‘What? Tell me.’
‘In May, before the coup, while you were on the Bay . . .’ He pauses, taking a deep breath. ‘Another body was found . . .’
‘What do you mean? What body?’
A hand – Tigellinus’s hand – grips my cloak and pulls me down, close enough that my ear is inches from his lips. He whispers and his breath – the putrid smell of decay – envelops my face. He says a word I never thought I’d hear again.
‘Torcus.’
His grip slackens and I pull away.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask.
He describes the body, with its mouth sewn shut and tongue removed.
‘We didn’t know for certain. And I didn’t want to alarm you unnecessarily, especially with what was happening in the provinces. We were investigating . . . but then you disappeared.’
‘Did you question anyone who was involved before?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Cassius was gone, banished to Sardinia. And you were infatuated with Lepida – you absolved her of past crimes and ordered she be unmolested in the future.’
He blames me for his failures. I choke back my anger.
‘Why are you alive? You are the most hated man in Rome. The kin of those you’d killed should have seized the moment when I disappeared. You should be dead. Someone is protecting you. Who?’
He shakes his head. ‘I never broke my oath.’
‘Why are you alive, Tigellinus?’
In his voice, I can hear tears forming. ‘After the legion in Gaul swore allegiance to Galba in May . . . I put the daughter of his right-hand man, Laco, under my protection. Also, his freedman, Icelus. I imprisoned him, rather than kill him, as you’d instructed. Somewhere safe, outside the city.’
‘Why?’
‘For this very reason. In case you fell from power and I was exposed. I hedged my bets. I have taken such measures before.’
‘So you were protecting my enemies? We were at war, with legions revolting and swearing allegiance to Galba. You don’t think Galba’s freedman would have been valuable?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘You broke your oath, Tigellinus. You are as guilty as those who took my eyes.’
‘No!’ His voice is loud for the first time.
‘Yes, you are just as guilty. You may not have openly plotted to bring me down. But you withheld information to save your own hide, knowing full well it put me more at risk. It’s my fault. I lost sight of the man you were. I was content to let you apply your cruelty and indifference against others, to protect my interests. I’d forgotten that you were only loyal up to a point, so long as our interests were aligned.’
He mutters, ‘No, no, no.’
I stand up to go. The stool topples over.
Tigellinus says, ‘You will let me live?’
‘Until the poison runs its course,’ I say.
‘What poison?’
Doryphorus chimes in. ‘The poison you just drank. Your slave gave you up for a silver coin.’
‘No,’ Tigellinus says. His voice is defeated. ‘No, no, no . . .’
We walk out without another word.
*
Outside on the street, before mounting our mule, Doryphorus revises the wax tablet and then hands it to me.
‘Today has been productive,’ he says.
I run my hands over the names, taking particular pleasure over the horizontal line through the names of those who broke their oath.
Guilty
Guilt unknown
Terentius (centurion)
Epaphroditus (chamberlain)
Venus (soldier)
Phaon (chamberlain)
Juno (soldier)
Spiculus (bodyguard)
Nympidius (Praetorian prefect)
Tigellinus (Praetorian prefect)
Galba (False Emperor)
Halotus (the eunuch)
Otho (covets the throne)
The Black Priest (?)
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We’ve a long road ahead, and a plan that will take years to execute. But you’re right: today was quite productive. Let us hope Marcus shares our success.’
MARCUS
11 January, afternoon
The home of Proculus Creon, Rome
I’m standing with Elsie in the kitchen when she drops three eggs, all at once; they splatter on the floor. ‘Whoops,’ she says, loud enough for anyone in the next room to hear. ‘Marcus, you go to the market to get us more.’
She walks me through the side door and out into the alleyway. It’s only when she’s on one knee, looking me in the eyes that I can see she’s crying. Just one or two tears – not like when I cry – but I’ve never seen her shed even one.
‘I don’t want to go,’ I say. I start to cry as well.
