Spiculus continues to blame me. ‘He tries to meet your expectations. He thinks you want him to be the wild boy who fights legionaries in the streets, so that is what he does, even if it’s not in his nature. You waved your hand and said he was no longer a slave, but a patrician, brave and noble. He is confused and angry and constantly trying to impress you.’ I disagree, of course. (None of this is my fault. I saved the boy from a life of servitude for Jove’s sake.) I go to Doryphorus for support, but he is not helpful. ‘He needs something to fuck,’ he says. ‘When you’re that age, it’s a panacea; it has a way of letting the bee out of the jar, and the incessant, furious buzzing can finally cease.’
*
After dinner is done and the guests are filtering out, I take my leave. I go to my bedroom to rest as Spiculus and Marcus follow Epaphroditus through the dark streets of the city. If all goes according to plan, they will watch as Epaphroditus and his retinue collapse to the bricks.
I sleep an hour or so before Doryphorus gently rocks my shoulder and whispers, ‘They’re back.’
I take my stick in one hand and Doryphorus’s arm in the other. Together we walk to the stables.
I’m greeted by muffled screams. Our guest, I gather, is gagged and the sleeping tonic has already worn off.
Doryphorus directs me so that I am standing in front of Epaphroditus. We have done this enough that Doryphorus knows how to proceed.
I ask, ‘If we remove the rag in your mouth, will you agree not to scream?’
‘He nodded,’ Doryphorus whispers.
‘Remove the gag,’ I say.
The sound of a mouth – of a tongue testing its dry surroundings – tells me the gag has been removed.
As I have done before, I lean in and remove my blindfold. ‘Do you recognise me?’ I ask.
Silence.
‘It has been many years. My beard is longer, with traces of grey. My eyes are gone.’
Silence.
‘Come, you must know who I am.’
‘It isn’t possible,’ our prisoner whispers.
‘No? Why? Because you cut my throat?’
Silence.
I say, ‘You conspired to bring me down, to take my eyes. Why? I was good to you.’
‘Nero?’ There is a long pause; an eternity of silence. Then: ‘I . . .’
Again, he is at a loss.
‘Out with it. I have waited more than a decade for an answer from you. Halotus says you were in it together. Do you deny it?’
‘What? No! Halotus is mad. He and the others . . .’
‘What others?’
‘Nero, I, I, I –’
To Spiculus, I say, ‘His arm first.’
I hear a dull snap, like a twig being broken under a blanket and Epaphroditus screams in pain.
When he’s done screaming, through his heavy panting, he says, ‘No! I will tell you everything. I never betrayed you. I never broke my oath. I am loyal. I was always loyal. It was Halotus. I had no choice.’
‘Speak,’ I say. ‘I am listening.’
‘It was because I caught him . . .’
He takes several deep breaths, trying to settle himself before telling me the story I have waited years to hear.
‘It was March, before the legions started to revolt. I entered the wrong room of the palace. I happened upon Halotus and your wife. They were making love.’
I snort. ‘He was a eunuch.’
‘He was, yes, but there are different types. His shaft was intact.’
I signal for him to continue.
‘Halotus and your wife were embraced, her stola hiked up . . . Halotus saw me. They both did. I ran away and didn’t say a word. I didn’t want Halotus’s ire. Or your wife’s. I outranked Halotus, but you know his reputation. It’s said he helped poison your uncle, Claudius Caesar. What would he do to me? I thought if I kept quiet, he would leave me alone. A child’s plan, but I couldn’t think of any other. He waited two weeks before he approached me. It was after the races, before dinner, during those quiet hours when half the palace is napping. He said he appreciated my tact. He wanted to bring me into his sect as a show of thanks. It would change my life, he said. I was happy we were not at odds and, to me, one sect is as good as any other. So I agreed. Halotus told me to be ready the night of the Ides. When the day came, four men came for me in the depth of night. They were wearing red cloaks and golden masks. They blindfolded me and took me to the Tiber. I knew it was the Tiber because I could hear the ships moving in the swell. Then we descended some steps, until we were in the heart of the earth. My blindfold was removed and I was surrounded by ghostly priests with golden masks. A man was dragged before me. He was naked and his mouth sewn shut. I heard Halotus’s voice in my ear. “Cut his throat or you do not leave here tonight.” I had nowhere to turn, no way out.’
