I tell Father the story of the battle near Maronea, as Cerialis told it to me.
‘An ovation for that?’ Caesar shakes his head.
‘The people won’t care. Their only concern is the games.’
‘I suppose,’ Father says before changing the subject. ‘I’ve allowed Ulpius to join the College of Augers.’
‘That’s ridiculous. How can he read the entrails of an animal? He’s blind.’
‘He paid me. That’s how . . . Careful!’ Father yells at the girl, wincing. ‘It’s gout, not dough for tomorrow’s bread. Where’s the girl who normally does this? Where’s Lesbia?’
The slave diverts her gaze. ‘She’s taken ill, master.’
Father sighs and shakes his head. ‘Fine, fine. But be careful.’ He wiggles in his chair, adjusting his robe.
The girl starts again and Father winces.
‘Ulpius has also inquired about the consulships,’ he continues. ‘And to think, you said I put the price too high.’
Father recently had the idea to sell suffect consulships for past years, to raise money. He thought up and coming families would be interested in adding prestige to their lineage.
‘If he’ll pay that price,’ I say, ‘he’s richer than I thought.’
‘Don’t be too hard on this man Ulpius. You don’t understand the provincial’s plight. It costs money, building a family’s lineage, retrospectively.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘You talk as though you speak from experience.’
‘You’ve had a much easier climb than I had. A provincial in Rome . . . it’s not easy.’
‘You forget,’ I say, ‘the old families of Rome consider me a provincial as well. My path has been easier than yours, I don’t deny it; but it’s been harder than you credit.’
‘You had the finest tutors, any appointment you desired, unlimited coffers – your father is Emperor, for the love of Jove.’
‘I said I don’t deny my advantages were –’
‘Yes, but you look down on Ulpius for buying titles and appointments. Careful you don’t become the patrician snob you once despised. When your family is from a backwater like Spain, there are only two ways to change your place in the world: money and time. This man Ulpius is not content to wait, and I can’t say I blame him.’
I put my hands up, showing defeat. ‘Yes, Caesar, I will be more empathetic.’
Father’s squint is sardonic. ‘I didn’t say that. Prefect of the Praetorians should not be empathic. I’m merely saying you shouldn’t act the snob.’
Father suddenly grimaces, sucking in short, little breaths. To the slave with the one eyebrow, he barks, ‘You are hopeless. Go find Lesbia. Don’t come back.’
The slave with one eyebrow gives an embarrassed bow before shuffling out of the room.
Father turns his attention back to me. ‘And what of Epaphroditus? Your letters explaining his disappearance were less than satisfactory.’
‘I merely repeated what he told me,’ I say.
‘How long was he missing for?’
‘Nearly a month,’ I say. ‘He attended Ulpius’ dinner in January. Half a dozen guests watched him and his retinue leave at the end of the evening, but he never made it to the palace. His slaves went missing as well, so it was assumed they’d been behind it. And then one day Epaphroditus simply appeared, claiming he’d merely been drinking in the south. He’d needed a break, he said. But he was pale as moonlight, a cut and bruised cheek still healing, and his right arm hung lifeless in a sling. He looked as though he’d been to Hades and back, not enjoying the sun in the south. Ever since his return he has acted – I’m not sure of the right word – jittery, perhaps. His eyes dart around as though danger lurks in every shadow. There is more there than he has said, I’m sure of it.’
‘Of course there is,’ Caesar says. ‘There is always more than what a man says. But does it matter? The hand in the forum happened months ago. Halotus is dead and Plautius remains missing, but – let us be honest – neither is a great loss for the Empire.’
‘And what of the ambitious men you were concerned about? The men you said were salivating for your throne?’
Father shrugs. ‘The danger will never pass, but clearly it’s lessened. Unlike you, I was never much bothered by the body by the Tiber. This city has seen countless cults come and go. There’s no evidence their machinations were aimed at me. The hand and Halotus’s death were a concern, but it has been months now with no sign of sedition.’
My temper almost gets the better of me. He acts the benevolent prince now, but once there is any hint of sedition, he would say, ‘Titus, you have failed me. Titus, find out who is responsible. Titus, cut their throats.’
