to Marcellus?’
‘Where did you hear that?’ I ask, as unruffled as I can manage.
Nerva tips his head to the side, like a hawk watching from a bough. ‘Oh, I hear many things. But this I found most disturbing. I worry whom Caesar aligns himself with. I worry he does not know who his true friends are.’
‘Not to worry, Nerva,’ I say. ‘My father knows who is friend and who is foe.’
Secundus intervenes, astutely changing the subject. He relates an odd story, which happened moments before my arrival. Apparently, a merchant arrived with his wife and son, thinking they were invited guests. ‘He was brimming with pride,’ Secundus says, ‘being invited to the same table as the Emperor’s son. You could see it in the poor man’s toothless grin. His name was Creon, if I heard properly. He and the Parthian Cyrus had a row the moment he arrived. The poor fellow raised his voice and held up a little roll of paper, claiming it was his invitation. The Parthian agreed the invitation bore his patron’s seal, but said there must have been a mistake, because he (the merchant) surely was not invited to dinner. The younger Ulpius boy came over and inspected the invitation. He said, “I think you’ve been had, sir,” and then peeled back the corner until he had two sheets of paper. “Someone has played a trick on you. We merely ordered linen from your fullery. That is what carried our family’s seal.” Someone pasted an invitation into the order for the fullery, a fake invitation. You should have seen the look on that man Creon’s face as he realised he’d been made a fool. Very pathetic. He walked out without another word, unable to meet the eye of anyone, even the Parthian.’
‘An odd episode,’ Nerva says. ‘I suspect we are in for more.’
DOMITILLA
15 January, after sunset
The home of Lucius Ulpius Traianus, Rome
‘How is your sister?’
Calpurnia, Caecina’s young wife, puts her hand on my arm. Her golden bracelets clatter against her wrist.
‘She’s well,’ I say. ‘It’s far warmer in Capri than here.’
‘Yes but –’ Calpurnia lowers her voice to a whisper ‘– how is she really?’
She leans in, waiting for me to reveal our family’s secrets.
The lyre player resumes after a short intermission. Two dancing girls spin on the portico.
‘Calpurnia.’ Antonia, Plautius’ wife, materialises from the crowd. She gives me a look: I’m here to rescue you. We used to be close, Antonia and I, when we were younger. But we lost touch when she moved east with Plautius. It’s good to have her back in the capital.
Antonia says, ‘What’s the story then?’
‘Oh, Antonia,’ Calpurnia says, straightening up. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘Come, come,’ Antonia says. She looks over her shoulder to ensure no one is listening. ‘Tell us how he lost his eyes. What have you heard? You always have the inside track.’
Calpurnia aims her gaze at the floor for a moment, feigning modesty. ‘Oh, I don’t know what you mean.’
‘No need for modesty,’ Antonia says. ‘We’re all friends.’
‘Well –’ Calpurnia drops her voice to a whisper ‘– I’ve heard he brought it on himself, really.’ She raises an eyebrow, showing her disapproval of what she’s about to divulge. ‘In the little Spanish town he’s from – Hispalis or whatever it is – he didn’t have an equal. He was the smartest, and the richest, and the handsomest – which isn’t hard, I’m sure, near the ends of the earth, but still . . . Every girl in town naturally wanted to marry the man, and every father bent over backwards trying to make the match. But Ulpius was a cad. He wouldn’t take a wife. Instead, using the promise of marriage, he secretly seduced one girl after the next, until he’d had every girl in town. Well, when their fathers found out . . .’ Calpurnia pauses to sip her wine, hoping to build suspense. ‘They took his eyes as punishment; a mob of them stormed his home. All those Spanish tribes may be in the Empire now, but they act the barbarian when given an excuse. The governor tried to instil order afterwards. He made each man pay Ulpius compensation, which is why he’s so rich now. I’ve heard Ulpius says it was worth it, bedding those women in exchange for his eyes. Can you imagine? The depravity?’
Gods, what rumours does this woman say about me when I’m not around?
‘Is your source sound?’ Antonia asks. She’s making fun, but Calpurnia doesn’t notice.
‘Very. I heard it from Cluvius’s wife. Her husband knows Spanish traders.’
‘Well, depravity aside,’ Antonia says, ‘Ulpius sounds quite experienced, doesn’t he?’
Calpurnia raises both eyebrows this time. ‘Antonia!’
I put my hand to my mouth to supress a giggle. Seeing my reaction – the reaction of Caesar’s daughter – Calpurnia forces herself to laugh. She says, ‘He’s a cripple, Antonia. Don’t be wicked.’
*
Caecina corners me before dinner is served. He’s wearing the barbarian trousers he always wears and his cheeks have a ruddy glow from the wine. But even with his strange outfit, meant to cause controversy, and his decision to drink too much so early in the night, he remains charming and charismatic as ever. Little wonder the people think he and Titus are constant rivals. Both are in their early forties, handsome, and experienced soldiers. The main difference is that Caecina still has the hair he did as a boy of twenty, thick waves that curl at the back of his neck. That and his father is not master of all.