Epaphroditus begins to sob.
‘We did terrible things. It was not just murder. It was human sacrifice to some devil of a god. We drank the man’s blood and ate his tongue. The gods help me, but I did it. When the ceremony was over, Halotus told me I was now tied to him and his cult. If I told anyone what I saw him doing with your wife, he would produce witnesses to the human sacrifice I had performed. For three months, I didn’t sleep. I was beside myself. And then, one night, Halotus came to see me again. He said in two weeks’ time, I was to leave the key to your chamber in the library, inside a scroll.’
‘Ah, I see. So you left the key, on the night he asked, dooming your patron, your Emperor, your god, a man who never did you any harm?’
‘Never did me harm? You had me beaten three times that year for little cause. You took my wife for sport. You did me harm, Caesar. Often.’ He is angry but still in tears. His voice sounds exhausted. ‘But I never broke my oath. I didn’t betray you.’
Doryphorus asks, ‘What happened next?’
‘I left the key because I had no choice. But – I swear – I never meant you harm. Halotus said I was only helping him embezzle money. Everyone stole from you and you didn’t care. Your coffers were infinite. Gods do not run low on money. He said he needed to access certain ledgers. I had no idea leaving the key would lead to what it did. So I left it, as Halotus told me to, and that night I awoke to the sounds of chaos. I stalked the halls and saw men fighting. I even saw an Imperial secretary cut down. So I ran and I hid. It was only after I’d emerged from hiding that I learned the world – or half of it at least – thought I’d assisted in your suicide. But the story saved my life. Galba, not only kept me alive, he made me exchequer because of it. I could not dispute it. I had no choice.’
‘You poor man,’ I say, sarcastically. ‘So many choices beyond your control.’
‘But Caesar, I have never had any involvement with Torcus since your fall. I am not a believer. They know this. They have let me be. Please, please spare my life.’
I can feel eyes on me, not only our prisoner, but Spiculus, Doryphorus, and Marcus. The room wishes to know if this man will live or die. I know Spiculus will be against killing the man. And I’m not sure what Marcus would make of mercy. His anger is for Halotus and the Black Priest, the men responsible for killing his friend Orestes before his eyes.
I shake my head, not at our captive, but at myself. There was a time, not long ago, when this traitor would have breathed his last the moment his story was done. But now? Bloodthirsty revenge has grown stale; plans change; revenge – its constituent parts – ebb and flow.
‘We will hold you for now, old friend, to test the validity of your story. And I will ponder the appropriate punishment.’
XXVIII
A Trap is Set
A.D. 79
DOMITILLA
23 April, noon
The Imperial palace, Rome
We wait for Calenus all afternoon. We see neither hide nor hair.
‘I thought your man was reliable,’ Titus says. He considers this a victory, even if it sets us back. He thinks my involvement in the matters of state impertinent. He is worse than
Father.
‘Calenus is reliable,’ I say. ‘Something must be wrong.’
‘He was a drunkard, sister. I smelled the wine on him myself. He means well, but let’s leave him to the canteens, yes? Matters of state take precedence over your little project.’
‘He will come,’ I say. ‘Or something has gone wrong.’
‘Wrong?’ Titus raises an eyebrow; his voice is condescendingly smug. I hate it when he is smug. ‘You continue your vigilance while he rots in a canteen. He mentioned Ulpius when he spoke to Jacasta. I will go to Ulpius myself. He will finally tell me of his involvement. I will get the answers we need.’
Cleopatra is curled up by my feet. She raises her head, realizing Titus is leaving. Titus tells her to stay and – the quick learner that she is – she puts her head back down and falls asleep.
Titus walks out and I begin to pace.
*
After an hour, I walk to the front gate to enquire with the guards whether, for some reason, Calenus was refused entry. Cleopatra – who has grown fond of me these last few months – follows. On my way, I happen upon Nerva and his slave Appius.