Through clenched teeth, I say, ‘If that is all?’
‘For today, I suppose. I will see you tomorrow, at the ovation. Do your best to ensure there are no surprises, will you? I’ve had my fill for the year.’
DOMITILLA
6 April, morning
The forum, Rome
The ovation starts in the third hour. We wait patiently at the end of it, on the stage at the foot of the Capitoline Hill. The road of black brick is empty; the city’s populace, dressed in their best and brightest colours, cram either side. From our vantage, it looks as though a black snake is winding its way through a puddle of spilt paint, green and red and blue. The crowd roars in the distance. An impatient young girl at the edge of the road throws her petals into the air, and a handful of pink and white flecks float down to the bricks.
Vespasia and Julia are seated to my left; Father and Titus to my right. Julia starts to ask a question, but Vespasia shushes her. Beside the stage, there is a grandstand for respected senators and their wives.
The roar of the crowd grows louder. Excitement travels by proximity, from one person to the next. Collectively, we sense the parade approaching.
And then there is movement on the road; the crowd erupts; flower petals rain down.
Five mule-led wagons lead the procession. The first two carts carry the False Nero’s officers, manacled and seated, with beards and menacing tattoos that stand in contrast to their forlorn expressions. The next two carry modest wooden chests and rusted arms – swords, spears and shields. Behind the wagons, by a distance of thirty paces or so, Cerialis is walking, waving to the crowd. His officers keep pace behind him.
After the four carts come to a stop in front of the stage, Cerialis walks to a spot directly in front of Father and kneels. Two Imperial freedman – one I don’t recognise and Phoebus, the one Titus cannot stand – scamper to either side of Father’s throne. Each takes an arm and help Caesar stand. Father pushes them away, flapping his arms like a gull, before gingerly making his way down the steps to Cerialis. Phoebus trails behind carrying a pillow and, on top, a crown of myrtle. Cerialis – still on his knees – bows his head. Father takes the crown of shrubs off the pillow and places it on Cerialis’s head.
Cerialis stands, turns to the crowd, and raises one arm above his head. The cheers from the crowd reach a crescendo and then Father and Cerialis walk back to the stage. Father takes his throne and Cerialis takes the open (more modest looking) seat beside Titus.
Two of Felix’s officers jump into the back of the carts carrying the wooden chests and rusted arms. They look young, brimming with ego from the attention. I can see it in their wide grins and glowing eyes. One of them takes an old rusted axe and holds it above his head. The crowd cheers. Enthused, the soldier hacks at a chest’s lock until it cracks open. Then he and his colleague swing open the top and begin throwing the coin held inside to the crowd. Next they turn to the neighbouring chest. Again, one of them uses the axe to crack open the lock. The lid swings open . . .
And out pops a man, stark naked, bearded, dishevelled, covered in mud and slime and the gods know what else.
Half the crowd immediately goes silent; while the other half – too far away to see what’s happened, oblivious that a naked man just popped out of a crate – keeps cheering.
‘By Hercules!’ Father exclaims.
Vespasia chortles.
Julia use a curse word I didn’t think she knew.
The two soldiers on the cart are stunned; they don’t move an inch. The naked man steps – then falls – out of the crate and into the cart. He stands with wobbly legs and hops off the cart onto the road.
In the grandstand of patricians, a woman stands up. Antonia. Her face is ashen.
Titus is standing on the edge of the stage. His head swivels from Antonia to the man.
The naked man starts to run but trips on the bricks; he moves like a toddler, unused to his legs.
Jacasta is at my side. She leans in and whispers. ‘Mistress, that’s him. That’s Lucius Plautius.’
TITUS
6 April, sunset
The Imperial palace, Rome
The marble hallway echoes with the sound of my approach. Virgilius – leaning beside the doorway – salutes.
‘He’s cleaned up now. Just finished eating.’
‘And Antonia?’ I ask.
‘She’s in there as well,’ Virgilus says. ‘But other than her and a few slaves, no one has talked with him, like you wanted.’
‘An odd day,’ I say.
