I have heard this as well. I cannot escape the image: a miserable middle-aged woman, crouched in the snow, clothed in black, wailing for her husband. A barbarian Andromache.
While I find it affecting, Lepida laughs. She cannot fathom such devotion. How long did she wait to seduce Nero after her husband, Caius Cassius, was banished? A few days? A week?
Secundus chimes in. ‘Rumour, my dear, pure rumour. We know little beyond what Titus has said. I’m sure this woman, Eponine, has already found another bed to keep her warm at night.’
‘I think it romantic,’ I say.
I can sense Titus tighten up, like a cat when a hound walks into the room. He doesn’t want Caesar’s daughter sympathising with a rebel. ‘It was an act of treason,’ he says.
Ulpius – for the first time – speaks. ‘Can’t it be both? Treasonous and romantic?’
Our mysterious host captivates the room; all other conversations fizzle.
Titus’s response is short, both in content and tone. ‘No,’ he says, ‘it cannot be both.’
The room watches Ulpius closely, but he is oblivious to the attention. He says, ‘Caesar has spoken,’ and leisurely sips his drink. Then he asks, ‘Tell me, Titus, is there more news from Thrace, of the False Nero?’
‘Nothing recent,’ Titus says.
My left arm begins to tingle. I shift my weight from one elbow to the next and, with my newly freed but tingling arm, I reach for an olive.
Ulpius says, ‘It’s fascinating, isn’t it, these men who claim to be Nero?’
Epaphroditus is keen to involve himself in the conversation. He says, ‘The lower classes are mad, no better than animals. Little wonder they pine for the tyrant.’
Ulpius smiles. ‘Come, there must be more to it than that. There were no imposters after Claudius or Caligula. There were none after Augustus. Yet there have been – how many? Three? Three men who claim they are Nero. And every time inspired followers have flocked to the name.’ He takes another leisurely sip of wine, as though he is at the races. ‘Surely, the explanation is not simply the lower classes are mad.’
Epaphroditus’s cheeks, normally a sickly grey, flush with pink. He thinks Ulpius’s response disrespectful. As one of Caesar’s closest advisers, he is not used to being questioned by anyone but Caesar, let alone a fresh provincial. ‘You say these men are inspired, do you?’ he says. ‘Treasonous talk, I’d say, especially for one newly come to Rome.’
I have no desire to see my host dragged away in chains after an idle comment. I draw a breath, about to intervene, when Titus puts his hand on my arm. I look to him, but his attention is on Ulpius, waiting to see how the man handles his sudden predicament. Our host, however, remains indifferent to the dangerous turn the night has taken.
‘You are incorrect,’ Ulpius says. ‘Inspired merely means having a particular influence. The fact you’ve drawn more meaning from the word than the Latin allows is peculiar.’ He nibbles at a watery leek. ‘Very peculiar.’
Beside me, Titus snorts; he is amused. The tension in the room eases slightly. But Epaphroditus is not done. He says, ‘The man was a villain.’
Ulpius shrugs. ‘Aren’t we all?’
It’s now Titus’s turn to get involved. ‘You condone the tyrant’s record?’
‘No,’ Ulpius says. ‘I question the record itself. Its veracity.’
The room waits for Titus’s response.
‘I don’t understand your point,’ Titus says. ‘Facts are facts.’
For a moment, through the marble wall, the sound of two slaves arguing – muffled, barely perceptible – is the only sound tempering the uncomfortable silence.
And then, perhaps tipped off by the smell, Ulpius says, ‘Ah! The boar!’ and every guest turns to watch three platters of wild boar paraded into the room. The platters are so heavy a slave is required at each end. ‘Or should I say the boars,’ Ulpius adds.
The room happily welcomes the distraction, and Ulpius is not asked to explain his odd comment.
Not long after the boar is served, the white-haired soldier my brother takes with him everywhere quietly enters the room. He walks up behind Titus and whispers in his ear. My brother frowns and then stands to go. He absently gives Ulpius his thanks, clearly forgetting the odd nature of their exchange, and leaves.
To my left, Lepida asks: ‘And where is he off to at such an hour?’