‘How is your sister?’ he asks, smiling as he always does, with his eyes rather than his lips. He touches my arm, just above the elbow. It’s a warm, slightly flirtatious gesture. Is he doing it with the hope that Titus is watching? He has always had a knack for annoying Titus.
‘Vespasia is fine,’ I say. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Why do I ask?’ he says. ‘She lost her husband. No doubt Titus had his reasons, but it doesn’t make it any less hard.’
‘I suppose not,’ I say. ‘But she is doing very well. I thank you for your concern.’
‘She is enjoying Capri then?’
‘Word does travel fast, doesn’t it? I didn’t know her current location was public knowledge. Yes, she is enjoying the Bay of Naples. The weather has been much kinder than here. I may join her.’
‘I was thinking of heading south myself.’ Caecina smiles mischievously. ‘We could travel together. You know what they say: strength in numbers.’
Now I am certain he thinks Titus is watching.
‘Would your wife be accompanying you?’ I ask. ‘I had the pleasure of speaking with Calpurnia earlier this evening.’
Caecina laughs. He is slightly drunk and our banter is endlessly amusing to him. He holds his cup in the air and rattles it. ‘I am running low, Augusta. If you will excuse me.’
CALENUS
15 January, after sunset
Outside the home of Lucius Ulpius Traianus, Rome
So far the night’s been duller than a Greek play. But instead of watching some actor cry about his lot in life, I’ve spent most of the evening out in the cold, looking after Nerva’s litter, while neighbouring slaves and freedmen praise their patron’s various and wide-ranging virtues. Beside me are the slaves of some Imperial secretary by the name of Epaphroditus. (What a name! You need to take a breath halfway through.) They talk about the man as though he’d conquered the world, from Spain to India and back again. But he’s only a freedman whose sole job is balancing ledgers. Not one of them has pride beyond what they have for their master. That’s the difference between them and me. I was my own man once, before circumstance brought me low.
I’d worried about coming tonight, that maybe one of Caesar’s friends would spot me and know who I am. But Nerva told me I was giving myself too much credit. ‘The only soldiers who will be in attendance are Titus and Caecina, and neither has any idea who Julius Calenus is.’ Easy for him to say. He’s not a deserter.
During the civil war, once Cremona fell and there was nothing left of it but smouldering ruins and bloodied bodies lining the streets, Vespasian’s forces rounded up all of the men who’d opposed them, those that were still standing. Men were picked to take messages to the armies in Spain and Gaul, to say Vespasian had won and to try to dissuade them from opposing him. Most of the officers were dead so they picked at random. A Flavian commander pointed at me and said, ‘You’re going to Spain. If anyone asks, you’re a tribune.’ But I didn’t go to Spain or deliver their message. I ran.
I headed back to my piss-poor village in Gaul to reclaim my wife, who, after months of civil war, didn’t know if I was alive or dead. She saw me stroll in to town and all she said was, ‘Good, I was beginning to miss you.’ A month or two later she started to cough, and six weeks after that I lost her for good.
Ever since, I’ve worried someone will spot me, especially one of Vespasian’s men who sent me on a task I never finished, and they’d name me deserter and then nail me to a cross. Nerva doesn’t know what happened, but he’s smart enough to know I did something I’m not proud of. He says, ‘Calenus, your anonymity is why you’re valuable to me. I can assure you, your name will not make the history books. I can’t stress enough how unimportant you are.’
I suppose he’s right. It was nearly ten years ago, after all. But my stomach will always twist when I see a Flavian. Maybe that’s not sufficient punishment for a deserter, but it’s a punishment all the same.
*
Later in the evening, a dozen slaves exit Ulpius’s house. I recognise one from across the street; I couldn’t miss him. Ulpius’s thick, one-eyed freedman. The Big Buck.
They spread out, going from one group of attendants to the next. I watch the Big Buck go to Epaphroditus’s slaves first. He hands them a skin of wine, which they pass from one man to the next. The Big Buck takes the skin back and hands it to a little boy, who then runs it inside the house.
When he’s done, the Big Buck walks over to me.
‘Calenus,’ he says. ‘I thought I might find you here.’
The little boy runs back with a fresh skin of wine. He hands it to the Big Buck.
‘Wine?’ he asks.
‘Never said no before,’ I say. I take a long, deep drink and then hand him back the skin. ‘Your master is a good man. Most patricians don’t think of the help outside.’
‘Ulpius is very generous,’ he says. ‘But it was my idea. Take another.’
He hands me the skin and I take another long drink. The blend is white, I think; nice and crisp, not too sweet. This Ulpius really does have means. Even the wine he gives the slaves is top notch. I hand back the skin and say, ‘I never did catch your name.’
‘Theseus,’ he says.
Over his shoulder, I see the patrician boy, Marcus, walking towards us. Marcus sees me and smiles. ‘Good evening, Calenus. Do you have everything you need? The wine is agreeable?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Top notch.’
The three of us are conversing very civilly. Anyone watching would never guess we killed two men on the road to Ostia four days ago.
