David

by Barbaree Deposed

  We made love one more time when her story was finished. Afterwards, when she was dressing, wrapping her stola around her perfect white curves, I asked her how she knew I would live longer than my captors intended.

  ‘I see much,’ she said.

  ‘But how is it I will live?’

  ‘When you are brought to the senate, which you will be, appeal to their egos, theirs and yours. Do not show weakness, not to the descendants of Romulus. They would despise it.’

  She was right. When the day finally came, I was brought before the senate, rows of white-haired men and matching white togas. Did your uncle ever tell you of my speech? Did one man’s fate ever turn on so few lines?

  ‘You are great,’ I began, and every man was wide-eyed with shock to find the barbarian before them speaking Latin. ‘But I was great once too, a king and ruler of many nations. I should have entered this city as your friend, rather than your prisoner. My present lot is as glorious to you as it is degrading to myself . . . I had men and horses, arms and wealth. Is it any wonder I parted with them reluctantly? If you Romans choose to lord it over the world, does it follow that the world is to accept slavery? Were I to have been at once delivered up as a prisoner, neither my fall nor your triumph would have become famous. My punishment would be followed by oblivion, whereas, if you save my life, I shall be an everlasting memorial of your clemency.’

  Your uncle was seated in the chair of a giant, adorned in white silk and Tyrian purple. As I spoke, he smiled at me, and, when I was finished, his colleagues in the senate nodded their heads in approval. The next day I was bathed, shaved, and brought before Caesar. ‘You have appealed to Caesar’s intellect and Caesar’s mercy,’ one of his freedman said. ‘You are hereby pardoned. But you may never return to Britannia or leave Italy. You are, however, a king. You shall be treated accordingly. Caesar will provide for you.’

  And here I have lived ever since, one hundred and fifty miles south of Rome, on an estate that grows grain in the spring, olives in the autumn, and lemons year round. Caratacus the king and slayer of Romans is now a farmer. My life as a barbarian general, waging war against an empire, seems like another life, that of a different man, one far stronger and braver than the one I find myself today. I have grown used to the Italian heat, also your strange manners and customs. But I miss the clear air of the north, the deep, dark greens of the forests; I miss brick-hard bread, and stews of roots and whatever meat is on hand. I miss my little niece, who was always caked in mud and singing to fairies grown men could not see; my niece who is now probably a mother herself . . . but I am content, in my way, as I grow old, tilling the earth by day, and, by night, writing to the master of all.

  Enough. It is late. My lamp is nearly spent, as am I. To bed.

  Yours,

  Caratacus

  Rome, 12 April [A.D. 65]

  Old King:

  I had no idea you’d met Locusta. You should consider yourself lucky. Not only did you survive (which is more than most can say), but she clearly took a liking to you.

  Do not take the story of the wolf to heart. People tell such stories to serve their own ends. It may be true; it may not. The truth is immaterial. Rome captured the world through ingenuity and engineering, not some curse passed down generation to generation. We built roads and armour and those shining engines of war your father feared. And we constructed a system of laws, which, most of the time, we try to follow. Yes, once in a while, Roman kills Roman, but these are outbursts – bloody and terrible, yes – but outbursts rather than the norm. The witch paints the world simply, as one must when making a point. In truth, the world is a mosaic, made of a million facts, considerations, motivations.

  Yours,

  Nero Claudius Caesar

  Beneventum, 28 November [A.D. 65]

  My Dear Emperor:

  I have only just heard. I trust you are now safe. I cannot believe there was another attempt on your life. Rumours circulate; it is hard to believe what I am hearing. Send word when you are able.

  Yours,

  Caratacus

  Rome, 19 December [A.D. 65]

  Caratacus:

  Yes, I am alive. Once again, I owe my life to Nerva and Tigellinus. The song was different, but the tune familiar. Men and women from distinguished families thought it their time to lead. So far, we have four names: Torquatus, Caius Cassius, his wife Lepida, and Tullinus (the kinsman of Marcellus, who I am sure you have met). At this point, the facts are muddled. Tullinus is the only one of the group to confess what he knows, and he is either possessed by the furies or he exaggerates to cast greater odium on the others and thereby save his own skin. What he says seems too incredible.

