*
‘Welcome all.’ The voice echoes across the portico. ‘It is good to know support for our new emperor goes beyond the men in the barracks . . .’
A brine-spiced breeze gently licks the back of my neck.
‘The city prefect is speaking.’ Doryphorus’s garlicky breath whispers in my ear. ‘Vespasian is standing beside him.’
My self-reliance has improved since losing my eyes, but I still require help, especially when someone I have never heard before is speaking. I need Doryphorus to explain the scene, point by point, who is speaking, where he is standing.
‘. . . may the gods favour Vespasian and the furies damn the traitors in Italy,’ continues the voice I now know to be the city prefect. His name is Tiberius Alexander, appointed by me years ago. I remember a short man, balding, with a bulbous belly and thick black eyebrows, like two plump caterpillars asleep above each eye.
And Vespasian? I wonder whether he looks as he did when last I saw him. I was in Corinth when I sent for him, at the royal palace. We had sat down for dinner when Vespasian came bursting through the doors, his travel cloak dirty from the road, his balding grey hair in disarray. His fatty cheeks huffing and puffing. It was staged – ‘You sent for me, Caesar, and I didn’t stop until I laid eyes on you’ – but I appreciated it all the same; the crowd was certainly impressed. Space was cleared at my table and he sat with me for the remainder of dinner. He had the good sense not to raise the issue of his untimely nap during one of my performances years before – a nap that sent him running from Rome. Water under the bridge if he was being given every general’s dream: a war.
Doryphorus whispers in my ear. He says a secretary is going from guest to guest, gathering a sense of what donative each man will give.
When he comes to us, I ask, ‘What is the highest donative so far?’
Flustered, the man cannot produce syntactical response: ‘I . . . well . . .’
‘Whatever it is, I will double it. I only ask for a word with the Emperor. A word and a favour.’
The secretary’s silence tells me he is inexperienced in politics. He will have to learn quickly or he will be discarded.
There is no reply, only the dwindling sound of shuffling feet.
Doryphorus whispers in my ear: ‘He has run off to his patron.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I gathered that.’
*
We are called over to Vespasian and Tiberius Alexander, the city prefect. I can hear the nasally sneer in the latter’s voice.
‘My freedman says you wish to make a generous donation to Vespasian Caesar’s cause.’
‘He is correct,’ I say.
‘Have we met before?’ says a different voice. Vespasian’s.
‘No,’ I say.
The city prefect asks, ‘What is your name?’
‘Lucius Ulpius Traianus.’
‘Ulpius,’ Vespasian says. ‘The name is familiar.’
‘My brother fought for you in Judea.’
‘Ah, yes. I remember now,’ Vespasian says. ‘And where is your family from? I have forgotten.’
‘Spain. My nephew and I now reside in Alexandria.’
The city prefect says, ‘I have never seen you before, and I know everyone in Alexandria.’
‘Do you? With a population of five hundred thousand, I cannot fathom such powers of recall.’
Vespasian interrupts. His concern is the donative, not the prefect’s memory. ‘For the donative, you asked for a word and a favour. We are giving you the word, what is the favour?’
‘Entry to the senate and a posting for my brother.’
An incredulous guffaw from – I think – the city prefect. Vespasian, however, is more practical. He is a new man himself. He knows one does not need pedigree to be up to the task.
‘Membership in the senate requires one million sesterces. You have holdings that meet this requirement.’
‘I do. More than enough, actually.’
‘And this is in addition to the donative you have already promised?’ Vespasian asks.
‘Yes.’
‘And the posting?’
‘Legate,’ I say, ‘or procurator, something along those lines.’
More incredulous laughter from the prefect. ‘You cannot be ser—’
‘There will be difficulty there,’ Vespasian says, interrupting the prefect. ‘After I take Rome, there will be many favours to pay back, and only so many provinces to go around. And Galba made appointments I’ll be reluctant to overturn. Just this morning I met the man Galba named procurator of Asia. I swore I’d keep him where he is.’
He is negotiating. I’ve now promised to pay him a tidy sum. He will give in soon enough.
‘There are smaller provinces, are there not? Cilicia perhaps?’
