The crowd is silent.
He raises his spear above his head and the crowd erupts.
*
It has been three months since the Batavian saved my life. In the days that followed, Father sent Nerva a golden chest studded with emeralds to thank him. To the Batavian, he sent an Egyptian courtesan and a boy, gelded and drowning in perfume – Father is always one for contingencies. The Batavian was told he could have one, or both, and that Caesar thanked him for his bravery. The Batavian, however, refused both the courtesan and the boy. I was with Father when he heard. ‘Should I have sent a sheep as well? I’ll not spend more time learning what makes a slave’s prick hard. Let him be content with the deed itself.’
Nerva entered the Batavian into the hunts the next month. I’d heard he did well his first two matches, and the crowd was beginning to grow fond of him. It wasn’t until his third match, at the Quinquatria, when I saw him again. The hunt was held in the circus, on the third day of the festival. The Batavian came into the stadium and I gasped. He was wearing a silk mask – a particular shade of green I recognised: my shawl, part of it at least, the one that was torn the night he saved my life.
The Batavian made his name that day. There were half a dozen men fighting at once. After they had killed smaller game, into the arena trotted a rhinoceros. The beast ran into a group of hunters, flicking its horn, sending hunters into the air or trampling them under its massive hooves. Arrows and spears bounced off its hide. At the time, it looked as though every man in the arena would die. Then the Batavian threw his spear. The rhinoceros was standing still after a charge and the Batavian stood forty yards away. I am not one for violence or the hunts. But no one can deny the throw was magnificent. It hit the rhino directly in the eye. The remaining men, realising this was their only chance, rushed at the beast, hacking at it with their swords. The Batavian ran into the mêlée and grabbed the shaft of his spear. I closed my eyes . . .
When it was all over, the hunters – those still able to stand – came and bowed to the Emperor’s box. Vespasia (who had finally returned from Capri) was with me, but she was off in the back rolling dice and laughing with some of our guests. So, to the crowd, it looked as though the hunters bowed only to me. I stood up and leaned over the railing. It was then that the Batavian took off his mask, kissed it and held it up, for me to see. The crowd understood: what else could it mean? He wore silk I had given him; I had given him my favour. Rumours spread. At first, it was merely said that we were lovers, that I visited him in his cell every night. Now the city claims we are in love, and married secretly, in a barbaric ritual overseen by a goat dressed as a druid priest. The patricians find the story distasteful. But the plebs adore us – the idea of us, at least. We are their favourite couple, despite the fact that we don’t speak the same language and, only once, have I been within a hundred yards of him. The only benefit of the Batavian carrying on in this way is that it has halted the engagement to Marcellus – or at least, put it on hold. Marcellus told Titus he didn’t want a wife of his ‘cavorting’ with a slave in public. Titus says Father will approach Marcellus again in the summer.
*
When the hunt is over, the scene is gruesome: the bodies of tigers, lions and one giraffe lie bleeding in the sand. Domitian’s surprise – the giraffe – lacked the excitement he was hoping for. It was exotic, but felled easily.
The Batavian walks to the Emperor’s box. He bows; his eyes are squarely on me. I squirm awkwardly in my chair.
‘Should we leave you two alone,’ Vespasia whispers.
Graecina says something about not encouraging him.
The Batavian removes his mask and kisses it.
The crowd erupts.
CALENUS
4 April, afternoon
The baths of Nero, Rome
A man’s bear paw slaps me on the back. I look up and, through the foggy mist of the baths, I see Fabius. I haven’t seen him since we shared a cup a few months back and he begged me to join up with Montanus. He is naked and smiling, the twists of his beard weighed down with sweat.
‘Calenus, you dog,’ he says, taking a seat beside me, his bulk slapping against the stone.
Pipes spew hot air; the building gasps.
‘Fabius,’ I say. ‘Where’s your stick?’
He snorts. ‘I don’t need it for the likes of you.’ He runs his hands over his head, slicking his long hair to his skull. ‘You’re not at the hunt?’