  The story begins with Tullinus and Lepida. The two recently became lovers. One night, Lepida revealed to Tullinus that she was an adherent to a cult, one that he had never heard of. (Nor I, for that matter.) Torcus. He thought it another of the eastern cults that have made their way to Rome, of which the nobility will dabble, such as Dionysus or Mithras or Christ. Lepida asked Tullinus to take the rites with her. Tullinus says he did not think much of the invitation. Years ago, he had taken the rites of Dionysus. He imagined something similar: animal sacrifice in the dead of night, wine mixed with the blood of an animal, love-making in a wooded glen. He trusted Lepida. He would have followed her to Hades, he said. He agreed without hesitation.

  One night, Tullinus was met at his home by two men dressed as priests, with blood-red tunics, with the folds over their heads like hoods, but each wore strange golden masks. The hour was late, well past midnight. Tullinus was blindfolded and put in a litter. He does not know where he was taken. The trek was long and winding. When the litter came to a stop, he was escorted down a zigzagging flight of stairs. Finally, he came to a stop and the blindfold was removed. The room was as dark and rugged as a cave, lit by spitting torches. (Or so Tullinus said. We have not been able to locate it.) There were more priestly figures, nearly a dozen, all wearing strange masks, except for one man in a cloak of black. At Tullinus’s feet, there was a man on his knees, blindfolded, naked, shivering with fright, his cock shrivelled up to the size of a pea; and – according to Tullinus – this man’s lips were sewn together.

  The man in black began chanting in a foreign tongue. A knife was placed in Tullinus’s hands . . . At this point, Tullinus’ story stretches to extremes. Without corroborating evidence, it is difficult to believe. I cannot fathom Roman citizens acting as he describes. I suspect his fear at the whole affair has poisoned his memory. Whatever transpired, Tullinus tossed and turned seven restless nights before he was arrested.

  As it turns out, Nerva had kept a man watching Cassius, Lepida’s husband, for weeks. His spy (of which he now seems to have an endless supply) had informed him Cassius and Lepida had plans to put their nephew Torquatus on the throne. (Torquatus has loose ties to the royal family going back to Augustus himself.) On the night in question, Nerva’s man observed someone leaving in the dead of night. Luckily, his man decided to follow and then watched a blindfolded Tullinus join this person’s litter. He followed them but soon lost the group somewhere in the city’s streets.

  However slight, the information gathered was enough for Tigellinus to arrest and question Tullinus. He cracked in a matter of hours, telling us his fantastical tale. Tullinus swears there are more senators and Imperial secretaries involved – dozens of the Empire’s most powerful men. What this new cult has to do with putting another man on the throne, I am not entirely sure. I am not sure we will ever know.

  In any event, Torquatus has taken his own life. Lepida is under house arrest until I decide what to do with her. Cassius has been banished to Sardinia. Although he was not directly implicated, I have my suspicions. We continue to search for the other participants in this odd cult, but, so far, we have had no luck.

  Sincerely,

  Caesar

  Rome, 3 February [A.D. 66]

  Caratacus:

  Upon further reflection, this cult seems a dallia
nce to me, rather than a true threat. I’ve come to learn much of it these last few weeks. You see I have taken Lepida as a lover. She came to plead for her life after the plot was discovered. I’d thought about banishing her along with Cassius, her husband. But she is a great beauty, one of the finest in Rome. It seemed a waste.

  Truth be told, I cannot get enough of the woman, her blonde hair and green eyes, her pointy nose. We spend most nights together, gallivanting around the streets of Rome, drinking, carousing, making love. She’s proven quite forthcoming about this so-called cult – so much so that I feel I could write a short history on it. She was forced into it by her husband, you see. She was never a true believer. Accordingly, she is able to provide an unbiased account of its origins and ideology. This is what she knows:

  The story starts with the Teutoburg Pass in Germany. I understand that you are now a student of history since losing your crown. Are you familiar with Rome’s worst defeat since Carrhae? It happened more than seventy years ago, while Augustus was still the emperor. At the time, before the humiliating defeat, it was taken as a given that Rome would conquer Germany. But treachery not only stopped Rome’s advance, it sent us running the other way.