Virgilius nods. ‘Has your father cancelled the party?’
‘No.’ I say. Most of the city has no idea what had happened. The False Nero’s men were executed as planned. Father wants to act like nothing happened – for now, at least. We were only just starting to put the mess with the hand in January behind us. ‘Tonight’s celebrations are to go ahead, as planned.’
Smiling, Virgilius says, ‘Am I to miss another party?’
I ignore the question and push open the door.
*
Plautius – missing for months, now miraculously alive and well – stands with his arms in the air, shoulder height. Slaves hover, wrapping his toga around his formerly plump, now willowy, frame. Antonia is sitting at the edge of the bed. Over the last three months, I’ve come to know her mood. When her jaw is askew, she’s annoyed; when her eyes are wide, she’s happy; when her bottom lip protrudes, she’s sad. For the first time, I see all three mix together on her face.
‘Titus, old friend,’ Plautius says happily. The dirt and grime and smears of his own shit are gone; so is the smell. His face is freshly shaved and his bald head shines like washed marble. He reeks of flowery perfume.
‘So,’ I say, ‘you’ve returned from the dead.’
‘I’m like Orpheus, aren’t I?’
Antonia’s jaw slides further to the right. ‘A poor comparison, I’d say.’
Eurydice wasn’t as lucky as her lover, Orpheus. She remained in Hades.
‘You seem in good spirits,’ I say to Plautius.
‘I’m finally back to Rome. I never thought I would see her again. Or my wife.’
The slaves finish dressing Plautius. I wave them away. Virgilius filters in quietly. He takes an inconspicuous place against the wall. Trailing behind him – sliding into the room before he notices – is Cleopatra. She’s developed a knack for roaming the palace unmolested and finding me when it suits her. She saunters over to me and collapses in a heap. She begins to pant, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth.
I ask Plautius, ‘What happened?’
‘Can’t this wait, Titus?’ Antonia bristles. ‘He’s just been to hell and back.’
‘Darling,’ Plautius says. ‘I’m fine. Really, I am.’
Antonia’s head twitches in disagreement. She’s angry. For the first time, I think: she didn’t want her husband to return. It was just this week, one morning in bed, she was discussing the necessary paperwork. Did she think herself the next Empress of Rome?
I ask Antonia to leave me with Plautius and her anger doubles, but she reluctantly agrees.
Once Antonia has left, I say, ‘Start at the beginning. Tell me everything.’
‘The whole mess I put down to chance,’ Plautius says. ‘Unfortunate, unlucky chance.’
He begins with what I already knew, his arrival in Italy, how he was to stay in Baiae, while he searched for a summer home. He explains how he and his freedman Jecundus visited a brothel, the Stolen Glance, the very day they arrived in Miscenum. ‘I was embarrassed at having attended,’ he says, ‘for I consider myself a moral man, Titus, a true Roman. But now, after what I have been through, I am beyond embarrassment.’ He takes a deep, curative breath before continuing. ‘I met Jecundus on the portico the next morning, hammers of alcohol banging away at my temples. After he politely inquired of my adventures, he told me about his night with this woman Red. Apparently, they sat and talked for hours. He said the woman had a charm about her, and Jecundus is not devoid of charm himself. After they had become good and drunk, she confided in him, telling him the story of the knight being abducted and the possible attempt to poison Caesar – the story I told to you in my letter. However, he didn’t think much of it. He considered the whore your typical female, exaggerating some fright she’d had. But I couldn’t leave it to chance. I care too much for you and your father.’
Plautius stares at me like a dutiful puppy.
He continues. ‘I knew we had to find her again and learn everything we could. But our quest had to wait until after the baths: we needed to sober up. But by the time we returned to the Stolen Glance, she was gone. It would be more than two weeks before we stumbled upon her in the market. Understandably, she was scared. But she agreed to meet us the next day and take us to the knight’s home.