‘I prefer the baths like this,’ I say. ‘Quiet.’
Usually, at this hour, the room would be full. Today, however, because of the hunt, there couldn’t be more than a dozen people.
He says, ‘You’re missing your patron’s new boy.’
I shrug. ‘Watch a man kill a lion once, you don’t need to see it again.’
‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘But were you there for the rhino? I’d have paid to see that.’
‘I was there. It was a fine throw.’
‘The boy I hire talks about him incessantly,’ Fabius says. ‘He thinks the man is Achilles’s ghost, back from the dead. He says that’s why Caesar’s daughter offers herself up to him every night. You can’t say no to a demigod.’
‘If my mother was a god,’ I say, ‘I’d not spend a single night in chains.’
Fabius laughs. ‘Nor I, nor I.’ He turns to look at me. His voice is suddenly grave. ‘Must be hard, being the favourite of a man like Nerva. Then he drops you after he finds a prize like that.’
‘Not my concern,’ I say. ‘I’m doing fine.’
‘Well, if you need more coin, there’s always more work.’
Fabius leans back, relaxing against the stone. He closes his eyes.
Something irritates, like a fly walking across the back of my neck.
‘Why aren’t you at the hunt, Fabius?’
‘Oh, I prefer the bath’s quiet as well.’
‘You’re false there, friend. The less swinging cock, the less reason for you to come.’
He opens one eye and aims it at me. He sighs, closes his eye again, and relaxes against the stone. He’s reached a decision.
‘You see,’ he says. ‘This is what I told Montanus: if you need more men, let me get Calenus. He’s as quick with his wits as he is with a sword.’
‘And what does Montanus need?’ I ask. ‘Wits or a sword?’
‘There’s some heavy work coming, Calenus. Work you and I are trained for.’
‘What happened to your stick?’
‘I’ll need to sharpen it, I suppose.’ Fabius sits up and once again runs his hands over his head, slicking his hair against his head. ‘Let’s be honest, shall we? You and I could make a wage as labourers, at the docks or in a warehouse. But we’re veterans. We don’t have it in us to lift and drag and pull after all those years working for the Empire. We’ve too much pride. It’s not our fault we were on the losing side of a civil war. Is it? So we make a living other ways.’
‘What’s happening?’ I ask.
‘Do you think I know anything? This is the teat, though. Something is always festering, like a sore. And when it bursts, men like you and I go to work.’
A few months back – after Titus killed those boys in Baiae and all that business of the wolf in the forum, and then the body by the Tiber, mutilated by some strange cult – the city felt like it was going to boil over. But it’s been quiet these last few weeks. I tell Fabius as much.
He puts his hands up to show his innocence. ‘All I know is Montanus says we need a man who can use a blade if the need should arise. Shit, Calenus! You think I want to know more than that? It doesn’t matter, anyway. This is Rome: it’s all extremes, good and bad. We get fresh water every day, surroundings like this –’ he holds his arms up, capturing the enormity of the room ‘– but there’s always brutality around the corner. What’d our old captain call it? “The machinery of Empire’’. The fuck if I can explain it.’ He stands up. ‘Men like you and me, all we can do is take the coin we’re offered and hope we’re on th
e right side when it’s all said and done. If you want the work, you know where to find us.’
Fabius disappears into the steam, his sweaty feet slapping on the stone with each step.
*
Outside, after the dark of the baths, the sunlight is blinding. I shut my eyes and wait a moment. Then, as I’m walking down the steps, I see a litter in the street, with white silk swaying in the breeze. Four soldiers surround it. A redheaded girl, more freckles than not, walks toward me. Her face looks familiar, but I can’t place it. It’s not until she says her mistress would like a word and then points at the litter that I realise she’s the Empress’s girl.
I walk to the litter on watery legs. I feel as though a million eyes are on me, though no one is paying me a second glance.
The girl pulls back the curtain. I don’t see Caesar’s daughter because I’m already kneeling, with my head bent. I see only fat black stones.