‘Why? You like carrying pots of piss every day?’
‘I don’t want to leave you?’
‘Oh, Marcus . . .’ Elsie pulls me close and squeezes me until I can’t breathe. Then she takes my shoulders and pushes me back so she can look me in the eye. Another tear slides down her check. She says, ‘You remember what Elsie told you? Yes? How the Chaldeans said you were destined for great things?’
I nod.
‘Well, this is how it happens. Yes? Great things will come but you can’t ignore the chance. If you stay here, one day Master will beat you too much, or he’ll sell you to someone worse. The prisoner – this man who wants to take you with him – he’s been good to you. He’s teaching you things you’d never learn otherwise. You stay with him as long as you can, learn as much as you can, and great things will come. You understand?’
I nod.
‘You go with him and you don’t ever come back. Yes? Remember old Elsie, think about me every day if you’d like. But don’t come back for me. Do you promise?’
I nod.
‘Good.’
Elsie hugs me one last time before sending me off down the alleyway. I look back before turning the corner. She waves. I wipe my tears and go.
*
I make my way down the Caelian Hill towards the Tiber. The streets are empty – not a single person in sight; and it’s so quiet I can hear water from the aqueduct filling each fountain as I walk past. I’ve never seen the city like this – deserted and quiet as a temple. I used to hate the noise and all the people, and I thought I would have liked being the only person in the street. But I don’t. It’s eerie, like someone is waiting for me around the next corner.
My plan is to cut between the Aventine and the Circus Maximus. But when I turn a corner – out of an alleyway to a wider road – I see a group of men blocking the way. There are twenty or thirty of them. They’re talking casually, like they’re waiting for something; but most of them are carrying swords or spears or axes. A few of them turn to look at me but, seeing as I’m just a slave boy on an errand, they turn back to whoever they were talking to.
To avoid them, I head north towards the Palatine. Maybe I can make my way between the palace and the forum. I start walking faster, almost running, because I will now have to take a longer route and I don’t want to miss Nero. I turn a corner and slam into a man and my face crunches against hard silver and I fall backwards onto the bricks.
The world buzzes and pops.
I look up at the soldier standing over me. The sun is shining at his back, so his face is all shadow. I put a hand up to block the rays.
‘And where are you off to, I wonder?’
The soldier takes a step towards me, into the shade of the building, and I finally see his face. It’s the Fox.
I flip over onto my stomach and then get onto my knees and I’m about to take off and run as fast as I can when I feel a hand grab my hair and yank me up off the ground. Then my feet are dangling and my hair feels like it’s on fire.
‘You three thought you’d outsmarted me, didn’t you?’ He’s yelling into my ear; little bits of spit are splattering all over that side of my face. ‘I’m not letting all my hard work go to waste. You hear m
e, boy? You’re going to take me to him. Understand?’
He drops me to the ground and I slam against the road. Then I feel his boot slam into my stomach and I bend at the waist like a broken twig. I start to wheeze, trying to catch my breath.
He grabs my tunic right below my chin, yanks me up again, and then he holds me against a brick wall. His little black eyes are furious. I feel something cold underneath my eye, then it burns . . .
He’s sliced my cheek with a knife.
‘Do you want to lose your eyes like he did?’
His blade reflects blinding white light.
‘Where is he, boy? Tell me.’
I can feel myself clamming up like I always do – my chest tightening, my head wet and swimming. A voice – Nero’s voice – tells me: stay alive.
‘OK,’ I say.
‘OK what?’
‘I’ll . . . I can take you to him.’
‘Where is he?’
Think, think, think.
‘I don’t know. . .’
Think!
‘. . . but they’ve left a message for me. In the forum.’
‘What kind of message?’
‘I’ll show you.’
‘If you’re lying, I’ll cut your throat.’
*
We make our way to the forum and I try to think of something – anything – to get away. But I can’t. The Fox is holding me by my tunic and he’s got his knife out in case I try anything.
