‘I recognised Brindisium as we sailed into port. I had sailed into the very same port less than five months before. Once docked, we unloaded our last remaining amphorae. I saw the captain speaking with soldiers on the pier and then five of us were unchained. We were to help the warden carry amphorae to the legionary camp, which was pitched outside the city limits. I knew this was my only chance to escape from a life of slavery, so I waited for any opportunity to present itself. I don’t understand why slaves don’t always run when given the chance. Though, I suppose, slaves are slaves, and if they are caught they are crucified. Whereas I was a senator, illegally taken. It was a risk to run, but so long as I escaped, I did not face punishment.
‘We arrived at the camp after dark. The warden, a former soldier, nostalgic for the “good old days”, decided to get drunk. After we delivered the amphorae, we were sent to sleep in the slave tents. When everyone was asleep, I made my escape. I followed my nose to a tent with food. (I had been starving for three months without reprieve.) I ate my fill of bread and roasted pig, and then brought the rest with me in a piece of linen for the journey to Rome. I also found a skin of water. I went from tent to tent trying to find something to wear for my walk to Rome, so I did not look the runaway slave. But then I heard the warden’s voice, calling my name. (He called me Piglet, on account of my weight when I was taken. He persisted even as I lost the weight.) He must have checked in on the slaves and found me missing.
‘I was in a tent filled with chests. I could hear the neighbouring tents being searched. I would have rather died than go back on the ship to row for the rest of my days. So I emptied one of the chests out, moving the golden and silver contents about the tent so it did not look conspicuous, stepped into the trunk, and brought the lid down. Unfortunately, the latch clicked shut and I was locked inside. But I had water and food, so I would not starve – at least not for a few days. You saw the crate – it was large enough, and light came in through the keyhole and the cracks between the wooden planks. And, I suppose, I had been so miserable in my brief life as a galley slave, I enjoyed the quiet.
‘I listened to the warden come into the tent calling my name, cursing his “Little Piglet”. But he soon moved on. The next morning, I felt the trunk lifted on to a cart and for two days felt it pitch and sway as we travelled. The crate was so small, the heat so stifling, I removed every stich of clothing, as though I were at the baths. After a day of rest, the cart was moving again. But this time I was surrounded by screaming men and women. It was so loud, I thought the trunk was being dragged into battle. I thought I had been wrong about docking in Brindisium, and we hadn’t gone west to Rome, but instead north and mountain tribes in the Alps were attacking us. And then the crate opened and blinding brilliant light overwhelmed me. And . . . well, you saw what I did. I ran.’
Virgilius has an incredulous look on his face. He thinks the story impossible. As do I. But Plautius does have the burnt skin and calloused hands of a slave, not a senator.
Plautius says, ‘I’m sorry, Titus. I’ve let you down. I wrote to you and said that you could count on me. But –’ he holds his empty hands ‘– I’ve nothing to show for my efforts.’
‘It’s fine, Plautius. It’s good that you’re alive.’
Empty moments follow, as we quietly absorb his strange story. Then Virgilius asks, ‘You said when you were held in Misenum, you heard your captors speak?’
‘Plot,’ I say. ‘Plot is the word you used.’
‘Yes,’ Plautius says. ‘I heard them speak about all sorts of things. I’m not sure much of it made sense. I don’t recall any specific names.’
‘Is there anything,’ I ask, ‘anything at all you heard which could identify a man?’
Plautius thinks. ‘I heard them refer to two different men again and again. They never named them, but both descriptions stand out. And it was hard to miss they spoke so often of them. They called one the Turncoat. Does that mean anything to you?’
I exchange a look with Virgilius. His hand instinctively moves to rest on the hilt of his sword.
I say, ‘Yes, Plautius. It does. It’s the name everyone in the city uses for Caecina. How did you not know this?’
Plautius says uncomfortably, ‘I’m sorry, Titus. But I’ve spent so many years in the provinces . . .’
Virgilius asks, ‘You mentioned two men. Who was the other.’