‘Senator Nerva,’ I say.
Nerva gives a slight, respectful bow. ‘Domitilla.’
Cleopatra wags her tail with vigour and pushes her head between Nerva’s knees.
‘I am glad to see you,’ I say. ‘You know Julius Calenus, do you not?’
Doing his best to ignore Cleopatra, Nerva nods. ‘Of course.’
‘I was expecting him here at the palace this morning. But he has not come.’
‘You were expecting him?’ Nerva looks confused for a moment and then nods. ‘Ah, yes. I had heard he was running errands for you. That is most unlike Calenus. He was a reliable man. Except, of course, when the drink takes hold of him.’ He tilts his head slightly; the movement is cold, predatory. ‘He has had a difficult life. Occasionally, he seeks solace in a cup. Many men from the civil war are like this, as I’m sure you know.’
I notice for the first time a dark stain on his vermillion tunic, barely visible under his cloak, inches above his right hip. It looks like a wound.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
‘Oh that?’ he says, inspecting his hip. ‘This morning’s sacrifice. I had only my tunic with which to wipe the blade.’
Cleopatra – her tail still wagging – sits on her bum and makes a noise. It is not so much a bark as a hello.
I say, ‘She acts as though you’re long lost friends?’
‘I’m not sure how,’ Nerva says. ‘I’ve never seen her before.’
I nod absently, my mind already drifting back to Calenus. ‘If you will excuse me,’ I say.
‘Good day,’ Nerva says before gliding away down the marbled hallway.
*
Titus returns in the afternoon. He is furious.
‘I should have him killed.’
He is pacing while I remain seated.
‘Who?’ I ask.
‘Ulpius. The man’s impertinence is shocking.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘That damned slave of his, the Persian, did most of the talking. Ulpius would whisper in the slave’s ear and then the slave would tell me what Ulpius said, as though Ulpius didn’t speak Latin or Greek. I should have him arrested. The arrogance of that man.’
‘Let me try,’ I say.
Titus shakes his head. ‘What could you possibly do?’
‘He’s taken a liking to me. There is no harm in trying.’
Titus shrugs. ‘Fine. But if you can get any information from that eccentric, you’re a better man than I.’
*
The Persian escorts me to the garden where Ulpius is drinking sweetened wine. Neither man seems surprised at my visit. There is even a cup of wine waiting for me.
After pleasantries, Ulpius says, ‘Your brother is unbearable. The capital has soured the great general.’
‘He is my brother,’ I say, gently. ‘And we need your help.’
‘My help? Why? Help with what?’
‘Let us not pretend, Ulpius. I have a man Calenus who works for me. He mentioned your name in relation to Valerianus and the suit brought against Plautius.’
He is apathetic. ‘And?’
‘The action brought against Plautius is aimed at undermining my father and the Imperial family. Quite possibly, it is aimed at overthrowing the Emperor.’
‘And how do you know I’m not involved?’ he asks. He is smiling his strange, eccentric smile. ‘How do you know I don’t have designs on the throne?’
I consider the question. I hadn’t thought of this before.
‘Father says you helped us during the civil wars.’
‘Yes, but a man can change his mind.’
His tone – for the most part – remains flat, but there are undercurrents of mischief; he enjoys leading me astray.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but you do not desire the throne. It would bore you, I think. Maybe not the power itself, but all that comes along with it, the politics and the squabbling. You might have ambition, and you have some personal aim moving here to the capital, but the throne is not one of them.’
He snorts with pleasure. ‘You’ve twice the charm of your brother.’ He thinks a moment and then says, ‘And I suppose we’ve reached a dead end ourselves . . . all right, I will help.’
‘You will?’
‘Yes. Come tonight,’ he says. ‘I must confer with my colleagues. And what I have to tell you – it is easier to understand at night, away from the light of day.’
‘May I bring Titus?’
He sighs. ‘If you must.’