‘She lived in Miscenum, at the southern tip. Because I had business to attend to that morning, and I didn’t want her changing her mind, I sent Jecundus early to ensure she kept her word. When I came to the apartment, Jecundus was dead and the whore was missing. Jecundus was known as being in my employ. I thought: if the murderer had no compunction killing a senator’s freedman, what was to stop the murderer from murdering the senator himself? I took refuge in the nearest, least conspicuous place I could think of: the Stolen Glance. I stayed in the brothel for four days, living off stale bread and oily fish. Until one day the owner, a fat pimp the size of an ox-cart, suddenly demanded payment. He became the only vendor in all of Italy who is not content with a senator’s word. I sent one of their boys to the house I was staying at, to fetch one of my slaves and coin. I was still waiting for him to return when two large thugs were given entry into my room.’ Plautius shivers. ‘After a swift beating, a sack was pulled over my head, my arms were bound behind my back, and I was dragged out into the street and thrown across the back of a horse. We travelled, but not very far.
‘My sack was replaced with a blindfold and I was kept in a cage of wood. It stank of ammonia and my nose burned until the second day when it ceased to feel anything at all. I believe it was some attic above a fullery. It was not very Roman of me, but I was scared beyond my wits. I shivered and cried and called for help. I could hear my captors. I could hear them laugh and drink and dice. I could hear them plot. I was kept there for two days. On the third day, I was taken from the cage and my bonds undone. I was put on a chair, still with my blindfold on. I was told “the Boss” wished to speak to me. There I sat for I don’t know how long. No one came. I eventually grew the nerve to steal a peek. I lifted my blindfold and saw there was no one around. I was sitting in a chair in an empty room. The door was ajar. I counted to ten. Then I ran.
‘The door led to a balcony and stairs, which I followed down. I found myself on the pier, with ships tethered to the stone, one after the next. To my right, a group of men were approaching. Were they the one’s that had taken me? I wasn’t sure. To my left, another group of men were talking. I didn’t know who was friend and who was foe, so I ran forward, across a gangplank and onto the nearest boat.
‘I hid in the ship’s hold, among amphorae of oil, sitting in an inch of water. I planned on waiting there until night, then make my way back to Baiae, but the boat raised its anchor that very afternoon. I wonder what you would have done, Titus? Would the great gen
eral have a plan? I certainly did not. I had no coin, no belongings. I kept below deck, thinking I might be able to sneak ashore at the ship’s next stop, wherever that was. But I was found the next day. A sailor came below to check the amphorae for leaks. He jumped a foot in the air when he saw me. I was taken to the deck and brought to the captain. I explained who I was, how I would provide handsome reward for returning me to Rome – I had no interest in returning to Miscenum and my captors. Well, do you know what this villain of a captain said in response? “A senator, are you? Stowaways are always senators who’ve forgotten their purse.” And then, Titus . . . and then they chained me to an oar and forced me to row.
‘Those were the darkest days I’ve ever had in my life. It was only a few months, but it felt an eternity. I didn’t think I’d ever escape. From sun up to sun down I rowed. My hands bled and blistered and then bled again. My skin burnt under the glare of the winter sun, until it was red and pink. My mouth was a desert; my tongue felt four times its size. What little water they gave me did nothing. Wood splinters stabbed my bum and the back of my thighs.
‘There were two men, one in front of me, the other behind, who sang all day long. They were all skin and bones, so I called the one Skin and the other Bones. I don’t know what barbarian tongue they sang in, but it was awful. I didn’t understand a word of it, except at the end of the chorus, they would yell “Again!” in Latin. I would go days without noticing it, but then I would explode with anger telling them to be quiet. They would laugh and the warden, a fat little man with a whip who paced the galleys all day long, would crack his whip above our heads and scream at us to be quiet. He thought I was having as much fun as Skin and Bones.
‘We sailed west at first. Not that anyone told me where we were going. I know this merely from the fact we sailed away from the sunrise. We reached some barren barbarian port and emptied our hold of its amphorae, before filling it with more. Then we sailed east. I was certain we were sailing along the west coast of Italy. It was torture, knowing my salvation lay so close at hand. We passed through the Strait of Messina, Sicily on our right, Italy on our left. I cried thinking it would be the last time I lay eyes on the land of my birth. But we rounded up, and followed the coast north.
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