‘A name wasn’t used for the other man.’ Plautius relaxes slightly. ‘They referred to a man who is no senator that I’m aware of . . .’
Virgilius and I bend our heads towards Plautius in anticipation, trying to meet what he is about to say halfway.
‘They spoke of a blind man . . . filthy rich, according to them. So you can see my confusion there. In Rome there is no rich blind senator.’
‘Oh, there is now, Plautius,’ I say. ‘There is now.’
XVII
Fetch Him for Me
A.D. 69
NERO
3 March, afternoon
Three miles inland, north-west coast of Sardinia
This afternoon Marcus is learning to hunt. Spiculus and I sit on tree stumps outside his hut. He describes it all to me, patiently, providing context to the rowdy noise drifting across the camp. At the edge of the forest the men have painted a target on a tree. Each man has taken a turn throwing a spear. Marcus is then given a chance; but after each of his throws, another of the men needs to have another go. It sounds like children playing, not grown men giving a lesson.
The men erupt with cheers.
‘The boy hit the target,’ Spiculus says. ‘Dead centre.’
‘He learns quickly,’ I say.
‘He’s been good for the men. He gives them a reason to behave, someone to impress.’ Spiculus pours sour wine into wooden cups. He takes my hand and presses the cup into it. ‘Who is he, then? You’ve never said. A slave?’
‘He’s not a slave,’ I say.
‘Like hell he’s not.’
‘He’s not.’
Spiculus sighs. ‘You’ve always had a thing for slaves, freeing them, raising them up. But what you’re doing now . . . it’s just not done.’
‘And what am I doing?’ I ask.
‘I’ve no word for it because I’ve never seen it before. You’re pretending he was never a slave. You’re waving your arm like a witch, erasing his years of servitude. I can see it in the way you treat him. It’s different from how you treated me or your other freedmen.’
‘Are you jealous?’
Spiculus snorts. ‘Like I said: it’s dangerous. If anyone ever found out . . . at the very least, the boy would be crucified.’
I don’t respond.
‘I can’t understand why you’re bothering,’ Spiculus says. ‘A freedman can have many of the same advantages a full Roman citizen enjoys. How grand are your plans for the boy?’
‘What does it matter whether he was a slave before or not?’ I say. ‘If I was emperor one day and a prisoner the next, why can’t this boy be a slave one day and free the next?’
‘You can’t erase history,’ Spiculus says. ‘It doesn’t work like that.’
‘We shall see.’
‘At least teach him to look men in the eye,’ Spiculus says. ‘That’s what gives him away. He keeps his eyes aimed at the dirt, like a slave.’
*
We’ve been with Spiculus for nearly two months now, as we recover our strength and plan our next steps. I’m anxious to get to Carthage and press on, but it would be dangerous to rush ahead. Anyway, the time has been good for Marcus. Doryphorus continues to teach him to read and to write, and he has begun to teach him Greek. The bandits have shown him how to hunt – how to track, snare and spear game on this godsforsaken island. They’ve also taught him skills I wouldn’t have thought to. He is already a better dice player than I ever was.
Our first night in the camp – after Spiculus learned who I was, and after he fed us and set us up in proper quarters – he took me to his tent. W
e drank sour wine and talked until dawn.
‘Make your case,’ I said.
‘What case?’
‘Prove you were not one of the men who betrayed me.’
‘If I were,’ he said, ‘why wouldn’t I kill you now and finish what I’d started?’
‘Regret,’ I said.
Spiculus laughed. ‘Of all the emotions your murderer will feel, I don’t think regret will be one of them.’
‘You’re avoiding the question,’ I said. ‘You sound guilty.’
‘Caesar, please,’ he said, growing serious. ‘I owe everything to you. I would never have betrayed you. Before you, my master kept me chained in the street like a dog. He entered me in the fights without any training. He’d hand me a rusty helmet and a dull blade and wish me luck. To him, I was nothing more than fodder. But you saw me fight. You purchased me. You had me trained.’
‘Your potential was undeniable,’ I said, remembering the behemoth that darted like a fish.