TITUS
23 April, sunset
The home of Lucius Ulpius Traianus, Rome
Ulpius is in the peristyle of his home, sitting under a cypress with a blanket over his lap. It is dusk and the air is cooling quickly. Marcus is with him, as is the one-eyed man Theseus and the Parthian. Virgilius is with me; so too is Domitilla. She insisted on coming, and – I must admit – she has a way with this eccentric.
Conciliatory as always, Domitilla speaks first: ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet. We are grateful to learn what you know.’
‘I will tell you what we know of the plot against your father,’ Ulpius says, ‘but there are conditions.’
The man’s arrogance is startling. I am Caesar’s son and he is going to dictate conditions to me? My pulse pounds and I am about to tell him what I think, when Domitilla puts her hand on my arm.
‘What are they?’ she asks.
‘I will tell you everything that you need to know, I give you my word, but you may have questions about how we know what we know. We would like to keep our privacy. If I chose not to answer a particular question, that is too bad for you. Is that clear?’
Domitilla knows I cannot answer such impertinence, so she answers for me. ‘Yes. We understand.’
‘Good,’ Ulpius says. ‘Well, where to begin?’ He leans back in his chair. ‘The knight Vettius was hired to paint poison on the figs in the palace. I think, Titus, you already knew this. The aim was to kill the Imperial family.’
Taken aback, I ask, ‘And how do you know this?’
‘Ah, now here I will refer back to our terms.’ Ulpius says. ‘I do not wish to say.’
I bite my tongue.
Ulpius says, ‘Coin was offered to Vettius, but then those who hired him did not think this sufficient. They desired something more, a pact sealed in the ways of the ancients.’
‘Torcus,’ I say.
Ulpius looks surprised; he claps his hands three times very slowly. ‘Bravo, Titus. Bravo. Maybe you are not all fire and sword after all. Yes, the cult of Torcus, from the bogs of Germany. Adherents have infiltrated Roman society since Rome’s defeat at the Teutoburg Pass.
‘Evil itself,’ I say, echoing the words I read in Caratacus’ letter.
Ulpius pauses; his mouth purses slightly. ‘Yes, very well-informed, aren’t you.’
I shake my head. ‘I
know very little.’
‘Well,’ Ulpius says, ‘I wish I could say the same. We have seen much of Torcus these past few years.’ Ulpius hesitates, censoring himself. ‘An ex-freedman from Nero’s court, Halotus, your father’s procurator in Asia, was an adherent. Five years ago, he and senator Marcellus, another adherent, tried to kill Marcus.’
Domitilla gasps at the name Marcellus. We exchange a look: you would have had me marry such a man.
The one-eyed man clears his throat.
Ulpius says, ‘Well, truth be told, we are still not certain about Marcellus.’
‘And are you the one responsible for Halotus’s murder?’ I ask.
Ulpius scratches his white-copper beard. He is being cute and I do not like it. ‘I think anyone would be reluctant to admit killing a procurator, vested as they are with Caesar’s power. But I can assure you his death is not related to any attempt on your father or the principate. Quite the opposite, in fact.’
‘We understand,’ Domitilla says. ‘Please go on.’
Ulpius clears his throat. ‘Where was I? Ah, yes, the body you discovered by the Tiber. That was the knight Vettius. Those plotting to take the purple did not trust that he would follow through on their instructions. So Vettius was brought to Rome. Torcus adherents use human sacrifice – murder – to forge oaths and therefore tie each other to a common cause. I take it Vettius was a better man than most and refused. So he became another victim.’
Domitilla asks, ‘I don’t understand. Vettius was killed before he painted the figs? Yet when Titus had them tested, one grove was entirely poisoned.’
‘I think your brother could answer that,’ Ulpius says.
I had been holding on to this bit of information as well, but apparently Ulpius knows everything I do and more.
‘One month ago,’ I say, ‘when it was decided Father would return from his absence from the city, Phoebus, the Imperial secretary, sacked one of the palace gardeners and hired a new one, the one responsible for the garden of Venus. I suspect this is the man who poisoned the figs.’
Ulpius is nodding. ‘Their original plot was not discovered, so they tried again. This time with a more compliant gardener.’
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