David

by Barbaree Deposed

  ‘My home is Hispalis. It’s a fine city, the finest in Spain; brick the colour of sand spread out beside a river of blue. It may not have the grandeur of Rome, or the clean lines of Alexandria. It doesn’t have their history or their marble. But in Hispalis –’ he sucks air into his nose, filling up his chest and then lets it out ‘– one can breathe.’

  ‘My father made olive oil. He had three boys. I was the second eldest. He put my older brother and me to work in the family business, and sent the youngest off to serve in the army. My father was fine in business, good but not exceptional. He turned a reasonable profit and our family was comfortable. But when my brother and I took over, we expanded the enterprise. We bought more land and made more oil. Within two years we had tripled our annual earnings. So we bought more land and then tripled our earnings again. We began to travel across the Middle Sea, selling our product, securing more partners. For ten years we travelled across the Empire without incident, from Spain to Syria and back again. Then, three years ago, when crossing the Adriatic . . .’

  He lets out a heavy sigh; he twirls his long dirty beard with a finger.

  ‘. . . pirates. We saw them bearing down on us from the north. Four ships: smaller and faster than our lumbering merchant variety. My brother was the elder, so I differed to him in all things, including a crisis. When he saw the pirates, he screamed at our oarsmen, ordering them to row harder, demanding they save all our lives. For a time we stayed ahead of our pursuers. But our ship was too fat, too laden with the spoils of commerce. The ship’s captain begged us to throw our amphorae overboard, to lighten the ship and ease its burden. My brother eventually agreed – but by then it was too late. The pirates overtook us. After grappling hooks dug into our gunwales, they shimmied up their ropes and stormed the ship. The fighting was swift and one-sided. Our oarsmen – slaves mainly – had little experience in combat. The pirates were professionals.

  ‘We were chained and thrown in the hold of a ship. My brother and I – rich knights and citizens of Rome – found ourselves side-by-side with our own slaves. Their lot in life hadn’t changed: they were slaves before and would remain so. Some, I am convinced, were hopeful, believing their lives might improve when they were sold again. (Rowing a merchant vessel is a hard life.) But for me the change in fortune was terrible; and for my brother, it was calamitous.

  ‘He had a small nick on his thigh from the fighting, nothing more than a scratch, but we spent weeks below the deck and all I could do was watch as it festered. It stank of death long before the end. It was another three days until his body was removed from the hold and thrown into the sea. After I heard the splash from the hold, I whispered his dirge and wished him well on his journey.

  ‘The pirates kept me below deck for months. Once a day, one of them would pour a few drops of water into my open mouth and press some bread or raw fish into my hand. The other captives were sold off, one by one, until I was the only man left. One day a fat oaf of a man walked in to the hold. His grizzled beard was so long, I didn’t know where it ended and his vest of hide began. He crouched beside me and asked my name. I answered that question and each that followed with the truth. Applying my wits was beyond me. One of my captors said I’d fetch a fine ransom. The man in fur said that I’d been gone too long; my relations wouldn’t believe I was still alive. Haggling followed, no different than any other sale, except they were haggling over a man’s life, not a vat of oil. Back and forth they went, until I was eventually sold for ten denarii, the price of a decent ox.

  ‘I was dragged to the deck at twilight. Yet for me the light was blinding. The dark blue sea and the red sky were the most beautiful I had ever seen. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I was put into a rowboat with more men in fur and jettisoned to shore. They had to carry me through the forest because my legs were weak from lack of use. I have lived here, in this cage of twigs, ever since, waiting in vain for my ransom to be paid. But with one brother dead and the other at war, the gods know when I will finally be set free. Yet I make due. If I’d gone from my former life to this jail, it would have been intolerable. But compared to the hold of a ship, this has been a paradise. The men bring me out at least once a day, sometimes for several hours. They even let me walk about the camp, because there is nowhere to escape to. You will not enjoy your time here. But you can endure it.’

  *

  Evening. Moonlight peeks between the cracks of the hut’s branches; the room is silver, like a coin. We can hear the bandits laughing and singing. Their voices get louder. A fight breaks out, but then there is laughter again.