We emerge from an alleyway and walk into the forum, and it’s as empty and quiet as the rest of the city except now, in the distance, people are yelling.
The Fox shakes me by the collar. ‘Where?’
‘There,’ I say, pointing up at the Temple of Jupiter up on the top of the Capitoline Hill.
I’m not sure where I get the idea of a message. I want to stay alive and the best thing to do is to keep the Fox thinking we are going to Nero. I don’t want to take him straight there because then he won’t need me anymore. I said there was a message for me here in the forum, so now I need to find a message. There’s always graffiti in Rome. Always. Everywhere. Red paint scrawled onto stone, saying whatever is on the person’s mind. Even on temples like the Temple of Jupiter. The aediles will send slaves to come clean it off, but they can never keep up, and there’s always more the next day. I figure graffiti could be the message.
We cross the forum to the Capitoline and start climbing the steep slope. The higher we go, the view of the city gets wider and wider. Somewhere over the Palatine, from behind the palace walls, there’s a big swirl of black smoke spiralling up, up, up into the blue sky.
We reach the temple and the Fox says, ‘Where is it boy? The message.’
I don’t see any graffiti. ‘Around the side.’
We walk around the side of the temple, following a stone path. We turn the corner to the far side of the building and I see red paint.
‘There,’ I say, pointing.
We walk closer. In big burgundy letters, it says:
Nero is a Cunt
The Fox spins me around and slams me against the wall.
‘Are you fucking with me, boy?’ He holds the knife underneath my chin. ‘Why shouldn’t I just cut your throat right now?’
‘It’s code,’ I say, surprising myself with the idea.
‘Code for what?’
‘Where I’m supposed to go next.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Cunt means . . . the Appian Way.’
The Fox narrows his eyes.
‘Cock means – or would’ve meant – the Flaminian Way.’
I don’t want to mention the river, how we actually plan to leave.
‘Will he be there? Will Nero be there?’
He wants to believe me.
‘I think so. Yes.’
*
We go back to the forum the way we came. We can hear angry chatter from the surrounding alleyways. Then, on the left side of the square, a group of men emerge – soldiers mainly, but also men in tunics carrying swords and spears, and six slaves carrying a litter. I recognise one of the men near the litter. Icelus. At the other end of the forum, streaming out of the alleyways, there are soldiers (more than the other group) and men who’re wearing leather breastplates and carrying wooden cudgels. There’s one man behind the crowd sitting on a horse. I know him as well. Otho.
We’re caught in the middle of the two sides. The Fox looks back and forth, from one side to the next. He doesn’t know what to do.
At one end, the slaves put down the litter and pull open the drapes. Icelus pokes his head in and then helps a man get out. He might be the oldest man I’ve ever seen. When he’s out, I can see his back is curved like a sickle, his face is grey and wrinkled, and his head is bald and covered in muddy spots.
The bigger crowd on the other side of the forum sees the old man step out of the litter and they get more excited. Some of them shout ‘Galba’ and ‘murderer’ and ‘liar’. They start banging their weapons on the ground, as they start to walk towards Icelus’s group.
The Fox sees the bigger group heading our way. He pushes me forward, away from both groups, but then a third group – more soldiers and other men carrying anything sharp, rakes and spears and axes – emerge from where we were headed.
‘Dammit,’ the Fox says. He turns to our left and we head for the smallest group, towards Icelus. As we walk, I can feel the group behind us getting closer, as the sound of their weapons – steel banging against steel – gets louder.
The old man walks towards us.
‘Insolence!’ he yells. I can barely hear his voice over the clatter and banging behind me. ‘You shall all be punished for this. Severely punished!’
The Fox keeps pushing me along. He tries to take us wide of Icelus but the freedman finally sees us. His eyes go wide.
‘You!’ Icelus says. He starts running towards us. ‘Stop.’