*
The litter sways with the steps of palace slaves. Through silk curtains, the light of a dozen torches bleed together. Jacasta lies beside me. My head – light from the wine – rests on her arm. Her dry red hair tickles my cheek. She smells of rose petals and stale bread. The constant pitter-patter of slaves and Praetorians marching beside our litter sounds like rain.
‘Where do you think your brother went?’ Jacasta asks.
‘He’s been jealous of Ulpius since he arrived in Rome.’ I say. ‘Maybe he cooked the whole scene up to gain back the people’s fascination.’
Jacasta asks, ‘Do you think it concerned Plautius?’ Her voice is earnest. It’s possible she grew fond of Plautius during their time on Capri, when Plautius paid her to visit his room every night. I’ve always found Plautius unbearably ostentatious, but I think Jacasta thought him kind.
‘I’m sure Plautius is alive and well.’
Our procession stops and the litter is gently lowered to the ground. A slave draws back the curtain and, taking my hand, helps me step out and onto the road. In the dark, the palace’s white marble shines like the moon. Standing out front is my brother’s white-haired soldier and two more Praetorians.
‘Mistress,’ he says, walking towards the litter. ‘Titus has asked for your maid.’ He points at Jacasta.
‘Why?’
‘Please, Mistress,’ Virgilius says. ‘He’d like her straight away.’
Jacasta follows the conversation, her head darting back and forth nervously.
I say, ‘I will come as well.’
The soldier opens his mouth to say why this is not possible, but when he sees my resolve, he relents. ‘Very well.’
Jacasta and I get back into the litter. This time the journey is far rougher, as the slaves rush to keep pace with Virgilius. Jacasta peeks out through the curtains to see where we are going. We pass the amphitheatre, still under construction, the forum, and then into the cattle market. The air is different this close to the Tiber, cooler, cleaner. We cross the square to a line of buildings. I can see Titus among dozens of Praetorians, his hands on his hips, watching our litter approach. He’s changed into his armour again; his sword is strapped to his side.
Titus points at me once I’m out of the litter. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’
‘What’s this all about?’ I ask.
Titus ignores the question. Virgilius whispers in his ear.
Across the square, the masts of moored ships sway in the river’s current. Behind Titus, in front of a warehouse, two Praetorians stand on either side of a doorway. I notice for the first time a soldier a few paces from Titus, with a bucket of water. He’s furiously scrubbing his hands together. His hands are stained a dark red.
‘Is he all right?’ Jacasta asks.
‘Yes,’ Titus says. ‘He only slipped.’
‘On what?’
He doesn’t say.
‘Titus, what is happening?’ I ask. ‘Why have you brought us here?’
‘I need Jacasta,’ he says. ‘I need her to tell me if the man I’ve found is Plautius.’
‘Can’t you ask him?’ Jacasta asks. ‘The man you found.’
‘No.’ His voice is flat. He is the general, outlining the facts.
Jacasta’s face is ashen.
‘You know Plautius,’ I say. ‘Why do you need Jacasta?’
‘I need someone who knows Plautius, intimately. I don’t want to upset his wife. Not unnecessarily.’
Jacasta starts to shake. I put my arms around her.
‘Where?’ I ask.
Titus looks over his shoulder at the door fla
nked by soldiers. ‘In there,’ he says.
Titus takes Jacasta into the building, but insists I stay back. I watch as they disappear, descending into the darkness.
They are gone for what feels like an eternity. When they return, Titus is gently pulling Jacasta by the arm. Once on the street, Titus releases his grip and she falls to her knees. She retches out a watery, yellow mess. The bottoms of her bare feet are painted with a sticky crimson. I kneel beside her.
Panting, still trying to catch her breath, she says, ‘It’s not him.’
Titus is standing above us. To me, he says, ‘The man down there has a birthmark; a purple splotch from his crotch to his navel. Jacasta says Plautius did not have such a mark.’
Jacasta tries to catch her breath.
‘Thank you, Jacasta,’ Titus says. ‘You did well. You both did. Go home and rest.’