  The door swings open and two of the bandits stumble in.

  One of them says, ‘What do you think the boy goes for?’

  The other says, ‘Hard to say, hard to say. Fair bit more than the cripple, I’d wager.’

  They bind our wrists and drag us outside. There is a stage set up beside a massive fire. On it, one man is relaxing in a chair. His skin is the colour of wet sand and he’s thick, especially at the neck, bald, and his left eye has a patch over it. He looks bored. Another bandit is standing behind him, whispering in his ear. He looks tiny compared to the one sitting. He’s holding a wax tablet and a stylus. Dozens of bandits sit facing the stage. They’re sitting on overturned logs or lying in the dirt, passing around skins of wine. Some are laughing; others are hollering at us. An apple core hits Doryphorus in the shoulder and bursts into tiny pieces. One bandit yells, ‘Dead centre’ and the rest explode with laughter.

  We’re dragged to a spot beside the fire.

  Nero whispers, ‘Is it him?’

  Doryphorus looks at the stage. ‘Yes, it’s him.’

  The little man with the wax tablet steps forward. He says, ‘Senators! Senators! Order please. Order!’

  The bandits hoot and howl; one of them hisses.

  The little man yells, ‘We are about to begin this evening’s auction and we require order.’

  The man with the eye patch lifts his hand and the crowd hushes.

  It’s so quiet I can hear a buzzing fly land on my shoulder.

  ‘Spiculus!’

  I look beside me. The voice is Nero’s. He sounds brave, like Master lecturing a slave.

  ‘Untie me at once.’

  The man with the eye patch slides out to the edge of his chair. He stares at Nero, squinting his good eye. Then he stands up and walks to the edge of the stage.

  The crowd stays quiet; I can hear the breeze tickling the branches overhead.

  ‘And fetch me a cup of wine,’ Nero bellows. ‘I’m dreadfully thirsty.’

  The one-eyed man hops off the stage and walks toward us. When he reaches Nero, he puts two fingers under Nero’s chin, slowly forcing it up, and inspects Nero’s face.

  ‘Kill him!’ a man in the crowd yells.

  ‘Cut his throat,’ yells another.

  Doryphorus is shaking; so am I.

  Nero whispers to the one-eyed man. ‘Come now, Spiculus. Give your old Emperor a cup of wine. He’s had a long journey to get here.’

  And then the one-eyed man wraps his arms around Nero and I know this is it. Nero will be crushed to death and then they’ll do the same to me. But then the one-eyed man laughs. He picks Nero up into the air and spins. I realize he’s not crushing Nero; he’s hugging him.

  XVI

  An Ovation

  A.D. 79

  DOMITILLA

  5 April, morning

  The cattle market, Rome

  The freedman waves his hand at the statue of Hercules behind him.

  ‘You can see the problem, Augusta?’

  Two slaves are on the podium, flanking the statute; neither stands taller than the demigod’s stone nipples. They’re holding up a purple toga, which would wrap three times around any man, but doesn’t quite fit the statue.

  ‘It doesn’t fit?’

  Pigs penned nearby squeal bloody murder; a cow, led by a boy, saunters past.

  The freedman smiles and violently nods his head. ‘Yes, exactly, August
a.’

  I catch Vespasia’s smile out of the corner of my eye.

  ‘Please do not call me Augusta.’

  Vespasia whispers in my ear, ‘Don’t discourage him, sister. He thinks you’re a goddess.’

  I say, ‘And why did you require my assistance?’

  The freedman’s smile evaporates; his bottom lip protrudes like a fresh wound. He says, ‘You helped organise the triumph of Caesar and general Titus . . . I mean prefect Titus. It was an excellent occasion, I recall. Very well received.’ The freedman sees my impatience and hurries up. ‘And – and – and a new toga will need to be sewn for Hercules. I thought you could employ the same dressmakers who made the one used before.’