The crowd behind me is yelling louder now. They keep yelling ‘murderer’ or ‘usurper’ or ‘imposter’. Others are yelling, ‘Otho Caesar, Otho the Emperor’ again and again.
Icelus runs straight at us. The Fox starts to take out his dagger but he doesn’t do it before Icelus tackles him – SMASH! – and the three of us fall to the bricks. I sit up and see them fighting over the Fox’s knife, rolling around on the ground. Behind them is chaos: men and soldiers, fighting and stabbing each other, screaming and groaning loader than the clanging of swords and shields and other weapons.
The Tiber is on the other side of the crowd. So is Nero and the boat that will take me from Rome. I know what I have to do. I’m shaking and my legs feel like mush . . . but I stand up and run as fast as I can into the crowd. I get bumped almost right away when a man’s bum or hip knocks me down. On my way to the ground, I see an axe being raised. I fall to my knees and cower, waiting for my head to be smashed in . . . but the axe never comes. I open my eyes and see the flash of metal and the splattering of blood and men falling all around me.
I get up and start moving through the crowd again. People are too concerned with the fighting to care about a slave boy making his way through the battle.
In the middle of the fighting, a group of soldiers is standing in a circle with their backs to each other, facing the crowd. Behind them, a soldier is on his knees bent over something, hacking and sawing away with his sword. I keep moving. Over my shoulder, I look back and see the soldier on his knees stand up, his sword in one hand and the head of the old man in the other. The old man didn’t have any hair, so the soldier is holding the severed head by the ear. He holds it above his head and howls like a wolf. Men keep chanting ‘Otho Caesar!’
I keep my head down and push my way through the crowd. I don’t look back.
*
I find the barge as the sun’s last rays are disappearing. Nero and Doryphorus are on the ship. I run over the gangplank and then fall to the deck, exhausted.
‘Close,’ Doryphorus says. ‘Very close.’
/> ‘Marcus,’ Nero says. He bends down and reaches out with his hands, towards the sound of my heavy breathing. He kneels and puts one hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sure that wasn’t easy, getting to this boat. You can tell me all about it later. First, let’s get you some food and a spot of wine. Yes? We need you in good health. We’ve a long journey ahead.’
XIV
The Hunt Continues
A.D. 79
DOMITILLA
4 April, afternoon
The Campus Martius, Rome
The people chant his name before he enters the arena.
‘Ba-tavian! Ba-tavian! Ba-tavian!’
The wooden arena rattles and sways.
‘I do hope he doesn’t disappoint,’ Domitian says, pushing his black hair out of his eyes. He has recently returned from Campania, and hasn’t yet seen the Batavian in action.
Three lions prowl the arena floor. One raises a leg and pees. A puddle of dark, wet sand doubles, then triples in size. Their fur looks metallic under the sun’s glare.
Vespasia snorts sarcastically. ‘He can’t lose. His good luck charm is here.’ She stares at me, waiting for me to acknowledge her wit. I won’t give her the satisfaction.
Old Graecina sighs. ‘Vespasia,’ she says, ‘do not indulge the rumours, even in jest. Caesar’s family must be above reproach.’
‘She’s the one who wore green today,’ Vespasia says. ‘They’re matching.’
Gods, am I never to wear green again?
‘Why isn’t Titus here?’ Vespasia asks without taking her eyes off the arena.
‘Titus thinks he’s too good for the beast hunts,’ Domitian says. ‘He doesn’t understand the sport’s nuances.’
‘Titus is meeting Cerialis today,’ I say. ‘Welcoming a victorious general is more important than the beast hunts.’
The steady beat of drums overtakes the crowds’ chanting.
The doors at the far end of the arena open, slowly; a hush fills the stadium.
Domitian says quietly, ‘I hope he at least survives the lions. We’ve arranged some stunning beasts.’
A man walks into the stadium; tall, graceful, moving with the controlled step of a soldier. He is holding a long spear and wearing barbarian trousers, a silver cuirass . . . and a green mask, which covers the top half of his head.
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