‘You made me a legend of the arena. You gave me my freedom. You gave me the honour of joining Caesar’s personal bodyguard. I would never betray you.’
It’s odd reading a man without your eyes, as difficult as reading a page. He was right, though: I did rescue him. I bought him, freeing him from his master’s ignorance; and I had him trained – not only in combat, but in Greek, history, the poets, philosophy. If he was to represent Caesar in the arena, he must be more than a mere thug. I watched him grow from a timid beast into a man who inspired timidity. I’d always trusted him. The question was: should I continue to do so? Then again, what choice did I have?
We talked of the coup. He told me everything he could remember.
‘Four years ago, you made me head of your personal bodyguard. Egos are what I dealt with, day in, day out. No doubt you knew of the rivalry between the Praetorians and your gladiators. But there was also a rivalry between the Praetorians themselves. Each Prefect had his own faction. Tigellinus’s men would seek any advantage they could over Nymphidius’s, and vice versa. And both groups would seek advantage over me and my gladiators.’
‘You never raised any of this with me,’ I said.
‘Caesar shouldn’t be concerned with petty squabbles. I make no excuses. I’m merely giving context for my failure. The coup occurred on the eighth of June. You attended the races and, by the end, you were drunk on sun and wine. I helped you from your litter and together we walked through the palace to your chamber. I had that evening off and should have left then. But Crixus was ill, so I took his place. Hercules was the other gladiator on duty.
‘I remember what happened, the error I made . . . I would give anything to have those moments back. Two Praetorians arrived in the tenth hour to relieve their colleagues. They rounded the corner and, when they saw me, stopped dead in their tracks. They knew the rotations for the Praetorians and gladiators, so they were not expecting me. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I know they were scared; their plan was in jeopardy. Perhaps they planned on subduing Crixus and Hercules. But me? I fought in the arena for ten years. I never lost. What hope did two Praetorians have?
‘But in the end, I was subdued – not by violence but through a trick; a simple trick only a child would fall for. It was the centurion who spoke to me, a redheaded man named Terentius. He told me your wife had a visitor, and wondered what we should do. You hadn’t seen your wife in months. I knew she meant little to you. But the idea she would have a visitor at night was unacceptable: Caesar cannot be made a cuckold. This centurion clearly knew the love I bore you, and that I would rush to quash any possible embarrassment. So off I ran. When I returned, Hercules was dead and you were gone. I will never forgive myself.’
I didn’t say anything. He shouldn’t forgive himself. He was there to protect Caesar. He failed.
‘I gathered my gladiators and we searched the remainder of the night, throughout the palace and then the city. But in the morning, the rumours began. It was said you had fled the city. Then the reprisals started. Your enemies began to gather up your supporters; we were ambushed in the street by a dozen soldiers. I was the only one who fought free. I hid until nightfall and then made my way to Ostia. I found a spot on a merchant ship from the east, who didn’t know what the Emperor’s favourite gladiator looked like. I’m sorry, Caesar,’ he said. ‘So very sorry.’
*
After Marcus’s hunting lesson and dinner of fresh fish by the campfire, as we do now most nights, we retire to Spiculus’s hut. We talk into the night. I can hear Marcus dreaming. (We’ve spent enough time together that I now know the slow, undulating measure of his breathing when he sleeps.) As he paces, Doryphorus’s voice slides from one side of hut to the other. Spiculus is beside me. I can sense the space he eats up with his bulk. Perhaps it’s the warmth he radiates, like the summer sun.
Word has come from Rome. (Somehow. Who knows how word travels from thief to thief, from Rome to Sardinia, across the sea.) January repeats itself. There are two emperors again. Joining Otho to the purple is Vitellius – gluttonous, debauched, frivolous Vitellius – whose troops in Gaul recently proclaimed him emperor.
‘Vitellius marches south from Gaul,’ Spiculus says. ‘Otho has taken an army north to meet him. It is anyone’s guess what such a war will look like.’