‘Do you know me, citizen?’ she asks.
‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘We met once. Do you remember?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘You seemed a loyal subject of Caesar’s then. And are you still?’
‘I am.’
I keep staring at the road.
‘What is your name?’
‘Calenus. Julius Calenus.’
‘Calenus. A good name . . .’
Caesar’s daughter said my name.
‘Please stop looking at the road, Calenus. I’d like to see your face as we talk.’ I look up at Caesar’s daughter. She’s lying on her side, propped up on an elbow. Her green shawl is draped over her head like a hood. Underneath: waves of almond hair, matching eyes, and white marble skin. Glinting gold hangs around her neck like a fancy noose. ‘You are a veteran?’ she asks.
‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘I thought so. You have the air about you. How is it that you work for Nerva?’
She means, Why are you poor? Where’s your plot of land every soldier works for? What do I tell her? There was a civil war. I fought against your father. I am a deserter and a coward. Now here I am.
‘Fortune abandoned me, Mistress.’
Caesar’s daughter stares at me a moment. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘let us hope she returns to you one day.’
I bow my head in thanks.
She says, ‘I need you to deliver a message for me.’
‘To Nerva? I might not be the right man. I’ve fallen out of favour as of late.’
‘No, to the Batavian.’
‘What would you have me say, Mistress?’
‘Ask him to stop wearing his green mask, and to stop acknowledging me at the hunt.’
‘He’s a brute, Mistress. He doesn’t speak my tongue and . . .’
‘I only ask you to do your best, Calenus. Which I know you will.’ She hands me a silver coin. ‘Can I rely on you to keep this discreet?’
‘Yes, of course, Mistress. I won’t tell a soul.’
She gives me one last smile, then waves to the girl.
‘Find me when it’s done.’
She draws the silk curtain closed and a half a dozen slaves surround the litter and heave it up onto their shoulders. I watch the litter float across the forum and disappear around the corner.
I’m not sure what to make of this. Running errands for the Augusta. It could be a change in fortune, something I desperately need after Nerva dropped me. Then again, maybe it won’t change anything. Time will tell, I suppose.
I make my way east, toward the Circus. By now the hunt will be over, and I should have time to visit the Batavian in his cell and deliver the Augusta’s message before Nerva’s men fetch him for the evening. It would be good to finish the job today, if I can.
I’m heading down a nameless street in the Subura, narrow and jammed with people, pushing my way through a crowd, when my shoulder collides with a woman. I’m twice as heavy as her, so the force sends her back a foot or two while I stay put. Then we stand there, staring at each other. Her hair is dark; half of it’s braided and tied up in a twirl on the top of her head, like a sleeping cobra; while the other half is hanging around her shoulders, with a slight crinkle to each strand – planned the way women will plan that kind of thing. She’s not young – she’s seen four decades if she’s seen one. But there’s something about her. A confidence. An assuredness. It might be the way she stands, the way she pushes her chin up and away from her shoulders. She stands like a queen. I know her somehow, but I can’t quite place it. I can tell she’s thinking the same about me, so neither of us talks. And then suddenly it dawns on me: we met on the road to Ostia, when a legionary had her tied to the back of a horse.
She smiles knowingly. She remembers me as well. Hard to forget a man who’s saved your life.
I hold up a coin, the last to my name. ‘Buy you a drink?’
She looks me over, from toe to head.
‘I cost more than a drink, soldier.’ She smiles. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Calenus,’ I say. ‘Yours?’
‘You can call me Red.’
TITUS
4 April, afternoon
Three miles north of Rome
The camp is in an open valley two miles north of the city. The sun above is naked and bright in April’s cloudless blue sky. Hooves whip and stab tall grass as we approach at a trot.
Soldiers hammering stakes into the ground drop their work and stand at attention as we draw near. The officer says, ‘General,’ as we slow to a stop. Virgilius and the rest of my escort wait with their comrades, while the officer takes me to Cerialis.