I want answers. I want to know what this strange, underground room is, and what has happened inside. But now is not the time. Titus is as disturbed as we are – more shaken than I have ever seen him. He will tell me when he is able. Now he needs to work, and I need to get Jacasta away from here.
*
We travel back to the palace in silence. Jacasta is rolled up into a ball beside me. I rub her back, offering what comfort I can.
For the second time tonight, our litter is placed at the foot of the palace steps. Jacasta and I step out and make our ascent. Once inside, walking down the wide, open halls, I can feel the night’s events stalking my peace of mind. The hallways I’ve walked safely for years now feel menacing, as though danger lurks behind every corner.
In my room, we find braziers burning and lamps lit, awaiting my arrival. The room is empty – which is odd at this hour. Usually there are, at the very least, two slaves here to assist Jacasta.
Something is wrong.
‘Mistress.’
Jacasta feels it too.
‘Maybe we should ask for guards to wait at the door tonight?’
Then I see, sticking out from behind the bed, two legs, completely still; the balance of the body lost from view.
Jacasta grabs my arm; she screams.
She isn’t looking at the legs behind the bed.
I turn to see a man, with a long beard and wild black hair. His menacing smile reveals yellow-black teeth and bloody gums.
He steps forward, a dagger in hand; blood drips from the blade.
CALENUS
15 January, first torch
Outside the home of Lucius Ulpius Traianus, Rome
Theseus’s wine was the best part of my night. After he and Marcus left, I stayed on the street, quietly waiting for the boredom to end. But there wasn’t any relief when dinner was finally over. Nerva told me to stay.
‘What do you want me to look for?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Just watch. Tomorrow, tell me everything.’
And here I’ve stayed – sitting out in the cold for what feels like hours, with nothing yet to report – when Appius – Nerva’s pudgy, snooty slave – comes running up the road. He’s calling my name in those whispering-shouts people use when they’re trying to be quiet and loud all at the same time. He can’t see me until I step out of the alleyway.
‘What do you want?’
‘Nerva needs you.’ He’s sucking in big gulps of air, one after the next. I’ve never seen him run before. Whatever brought him here, it must be important.
‘Where?’
‘At the palace.’
I tell him to lead the way.
*
When I see Nerva waiting on the palace steps with a handful of Praetorians, I’m terrified I might be asked to go inside. I’ve never been inside the palace or even within a hundred yards of it. Nerva’s home is the closest I’ve been to the murky patrician world. And the palace is a different pot of piss altogether. Not to mention it’s filled with Flavians, men I fought against in Cremona before deserting and running north. An Auduan pleb and disgraced deserter should not enter the palace.
Nerva doesn’t say hello or thank me for coming. He says, ‘Come,’ and turns and walks inside the palace. I pause on the threshold, with the eyes of half a dozen Praetorians on me.
Nerva turns back, annoyed. ‘Hurry.’ He starts walking again. I – the gods help me – follow.
Inside, the air is different. Flakes of gold dance in the air, swirling into my lungs with each breath. It’s so thick I’ll choke on it – cough and hack and suffocate until I’m dead. Then I notice the ceiling. In my apartment, I’ve got to duck when I move around. Here it’s – I don’t know how high. I’ve been to baths and temples with roofs like this before, but this is different. It makes me feel tiny, infinitely small, like I’m the lowliest person that ever snuck inside the palace walls, and the Emperor will have to crucify me in order to purify his home of marble. Only then, when I’m up on the cross, will he be able to scrape out the gold I hid away in my lungs.
‘Stop it,’ Nerva says. ‘Whatever it is you’re doing. It’s impertinent. Keep your eyes and hands to yourself. And don’t lag.’
We walk up a set of stairs. At the top, Nerva stops. He whispers so the guards can’t hear, ‘Translate in a way that favours me. Understand?’
He starts walking again, not waiting to hear that I haven’t any idea what he means.
We enter a room with half a dozen Praetorians, two women huddled on a couch, and a dead, lifeless body near the door and another behind a bed . . . A bed. Which means I’m in the bedroom of a member of the Imperial family. If Jupiter’s lightning could fry me on the spot, I’d welcome it with open arms.