Spiculus knows both men from his days as my bodyguard. He watched them drink and carouse and whore, with not a care for the workings of empire. I remember one night when Vitellius passed out in a puddle of his own retch. Spiculus was the only one who could lift the elephant-sized senator and carry him home.
Now that I’m gone, the Empire is coming apart at the seams. It’s satisfying, of course. Still, watching chaos consume what once was mine . . . it may not be heartbreaking, but I wouldn’t say it’s pleasurable either. It’s like watching an ex-lover marry a brute. You think, See what you’re missing, but in your heart there’s the echo of regret, a mere sliver of grief, for the life she’ll have.
‘The war will take place in Italy, most likely,’ I say, ‘in the north. This is good for us. It is a distraction. The eyes of the Empire will be aimed north, as we dig for our fortune in the south.’
‘Who will win?’ Doryphorus asks.
‘In the end,’ I say, ‘neither. Neither man has the constitution for leadership. They both lack what an emperor requires, the intelligence and dedication, the force of personality. Neither has that certain je ne sais quoi.’
The night wanes. Finally, we turn to Cassius, the man I banished to Sardinia.
‘Can your men be trusted?’ Doryphorus asks.
‘Yes. If they are paid,’ Spiculus says. ‘If they are paid, they are predicable.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t bother with Cassius,’ Doryphorus says. ‘You’re not certain he was involved with Torcus, so there’s no guarantee he knows anything.’
‘There’s no risk,’ Spiculus says. ‘My men will bring him here. They will return him. He will be blindfolded.’
‘I came here for Cassius,’ I add. ‘We’re not changing the plan now. Fetch him for me, Spiculus. Bring me the traitor whose life I spared.’
MARCUS
12 March, sunset
Three miles inland, north-west coast of Sardinia
Spiculus and four of his friends are gone for nearly a week. When they return, Spiculus is carrying a man over his shoulder, tied up and blindfolded. They arrive at sunset. The campfire is already lit and crackling, and the air smells like smoky cedar. Some of the bandits – when they see Spiculus squirt out of the woods – start to whoop and bang their wooden weapons together.
When he’s in the middle of camp, beside the campfire, Spiculus swings the man down off his shoulder and drops him onto the sand.
Doryphorus leads Nero by the hand, from his hut to the campfire.
Spiculus unties the man’s gag.
Spiculus says, ‘Say your name.’
The captive is shaking.
Spiculus gives him a kick. ‘Your name.’
‘Caiu . . . Caius Cassius,’ the man says.
Nero yells over the racket: ‘Not here. Somewhere more private.’
Two of the bandits grab Cassius by the arms and drag him into Spiculus’s hut. Nero and Doryphorus follow.
I run after them but Doryphorus is waiting for me at the door. ‘Run along, slave-with-a-consul’s-name.’
‘I want to see,’ I say.
‘This is the work of men, not boys.’ He stands in the door until I walk away.
Once Doryphorus had ducked inside, I ran around the outside of the camp until I reach the back of Spiculus’s hut. There, with their backs to me, are two bandits, peeking inside the hut through the cracks in the timber. They hear me approach and look back. It’s the two who everyone calls Castor and Pollux because they are always together. One is older, with white hair and a bent back. The other has black hair and a scraggly beard.
Castor whispers, ‘Quiet, boy.’ He points at a free spot along the wall. ‘There’s space here.’
Pollux glares at me as I walk to the spot. ‘Shhhhhh.’
I close one eye and – with the other – stare between a crack in the timber. Inside the hut, the man named Cassius is sitting on a chair while two bandits tie him to it. Spiculus is pacing back and forth. Nero and Doryphorus are standing to the side.
Spiculus removes Cassius’s blindfold.
Cassius spits at Spiculus. ‘Scum! Why have you brought me here? I demand to know!’
Spiculus calmly wipes the spit from his cheek.
Doryphorus says, ‘Since when do traitors get to make demands?’
Cassius starts fighting against the ropes. He screams, a rumbling ‘aggghhhhhh’.
Nero steps forward. ‘Cassius. Stop.’
Cassius ignores Nero and keeps on grunting and flailing around like a madman.
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