  Varus was the local legate. One of his commanders was a man named Herman, a Latinised German who Varus trusted and relied on a great deal. One day Herman told Varus a tribe past the Rhine was planning to rebel against Rome. Varus moved at once, pulling three legions together and following Herman through the dark woods and slippery bogs beyond the Rhine. For days they marched in the rain, pushing their way through knee-deep mud, ducking as massive pines swatted at them like giants. Herman left under a pretence and, once out of sight, circled around and joined a massive host, a rare amalgamation of German’s various (and usually warring) tribes. Herman had chosen the Teutoburg Pass to surprise Varus. It was the perfect location for an ambush. Ideal for a massacre.

  According to Lepida, Varus had two boys on his staff, twins from a rich patrician family. They were too young to be soldiers, but their father was a hard man. To get his boys military experience early, he cashed in a favour with Varus. The boys were only ten or so. They were there when Varus’s forces were massacred, and they watched afterwards as the Germans sacrificed thousands of Romans to their cruel gods. The twins were then taken as slaves by a group of Germanic priests, north, past the Elbe river, near the Baltic sea, to a marshy wasteland where this cult Torcus resides. Lepida claims she doesn’t know the twins’ names. She calls them Romulus and Remus in jest. I don’t believe her, but I’m not sure it matters what their names are.

  Lepida says that different tribes across Germany deliver boys to this cult, to serve the god of the marsh. Each tribe is expected to deliver a boy each year. Many deliver disfigured sons – boys no one desires – so the bog is filled with men with strange disfigurements.

  For months, the boys watched as men they’d served with, commanders who they had loved and admired were tortured. Their tongues removed and their mouths sewn shut, or their eyes plucked out. Most had their necks cut open and drained into golden cups.

  Six years later, after the twins had practised the dark arts for years, after they had seen the power it gave the German warriors, these boys were travelling with a German host when they were overrun by the Roman general Germanicus (my grandfather) as he was exacting revenge for the Teutoburg Pass. After the battle, the boys were captured, identified and then brought back to Rome. No one knew of their dark dealings in the German bog. No one thought them responsible when their hard, belligerent father went missing within a month of their return.

  Lepida says the twins bought a warehouse near the Tiber, hired men to dig deep in to the earth and create a pool perpetually filled by the Tiber, which was their German bog in Rome. The boys would go out at night, terrorizing the city, grabbing men or women and dragging them back to their layer, removing tongues, sowing mouths shut, drinking blood. They truly believed the force of the German gods brought them unlimited strength. These boys had sons to whom they taught the dark arts. And the cult slowly spread throughout Rome.

  It was to this underground chamber that Cassius dragged Tullinus. Lepida swears she was only taken once. She was blindfolded and does not think she could find it again. She believes the cult is evil but had no choice given her husband’s beliefs. She says Cassius, on the other hand, is a firm believer in Torcus. Fortunate for him, he was banished to Sardinia and escaped my wrath for now. If I had known the true extent of involvement before, I would not have given him the mild punishment of banishment.

  I asked Lepida why this cult wanted her cousin on the throne. She said the god of the marsh makes its adherents mad for power. Cassius would return to her after a ritual killing and he would think himself a god. They desired power like a man needs air in his lungs. ‘This is why Rome will never take Germany,’ she said. ‘And why German tribes are for ever at war. Lust for blood is all they live for.’

  When she told me this, I thought of Piso and all the other plots on my life I’ve uncovered. I wonder if there is a sliver of this German god in the heart of every man.