As we make our way through a maze of tents, I soak up the familiar sounds of camp: steel hammering steel, rock sharpening blades, anticipatory quiet followed by a flood of laughter. There is a weightlessness to it, with their latest battle behind them, and their next – at the very least – months away.
Beyond the flap of the general’s tent, Cerialis is at his desk. He resembles the generals of old: square jaw, steady gaze, and manicured quaff. His patch of white hair – near his left temple, which he’s had since birth – is his sole distinguishing feature, the one which sets him apart from the marble busts lining the palace niches.
He looks up from his rolls. ‘Ah, Titus.’ He stands and walks around his desk. He holds me by the shoulders. ‘It’s good to see you. It’s been too long.’ He points at a chair. ‘Please. Sit.’ Then, to unseen ears: ‘Wine! Seawater!’
‘You look much older than I remember,’ I say.
He smiles. ‘Well, I take heart in having my hair, a diminishing asset of yours, I see.’
Willpower stops me from reaching for my retreating hairline. I can’t help but laugh. I have missed Cerialis.
We sit and receive our sour wine.
‘Tell me everything,’ I say. ‘From the beginning.’
‘Rome bores you,’ he says. ‘You miss the field. Don’t shake your head. I know it’s true. You’re hoping to live vicariously through me. Well, I’m sorry to say, you will be disappointed. The story is not inspiring.’
‘No?’
‘No . . . Rome’s glory was not advanced in our sack of Maronea and the capture of a few rebels.’
‘Don’t let the people hear you say that. Father has ordered an ovation. The games have already begun.’
‘Has he? I was told it was something . . . less.’
‘It will meet the definition of ovation, but it will be more . . . mild than most.’
In Rome, everything has its place, even parades, and there can be no stepping above one’s station. Cerialis is not offended. He knows how this works.
‘I don’t dispute the decision,’ he says. ‘I will be mildly embarrassed given the circumstances.’ He shrugs and sips his wine. He says, ‘When did your father return to Rome?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘It was a fine decision to send him away.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘It was,’ he says. ‘With Caesar on the move, any attempt on his life would
prove far more difficult than in Rome. And it gave the city a chance to breathe.’
‘Yes, that’s true. There cannot be plots against Caesar if there is no Caesar.’
‘And there has been nothing since?’ Cerialis asks. ‘No murders? No plots discovered?’
I shake my head. ‘No. Epaphroditus, the exchequer, went missing for a time, a month or so, after a dinner party held by a new senator named Ulpius. The exchequer returned with a ruined right arm and some story of long, drunken nights in the south.’
Cerialis frowns. He, like the rest of us, doesn’t know what to make of the story.
‘And Plautius remains missing?’
I nod. ‘I sent Virgilius to the Bay but nothing came of it.’
‘And what of the body by the Tiber?’
‘We established a reward for anyone who could identify it. We said there was a birthmark, but not where or in what shape. Hundreds of people came to say it was their brother, or sister, or a colleague who owed them fifty sesterces. But no one could describe the birthmark with enough specificity.’
‘What do you make of it?’ Cerialis asks.
‘Well, there was another murder, one only Father and a few others know of. The eunuch, Halotus.’
Cerialis raises an eyebrow. He takes a moment to consider this. If he’s shocked at the murder of a procurator, he hides it well. ‘Nero’s former favourite?’ he asks.
I explain to Cerialis the manner in which Halotus died, the scroll that he was carrying, and what Secundus translated from it. How these murders, or at the very least the one by the Tiber, was likely for some German god.
Cerialis is unperturbed. He was never much perturbed by anything. It’s what makes him a good general.
‘Come,’ I say. ‘I’ve answered your questions. Now answer mine. How did you take the False Nero?’
‘There is not much to tell,’ Cerialis says. ‘I was in Illyricum with a legion, bringing to heel the hill tribes, when word came of the False Nero in Thrace. The reports weren’t detailed, but men were flocking to him, that was obvious. I thought about writing to you to see whether I should move or not. But I decided I should move quickly rather than wait for instructions.’
David Page 22