‘Cilicia . . . yes, that is one I could agree to.’ Vespasian circles the final point. ‘And how long would it take for you to deliver the money?’
I smile. ‘I could have it to you – I’m not sure. Tomorrow at the latest.’
Vespasian laughs, a hearty peasant’s laugh, not the laugh of an emperor.
‘Tomorrow will do just fine,’ he says.
Never one to let information go unlearned, I say, ‘May I ask, who is to be procurator of Asia?’
‘Halotus,’ he says.
Doryphorus’ nails dig into my arm.
‘Is he still in Alexandria?’ I ask.
The prefect speaks up. His incredulity is gone, replaced with a blasé disinterest. ‘He left this morning.’
Doryphorus — too quickly, with too much interest — asks: ‘To Asia?’
The prefect answers the question with one of his own. ‘Do you know Halotus?’
‘Please excuse my slave,’ I say. ‘He bedded a man in Halotus’ employ.’ I pat Doryphorus on the head. ‘He is a dog constantly looking for a leg to hump. He is a degenerate, through and through. But he has been with me so long – no one else knows how to dilute my wine the way I like it, or how to prepare my meals. I depend on him, degenerate or no.’
The peasant Emperor laughs again. He grabs me by the shoulder. We are becoming fast friends. ‘If a man were judged by his freedmen,’ he says, ‘I’d have been sent to the mines years ago.’
‘Thank you, Caesar,’ I say, ‘for your kindness. But you are certain it was Halotus?’
Vespasian says. ‘Oh yes. Very sure. The eunuch is hard to miss. Eyes like a wolf, pale and hungry, but with the shoulders of a woman, and insolent as they come.’
I give him the derisive snort he was looking for. ‘And who will he be working with? Who is to be proconsul?’
‘I’ve named Marcellus proconsul of Asia.’
We talk for a while, hammering out the final details of the agreement. When we’re done, he – I think it’s Vespasian – grabs my hand and shakes it vigorously. He has all the grace of a man selling mules. ‘We have a deal,’ he says. ‘I predict great things for the Ulpius clan.’
‘Thank you –’ I choke out the title I know I must use ‘– Caesar.’
*
Afterward, once we are home, Doryphorus, Spiculus and I meet on the balcony. Marcus is inside, asleep.
‘So we’ve helped put another man on the throne,’ Doryphorus says disapprovingly.
‘There is no harm in it,’ I say. ‘Vespasian had no hand in my fall. He is merely seizing the opportunity presenting itself. There is no reason we can’t make it so the man owes us a favour. We will owe him nothing and there is no reason we cannot turn on him later.’
‘And what do we do about Halotus?’ Spiculus asks. ‘We know where he will be, but as procurator, he will be powerful and difficult to gain access to.’
‘We wait,’ I say.
‘Where? In Ephesus?’ Doryphorus asks.
‘No,’ I say. ‘The capital of Asia will be his home turf, so to speak. We will find somewhere close that he will visit. Samos or Cyprus or Rhodes. Somewhere where we can continue Marcus’s education. And we wait.’
/>
‘How do we know Halotus will come to wherever we are?’
‘We don’t,’ I say. ‘But we are not in a rush. We can afford to wait.’
XXIV
Trials and Tribulations
A.D. 79
DOMITILLA
18 April, afternoon
The Servilian gardens, Rome
I find Father and Graecina, the grey-haired matron of the Plautii, under the crisscrossing boughs of an elm. The fruity aroma of whatever they are drinking perfumes the air.
‘How goes the trial?’ Father asks. ‘You were there the entire day?’
‘Yes,’ I say, taking a seat. ‘I saw it all.’
‘Speak the truth, child,’ Graecina says. ‘How badly did Plautius embarrass our family?’
‘He –’ the pause gives me away, but I press on ‘– did well, considering the circumstance.’
‘Circumstance?’ Graecina’s frown would freeze the Tiber. ‘Do you mean the circumstance of him being an idiot? That cannot count as a credit in today’s accounting.’
‘No,’ I counter, ‘I refer to the prospect, however remote, of being made servile. Given what he has been through, with such a possibility looming, his anxiety has understandably run away from him.’