‘Is this him?’
Titus – the Emperor’s eldest son, prefect of the Praetorian Guard, the sacker of cities, the scourge of Jerusalem – is looking at me.
‘Yes,’ Nerva says. ‘They’ve communicated before.’
‘Good. Have him tell me what happened.’ Titus points behind me. I turn to see the Batavian, sitting on the floor, with his back against the wall. Right in front of him is a dead body, face down, with blood pooling under its chest and belly. Somehow the Batavian looks relaxed, as though he’s just sat down for dinner.
A Praetorian gives the Batavian a kick. The slave looks at the soldier, seizing him up, like he’s about to cut his throat. But then he merely frowns and slowly gets to his feet.
Titus calls over the two women. When they get closer I see one of them is Domitilla, Caesar’s daughter, who I’ve seen in the circus, from a distance. I recognise that almond hair, and the way she carries herself.
‘Ask him,’ Nerva says to me. ‘Ask him what happened to this man.’
I ask the Batavian. He answers in stilted Cananefates. ‘I kill.’
I translate, saying it loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘He killed him.’
Caesar’s daughter says, ‘He saved my life.’
‘Ask him why he’s here,’ Titus says. He looks tired and furious and ready to lay blame anywhere but at the feet of the dead man lying face down on the marble.
I ask the Batavian. He nods his head at Domitilla. ‘Beautiful. Very.’ He points at himself, ‘I. Want.’
The crowd is hushed waiting for me to translate. Nerva looks like I’m holding his mother over a cliff. Meanwhile the Batavian is looking at Domitilla like a sad puppy. I notice for the first time her green stola is torn, at the shoulder and the hem, and her matching shawl is in pieces by the dead man.
‘He says he heard a scream.’
Nerva exhales.
‘And then what? He ran from Nerva’s?’ Titus doesn’t believe a word. ‘From the Quirinal to the Palatine?’
‘He snuck out,’ I say. ‘To go for a walk. He’d never seen the palace before. A new slave to the city and all.’
Titus eyes me suspiciously. ‘He told you that with all of four words, did he?’
Clearly, nothing gets past Caesar’s son.
Three loud whacks echo along the walls and the room goes quiet. In walk ten lictors dressed in togas, white
as German snow, carrying wooden rods over their shoulders. I know who’s right behind them, so I drop to my knees, and bow my head to the mosaic-decorated floor. When I see the Emperor’s boots, I close my eyes to wait for it to be over.
‘Stop. Please rise. It’s too late for such reverence.’
I can hear the rustle of people standing up, but I keep close to the marble: I’m not getting up without a personal invitation.
People start to talk.
‘My dear, are you all right?’
‘Yes, Father. I’m fine.’
‘What happened?’
‘Jacasta and I came back to the palace and a man was here, that man. We believe he killed two slaves and a soldier, and then waited for our return. When we arrived, he hit Jacasta, knocking her to the floor, and then he grabbed me by the hair, tore my dress, and was about to kill me . . . or worse. Then this man appeared. This slave. He saved my life.’
I keep my eyes squeezed shut.
‘And you, my tall, blue-eyed friend. Who owns you?’
‘I do, Caesar.’
‘Well, Nerva, I owe you a debt of gratitude. You shall receive a generous gift.’
‘Father, there is more to the story than this. This slave didn’t just appear –’
‘Titus, stop. Your scepticism is usually appreciated, but when the gods send a man to save the emperor’s daughter, it is not for us to examine the details.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘And what is this? Another dead body?’
After a moment of quiet, I feel Nerva’s hot breath in my ear. ‘Rise, Calenus. You’re embarrassing me.’
I stand up. Caesar, Caesar’s son and Caesar’s daughter are all staring at me. Caesar’s looking at me like I’d just sneezed on his breakfast. He says, ‘You’re a bit long in the tooth not to know what “rise” means, wouldn’t you agree?’
I look around to see who he’s talking to. When I realise it’s me, I don’t exactly piss myself, but I can feel white-hot fear creep to the edge of my cock.
Caesar says to Nerva, ‘Is this one yours?’
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