  At Father’s request, Vespasia and I, along with several other wives of notable senators, are inspecting tomorrow’s parade route. Red strips of wool tied every fifty yards or so – to statues, fountains, shop stalls – mark the path. We’ve followed the route from the Campus Martius, through the city walls and into the cattle market. It will swoop down from here into the forum and the circus, before twisting back up to the Capitoline. Tonight, as the sun sets, hundreds of slaves will sweep the path clean. Today, our main task is to check the decorations and remove any eye sores. This freedman’s request, however, is too specific. Many of the important statues on the parade route, like Hercules, will be adorned in robes, bringing to life the gods; but the specifics are not my concern. I wonder if this freedman hasn’t been too forward. Has the Batavian’s bravado given the lower classes the wrong impression of me?

  Thankfully, before I can answer, Jacasta steps between the freedman and me. She says, ‘Mistress, I will find a solution. Please continue on.’

  Vespasia takes me by the arm. ‘Come, sister. Everyone is waiting for us.’

  She spins me towards the group of women and Imperial secretaries waiting patiently.

  Eight years ago, after Jerusalem finally fell, Father awarded a triumph to Titus and himself. With mother gone, and with Father and Titus preoccupied with matters of state, it fell to me to ensure the day was a success. The last triumph had been held nearly thirty years before, under Claudius, after his invasion of Britain. Given the lapse of time, we had some difficulty finding anyone who had been involved. Eventually we found a palace eunuch by the name of Posides. He was quite old, nearly deaf, and – for reasons I never learned – called me King Juba. But he knew the details of the procession, down to the last.

  That day, as tomorrow will, the parade began in the Campus Martius. In the morning, before the sun rose, the troops lined up according to rank. Father and Titus, wearing garlands of laurel and purple robes with golden stars, emerged from the Temple of Isis where they had slept that night. After mounting a chariot, they led the troops through Rome to the Temple of Jupiter at the top of the Capitoline. Ahead of them were carts filled with the spoils of Judea: chests of gold, silver plates, jewels, men, women and children. At the head of the procession, there was a massive golden menorah taken from their great temple; its seven arms caught the sunlight and there was a gleam that rotated, back and forth like a twinkling star, as the cart carrying it bumped its way along the black brick road. Flower petals – pink and red and white – floated in the air. (It looked beautiful, but the magic was lost on me. I knew how much effort and Father’s coin went into sourcing and distributing those petals. It would have been easier to simply throw coin.) Soldiers marched behind Titus and Father’s chariot, thousands of them, laughing and answering calls from the crowd. Vespasia and I waited at the foot of the Temple of Jupiter. Father and Titus ascended the temple’s steps, turned to the crowd and cries washed over them. It was the first time the city felt settled after the civil wars, the first time Father felt like Caesar. It was a good day.

  On this occasion, however, Father has refused to grant Cerialis a triumph. ‘It wouldn’t be appropriate,’ he said. ‘The victory was against a band of criminals, not an army.’ So rather than a triumph, Cerialis is to receive an ovation. The differences are few but significant. Cerialis will travel by foot, not chariot; he will wear myrtle, not laurels; his officers will follow him, while the rank and file will remain in camp; and Father has shortened the route considerably. He said, ‘Let’s not spend all day celebrating some other man’s son.’

  All of it I find amusing and slightly pathetic. Father and Titus often confuse politics with pride. They say, ‘One cannot overstep their place,’ as though the heavens would rain down on the capital if Cerialis went by chariot tomorrow rather than by foot. In truth, they see a hierarchy, with themselves at the top, and the world must make do with the space below. That’s not politics. It’s no different than a dog growling over its dinner.

  *

  We enter the forum in the afternoon. At the foot of the Capitoline Hill there is an unfinished stage. Saws work furiously; the sound resonates across the square, as though giants are snoring inside the surrounding temples.

  Julia points at the pair of ivory thrones, which sit in the centre of the stage. ‘Who will sit there? General Cerialis?’

  Vespasia answers, ‘Would your father allow another to take precedence? Never. Not in a hundred years.’

  Julia and young Vip, cousin Sabinus’s daughter, look at Vespasia for a moment before turning their attention back to the stage. I catch Vespasia’s eye. They’re young. Don’t poison their minds.