‘Dinner will be served soon,’ the boy says. ‘We could bring you inside and you could eat with Theseus.’
‘I’m fine out here,’ I say. ‘Nerva wouldn’t like it.’
He looks at Epaphroditus’s slaves for a moment. Then to the Big Buck, he says, ‘How goes it out here?’
‘We’re all done.’
‘Good,’ the boy says.
They head back inside, leaving me out in the cold, bored and hungry.
TITUS
15 January, sunset
The home of Lucius Ulpius Traianus, Rome
As the party slowly makes its way from the atrium and garden to the dinner table, Epaphroditus pulls me aside. Despite the occasion, he is dressed as he always is, sombrely, all in black. His dark goatee dangles like a dagger from his chin.
‘I tracked your man.’
‘Vettius?’ I ask. ‘The Pompeian knight? You found him.’
‘Not exactly.’ Epaphroditus snaps his fingers; a slave darts to his side and begins to whisper in his ear.
I look to my side and Ptolemy is there, stylus in his right hand, wax tablet in his left, ready to record. From where he conjured up these items, I don’t know. But the boy has been with me long enough to know I may expectantly need a conversation recorded, even at a dinner party on the Aventine.
With his slave still whispering in his ear, Epaphroditus says, ‘His name is Gaius Vettius. A knight from Pompeii. A gardener by trade, specialising in trees. Mainly, fig and pear.’ The exchequer waves his hand. ‘Yes, yes,’ he snaps at his slave, ‘I know the last bit.’ The slave steps back and Epaphroditus says, ‘Apparently this Vettius character has been missing since December. Three days before the Ides.’
‘Missing?’ I say, ‘How do you know this?’
‘One of my clerks knows a local aedile. He knew Vettius and pointed us in the direction of Vettius’s former business partner,’ the exchequer says. ‘This is all my men could find. I trust this is helpful.’
What am I to do with this information? A local Pompeian gardener is missing. What does this have to do with Plautius? Each day I accumulate more questions than answers.
‘Keep looking,’ I say. ‘If your men learn anything else, tell me immediately.’
DOMITILLA
15 January, after sunset
The home of Lucius Ulpius Traianus, Rome
The triclineum opens out onto the garden. It’s a large, open room with three square tables surrounded by couches. On one wall there is a painting of a man in black armour standing on a chariot, which is dragging another man, naked and bloodied, with his arms splayed above his head. Achilles and Hector. Proud Achilles is staring straight ahead, his head held high. His horses – equally as proud – are as black as his armour. In the background, atop Troy’s walls, a woman is wailing. Hector’s widow, Andromache. The picture strikes me as very Roman: war and the men who fight it are pushed to the fore; the grief-stricken wife is acknowledged, but relegated to the background. I imagine the senator instructing the painter, holding up his hand, pinching the air with his thumb and index finger. ‘Make the wife no bigger than this, please.’
I’m seated at Ulpius’s table. He has given Titus the honour of the seat beside him, and I’m seated next to Titus. Secundus, Epaphroditus, the younger Ulpius (Marcus, I think, is his name), and old Graecina share our table. So too does the recently widowed Lepida. She continues to hide her blonde hair under a black shawl of mourning, which stands in contrast to her mischievous smile and constant banter. The remaining two tables are filled with senators, thei
r wives, and Imperial staff. There is one empty seat, meant, I’m told, for Senator Marcellus. It seems my future husband decided to snub Ulpius’s invitation.
Nerva’s newest slave is a handsome, blue-eyed barbarian. He stands behind his patron at dinner. From the moment we sit down, I can feel his eyes on me. At first the attention is welcome – sometimes I worry I’ve grown too old to turn heads, that I’ve turned into the Widow, as some call me behind my back. But he persists to the point where it becomes inappropriate. When I meet his gaze, his eyes don’t fall to the floor as they should. Instead, he smiles. Embarrassed, I immediately look away, hoping no one had witnessed the interaction or my smouldering cheeks.
The first course is Ferentum leeks, steeped in mint and hard-boiled eggs, topped with a relish of Danubian sea urchins. It’s served with Falernian wine, a vintage, according to Ulpius, of thirty years.
The dinner, the decorations, the home itself – it is all tastefully done. I had expected this new, very rich man to throw a boorish party, but it’s nothing of the kind.
‘Tell us, Titus,’ Lepida asks. ‘What is the latest from Gaul?’
At the next table, Caecina is laughing boisterously.
Titus bites an egg in two. It feels an eternity since I last saw him out of his armour, relaxed and enjoying a meal. He says, ‘Nothing beyond what was announced in the forum today. Sabinus, the Lingonian rebel the world thought dead, has been living in secret in Gaul.’
‘What will happen to him?’ Antonia asks.
‘He will be executed,’ Titus says.
Cyrus is standing behind Ulpius. He constantly leans down and whispers in his master’s ear. I wonder whether he describing the conversation to Ulpius, telling him who spoke.
Antonia says, ‘I have heard his wife hid him in an underground chamber, and she protected him, and now, after he was discovered and arrested, she sits outside the city jail where he is being held, night and day.’
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