  Yours,

  Nero Claudius Caesar Imperator

  Beneventum, 21 February [A.D. 66]

  My Dear Emperor:

  It would be a mistake to rely solely on what this woman Lepida says. I have heard of the god of the marsh and the cult that worships him. It is evil itself, truly. There were rumours in Britannia, of men and women, stolen by Germans, hauled to the bogs of Germany and forced to practice their dark arts. The sect drives men mad. If captured, adherents are burned, so lost are their souls. What dark arts men are capable of.

  Yours,

  Caratacus

  Rome, 2 April [A.D. 66]

  Dear Caratacus:

  You have always had a special place in my heart and I have often sought your advice, but do not overstep yourself, dear friend – especially in matters of the heart. Remember I am your Emperor, your lord and master, and you exist because I allow it.

  I am loath to admit it, but another plot on my life was discovered. I know not whether it is related to this cult Torcus. Lepida assures me it was not. I have left it to Nerva and Tigellinus to investigate and the Senate to dole out punishment. Nerva seems to know what will happen in Rome before it does.

  I have grown tired of the capital, the plots and the intrigue. So I have planned a trip to Greece. I will attend the great games of each city: the Olympian, the Delphic, the Isthmian. I will sing and race my horses against the best Greece has to offer.

  Yours,

  Caesar

  Beneventum, 2 January [A.D. 68]

  My Dearest Emperor:

  Last week, a delegation of senators passed through my estate. They said you had returned from Greece and are now in Neopolis. I hope this letter finds you there, refreshed and in good spirits.

  How many months was my artist prince away? Fifteen? Have you adopted all Greek customs, I wonder? I can picture you now, long hair, beard to match, scrolls of papyrus unwound in your lap. Is this why you are visiting Neopolis, the Greekest city in all of Italy? How goes the saying? ‘Captive Greece captured her uncivilised captor.’

  What of this unrest in Gaul, of the legions refusing to take the oath? I am sure you have it all in hand. But this old, deposed king is bereft of facts and would appreciate anything more than rumour.

  Yours,

  Caratacus

  Rome, 12 May [A.D. 68]

  Dear Caratacus:

  It is true, there has been unrest in Gaul and it has now spread to Spain. The latest news is that Vindex, the leader of the wayward legion in Gaul – proving himself not completely devoid of intelligence – declared, not for himself, but for Servius Galba, a senator with above average pedigree, in an attempt to legitimise his treachery. It is no matter. The gods are just. Galba and Vindex will learn the price of treachery soon enough.

  Still, the ceaseless perfidy of my subjects is tiring. My nights are long and restless. Last night, I awoke after mi
dnight, drenched in sweat, screaming like a child. I dreamt I was at sea in a small boat. It was night. The sea was wild. Thunder crashed above me, with each ringing blue flash revealing waves as tall as the Pantheon. My ship’s sail was intact and the shore was not too far away. I could have made it to safety, but the boat lacked a tiller. The ship, subservient to the currents and fate, drifted towards calamity. There was nothing I could do.

  I find myself reminded of a dream that I had years ago, of being sealed inside my family’s crypt, alive, at the hands of my own soldiers. Do you remember? A dark portent I mastered, as I will this most recent incubus.

  Yours,

  Nero

  XX

  The Gardener

  A.D. 79

  TITUS

  8 April, first torch

  The Imperial palace, Rome

  By the time I’ve finished Nero’s letters, I’m covered in a cold sweat. I’d been worried about the body by the river – I knew the threat was still out there. But this was only a dull suspicion. I didn’t expect . . . this. And reading the slow, inevitable decline of Nero’s principate only fuels my anxiety. He was vigilant and still did not see the end until it was on him. Have we been wrong all this time? Was it this German cult that finally brought him down? Did they try again for the throne but circumstance ruined their plan and the purple passed to Galba? Or was Galba an adherent?

  I need to calm down. I need to think.

  I yell for Ptolemy. ‘Find Virgilius. Wake him if you have to.’

  Virgilius arrives in my study, bleary-eyed and yawning; but he doesn’t complain. His face is as expressionless as he reads Nero’s letters. When he’s finished he looks up and says, ‘We’ve some work ahead.’

  We talk for nearly an hour, debating what course to take.