Graecina gives one of her dismissive harrumphs.
Father says, ‘The action is only a prank. A stunt.’
‘I don’t disagree,’ I say.
‘My dear,’ Graecina says, ‘this is merely an attempt to embarrass the Plautii, by manipulating Rome’s ancient laws and Plautius’ unfortunate few months at sea. If Plautius were a better, more worthy man – if he was half the man my husband had been – he could turn these events to his advantage. But he is hopeless. He will not be named a slave, but he will, it seems, let our family be undermined in the process.’
Father shakes his head. ‘This stunt is aimed at us as well. Ultimately. Your mother . . .’ He sighs.
Mother’s background has always been an embarrassment for our family. She was born free, a citizen of Rome, but her family was impoverished. She worked in another man’s home for years, doing the work of a slave. Her life improved, and she achieved favoured status, but an action was required to prove she was freeborn. Father married her not long afterwards. When he ran for office, men spoke of mother’s past; they made jokes. But since Father became Emperor no one has dared. It had been so long since the subject was raised Mother’s past didn’t occur to me when I first learned of the action against Plautius. I didn’t realise the same laws that restored Mother’s freedom were being used to chain Plautius to a paddle. And now Plautius’s trial, and the Plautii’s connection to our family, has given the city the excuse to once again discuss Mother’s chequered past. Father thinks it a concerted effort to undermine him. We’ve no idea who is behind it. The ship’s captain is a lowly merchant who would never have dared insult the Plautii like this. Someone is paying him for the right to bring the action and hired one of the city’s best lawyers, Valerianus.
‘Has Titus made any effort to find out who is behind this?’ I ask.
‘Not yet,’ Father says.
‘Must Titus do everything?’ Graecina asks, in the tone only she could use with Caesar.
Father doesn’t look up from his cup. He shifts in his seat and then his face contracts in a painful, gout-induced wince. He says, ‘Titus is the only one I trust.’
Graecina rolls her eyes. ‘Yes, that is obvious.’
Suddenly, I am struck with an idea. ‘I have someone we could use,’ I say. ‘Someone inconspicuous.’
Father chuckles, derisively. ‘Oh! Do you? An old colleague from the legions?’
Graecina stares at me, seizing me up. Without taking her milky eyes off me, she says, ‘Caesar, one does not need a prick swinging between their legs in order to be useful. Tell me, my dear. Who are you suggesting?’
‘His name is Calenus. An ex-soldier. He previously worked for Nerva.’
‘Nerva?’ Graecina says coldly. She has never taken to Nerva.
‘Yes, but he is loyal to me now. I know it.’
Father asks, ‘And what will your man do?’
‘Whatever we need.’
CALENUS
22 April, morning
Outside the home of Julius Valerianus, Rome
I’m getting old; time to admit it. My back, my gimpy knee, my bony arse – everything hurts.
This is the fifth day I’ve been following the lawyer Valerianus. I’ve followed him from his home on the Quirinal, to the courts, and back again, hoping to learn something – anything that will help Domitilla. But he’s a hard worker – no baths, no whores, no wine; just work and sleep. The days are dull but the nights are worse. I’ve got to make due in a narrow alleyway across from his home, camped out on an abandoned crate, which is about as comfortable as sleeping in a quarry, and there’s nothing to do but drink sour wine and count the hours. It’s been more than four days and I haven’t learned anything except that my body’s old and wine helps pass the time.
The job couldn’t have come at a better time. Other than the fifty sesterces Nerva owes me, I was near broke when Domitilla’s girl Jacasta found me and asked me to do this.
A strange mess, this action. To think one of the Plautii could end up a slave. Before I’d have been happy to see one of the teat’s ancient, blue-blooded families fall. Plautii, Junii, Claudii – it’s all the same to me. But now my loyalty is with Domitilla. She wants to know who’s paying Valerianus, so that’s what I’m going to find out.