  I recognise contrition in Vespasia’s face before she says, ‘Those seats are for the Emperor and Titus. As the heads of state it is their responsibility to oversee the ovation.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Vip says, happy to contribute, whether she understands or not.

  ‘Mistress,’ Jacasta is behind me, whispering in my ear. ‘Julius Calenus would like a word.’

  ‘He’s here? Where?’

  Jacasta points in the direction of courthouse steps, on the other side of the square, where the grizzled ex-soldier is standing patiently.

  ‘Another admirer?’ Vespasia asks, smiling. This is a Batavian joke. She would have had a more biting comment, I think, if I hadn’t chastised her moments before.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say.

  I cross the forum. Calenus starts to kneel as I draw close.

  ‘We don’t have to go through this again, Calenus? Do we?’

  Calenus straightens up. ‘Good afternoon, Mistress. Yes, sorry, Mistress.’ He’s an interesting character this one. An ex-soldier, living on Nerva’s handouts. He must be disgraced in some way, having to earn a living like this. Or maybe he was just on the wrong side of the civil war. But there’s something in those dark eyes of his, even with that grotesque scar running down his face . . . I trust him.

  ‘How did you find me here?’ I ask.

  ‘By chance, Mistress. I recognised your girl.’ He nods his head at Jacasta. ‘I knew she wouldn’t be too far from you. I thought I could speak to you away from the palace.’

  ‘It makes you nervous, does it? The palace.’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice is sincere.

  ‘And why is that? You’ve seen many battles in your day.’

  He squints, considering the question. ‘In battle you know who’s with you and who’s against you.’

  ‘An astute observation. I assure you, Calenus, maintain your loyalty to me, and I guarantee you will have at least one friend in the palace.’

  He nods. ‘Yes, Mistress.’

  ‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense. You’ve sought me out. I take it you’ve spoken with –’ I lower my voice ‘– him.’

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I did as you’d asked. I told him that he was embarrassing you, and that you wanted him to stop.’

  ‘Did he understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There has never been a man of so few words. Stories come out one sentence at a time. ‘Well?’

  ‘He will stop.’

  That should be enough to satisfy me, but I find myself wanting to know more. ‘Did he say anything else?’

 
; Calenus hesitates. He doesn’t want to overstep his place.

  ‘Speak freely, Calenus. Please. I will not be angry with what you tell me.’

  Calenus clears his throat. ‘He said he is sorry. He . . . he begs your forgiveness. He says . . . he says he loves you.’

  My cheeks instantly smoulder with embarrassment. Behind me, Jacasta gasps with shock, as she should.

  ‘Thank you, Calenus. I appreciate your diligence and . . . tact.’ I wave my hand at Jacasta. She steps forward with a purse of coin. She presses three coins into Calenus’s hands. How many draughts of wine will that buy him, I wonder?

  I say, ‘You are a good man, Calenus. I may come to call on you again, should the need arise.’

  Calenus stutters his thanks before walking away, with his head down admiring the coins.

  Jacasta and I watch him go. She says, ‘You’ve made a friend for life, Mistress.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think so.’

  TITUS

  5 April, first torch

  The Imperial palace, Rome

  I find Father in his office, draped in a purple robe, sitting, with his feet propped up on a stool. A slave is on her knees, massaging his swollen, gout-ridden feet.

  ‘How was your journey?’

  ‘Bumpy,’ he says, grimacing. ‘It has left me tender.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  I sit beside Caesar.

  He says, ‘I see they’re no further along with the amphitheatre since I left.’

  Gone ten weeks and his first words to me are a complaint.

  ‘They are further along. Much further.’

  The slave on her knees looks up and smiles. She’s pretty, save for her one thick eyebrow, rather than two. She seems familiar, but I cannot quite place where I’ve seen her before.

  ‘How goes the preparation?’ he asks.

  ‘The ovation? Domitilla is handling it.’

  ‘Good, good,’ he says absently. ‘And you met with Cerialis? What new information did he have to offer?’