The fifth day starts like the others. I watch the vendors come early, pushing their carts up the Quirinal: a baker, a butcher, a man delivering olives, another figs, a woman with spices, dried and fresh. But today, there’s a new face: a woman, travelling on her own. There’s something about her – hooded, alone, empty-handed. It makes my veteran hackles rise. So when she walks out – on a hunch – I follow.
She takes me on a tour of the city, through the cattle market, then north, by the theatre of Pompey and the baths of Nero, and then into narrow little streets near the Coline Gate. She finally stops at a canteen. The Spotted Pig, which sounds familiar but I can’t quite place it.
Before heading inside, she turns to look behind her. I keep walking, without breaking stride. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as she pulls back her hood and I get a good look at her face. She’s young, with chestnut hair, and one eyebrow instead of two, thick and black. She goes into the canteen. I follow.
Despite the early hour, the canteen is busy. Men and women are drinking and laughing, with blood-red eyes and lazy heads dipping towards the table. For most of them, it’s the end of a bender, not the start. I scan the room but the girl is gone. At the back, there are private rooms fashioned out of big swaths of canvas. The girl must be behind one of those, unless she’s slipped out the back. I decide to wait at the bar. After I order a cup, a woman with wild black hair and a rash across the right side of her face sidles up to me. She’s half my height and has to hop to get onto the stool. ‘What do you like?’ she asks.
‘Away with you,’ I say, ‘I don’t want any.’
‘Come on, soldier,’ she says, pawing at my crotch, ‘the price goes up in the afternoon.’
I push the whore away and then give her a good kick to her backside. ‘Go.’
Not long after I turn back to the bar, I feel the hand of a bear slap my shoulder.
‘I knew you’d track us down.’
I turn to see Fabius and his wide, bearded face. With a jolt I remember where I’d heard the name of the canteen before. Fabius told me a few months back. He thinks I’ve come to join up.
‘Come,’ he says. A grin cuts his mud-brown beard in two. ‘This way. Montanus awaits.’ Fabius points at the private rooms in the back. I try to think of a plan, a way to politely decline, but it will ring false. Fabius told me where to find him if I wanted work, and here I am.
He walks me towards the back, towards one of the makeshift private rooms. When we are ha
lf a dozen paces away, the curtain is pulled back and, from behind it, out walks the girl with the one eyebrow. We pass each other and our eyes meet. Did she recognise me? But I’ve no chance to find out because Fabius keeps pulling me towards the makeshift room.
On the other side of the curtain, Montanus is lounging in a chair. It’s been a few years, but he looks the same, for the most part. He’s huge, my height plus another half, with scar rutted cheeks, dark eyes, and a chin like a slab of marble. His hair is different, though. It’s longer now, touching his shoulders, and thinner with streaks of grey. Thick, protruding veins marble his neck and forearms. On either side, his ex-soldiers – boys I don’t recognise – are standing, with their hands on the hilt of their swords.
Montanus recognises me, but he waits a moment before speaking. He always bristled at authority; orders were like poison he choked down. Now that he’s finally the man in charge . . . I’m sure he relishes every minute of it; a leopard and his spots.
‘Calenus,’ Montanus says. ‘I never thought you’d come.’
I look around the room, at the bare walls, the soldiers, at Montanus, stretching out time as best I can, hoping some plan will dawn on me. ‘Oh?’
‘You always chose the harder course over the easier.’
‘Not sure I’d agree with that.’
‘Come now,’ he says, gloating. ‘Admit it. You’re a miserable bastard. How many towns did we take together? Ten? Twelve? You’d fight at the front of the line, risking your neck, and then when it was over and the men were given the night to do as we pleased, you’d return to camp.’ He sneers. ‘How does the saying go? Never trust a man who goes to the whorehouse for conversation.’ He looks at his lackeys, soaking up their smiles. ‘You always made life harder than it had to be. You’d rather hold the line than pillage.’
‘All that screaming,’ I say.
‘There’s screaming in battle,’ Montanus says.
‘Sure, but those are men. Screams from women and children, the octave is too high.’
He smiles; it’s a satisfied grin. ‘Tell me, why are you here?’
Before I can answer, behind me the curtain is pulled back and, on instinct – the soldier in me always wants to know who or what is behind him – I turn to see a man walk in.
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