‘What of the hand then?’ Virgilius asks. ‘And Plautius?’
‘This is – so to speak – where the plot thickens.’ Ulpius is smiling. The eccentric is enjoying himself. ‘The hand and Plautius’s disappearance were part of the second plot.’
‘The second plot?’ Virgilius furrows his brow.
‘There is always more than one plot,’ Ulpius says. ‘There are more than a thousand senators, only a fraction of which have your father’s favour. And there are even more knights. And you have Praetorians looking to rise by tying themselves to a senator on the make. By my calculation, Nero averaged three plots a year.’
‘So what of the second plot? Who is behind that?’ I ask, with growing impatience.
‘That I do not know,’ Ulpius says. ‘We are fairly certain the hand in the forum and Plautius’s disappearance were more subtle attempts to undermine Caesar, not necessarily a plot to kill him. But whoever is behind it, he is far more discreet than the followers of Torcus. His technique – I must admit – is quite clever. He hires the same thugs as Torcus, which helps insulate him from discovery. For anyone asking questions – if they lacked the necessary deliberateness – it would be easy to conclude Torcus is responsible for all of it.’
‘Is it Caecina?’ I ask, already convinced of his involvement.
‘No, I don’t believe so.’
Ulpius explains how Marcus and Theseus saved Calenus this morning, in the sewers, before Calenus drank himself into a stupor. Apparently, they interrogated someone. Ulpius explains everything they learned about this gang and its leader, Montanus. How they were apparently hired by Marcellus and another mysterious figure.
‘I do not think Caecina is involved,’ Ulpius says. ‘He is a playboy. He is content bedding the beauties of Rome. And this shadowy figure had Montanus fed false information to Plautius while he was imprisoned, which aimed to frame myself and Caecina. For Caecina to set himself up like that . . . I think it unlikely.’
Domitilla asks: ‘Fed him information? How?’
Ulpius says, ‘Plautius told your brother he overheard his captors speaking of a “blind man” and “the Turncoat”. He says reference was made to both men repeatedly, and then he escaped. Plautius is slow-witted enough that this transparent attempt to mislead was lost on him. He genuinely thought he overheard sound information before escaping. The plan had been to let him escape and come to Rome, so that he could – I suppose – run and tell you what he’d heard. But he panicked and found himself paddling a ship for several months. If you want to know who this mysterious senator is, I would look first at those who knew Plautius was in the south; someone who had the head start to have him abducted.’
I try to recall who I told. Father, certainly. Antonia, Regulus, Virgilius, and Ptolemy. Were there more? ‘That is a hopeless exercise. What if a person I told inadvertently told someone else?’
Ulpius nods. ‘Yes, there is difficulty there.’
‘And who made the attempt on my life?’ Domitilla asks.
‘It was one of Montanus’s men, certainly,’ Ulpius says. ‘But we do not think it was Marcellus who arranged it. He was engaged to you at the time. It was a great rise in fortune. And it would have legitimised his claim to the throne. If Caesar and his sons were dead, Domitilla’s husband would be a natural choice for emperor. We suspect it was the same shadowy figure who orchestrated the hand, someone who sought to ensure Marcellus’s claim to the throne no stronger than anyone else’s, by ending the engagement to Caesar’s daughter – ending it the simplest way possible.’
Domitilla blanches at the callousness of Roman politics.
Finally, I ask: ‘Who are the members of Torcus?’
Ulpius counts names on his fingers. ‘Marcellus, we are almost certain. Lepida, I think. Likely Phoebus, given what we know of the fig trees. Praetorians will be involved as well, but we do not know which.’
‘Why do you suspect Praetorians are involved?’ Domitilla asks.
‘It is not a suspicion, but an inevitability,’ Ulpius says. ‘The days of the senate naming the emperor are gone. Now the Praetorian Guard rules Rome. The senate cowers and does what they say. Your father was smart enough to understand this. That’s why he named Titus prefect. But those below him could be swayed by the promise of money or a promotion.’
Theseus says, ‘It is likely that at least one of your officers is involved. The conspirators will need an officer to take control of the situation. You will be dead, so an officer will be able to fill the void and rush their chosen man off to the Praetorian camp to have him proclaimed emperor. Do you know of any unhappy, prideful officers?’
‘Of course. Most officers are prideful and unhappy.’ I think of Regulus, though this is the first time I think him capable of such a thing. Our collective ignorance is frustrating. It eats at me. ‘So you have more questions than answers, Ulpius.’
‘That is true,’ Ulpius says. ‘But I also have a plan.’
Virgilius finally speaks up. ‘A plan?’ We have moved from theory to actionable tasks, his bread and oil.
‘Yes,’ Ulpius says, ‘we set a trap.’
‘A trap?’ Domitilla asks, sceptically.
‘My sources inside the palace have told me the story of the figs,’ Ulpius says. ‘It’s good you have kept the experiment quiet.’
‘You are not short of information, are you, Ulpius?’
Ulpius smiles. ‘We are on the same side, Titus. Do not worry about what I know. I think we can use the figs to our advantage. Throw a feast. Serve figs. Let the guests think they are from the palace. Anyone who declines to eat them – well, we will have our traitors.’
Virgilius snorts with approval; he appreciates boldness.
‘And what of the second plot,’ Domitilla asks. ‘What of this shadowy figure?’
‘A battle for another day,’ Ulpius says.
‘What’s your interest in this?’ I say to Ulpius. ‘This is all because the cult tried to kill Marcus?’
‘In part, yes. I am loath to forgive a transgression. And I have a favour to ask . . .’
Here it is. I should get a stylus and tablet to record the appointments he seeks, and the elephant size chest of coin.
‘I would like a word,’ Ulpius says, ‘in private.’
DOMITILLA
30 April, sunset
The Campus Martius, Rome
The guests begin to arrive as the sun is setting; thirty senators and their wives, Imperial secretaries, knights, and a handful of Praetorians. Titus and I wrote the guest list ourselves. Marcellus, Lepida, Caecina, Phoebus and their hangers-on were the first names added. Others followed. Influential senators, such as Nerva, and people in our inner circle, like cousin Sabinus, Epaphroditus, Secundus and Graecina. And those we are almost certain are not involved, such as Vespasia and Domitian, because their absence would be conspicuous. Titus also invited several Praetorian officers. I think he suspects one in particular, though he hasn’t said who. And of course Ulpius and Marcus. Word spread quickly once the invitations started to go out. It is now considered the event of the year. Father is not one for lavish parties, so a massive banquet thrown by Caesar instantly captured the city’s attention.
We’ve cleared space in the Campus Martius as Nero used to do, draining the lake and filling it with tables and couches. Ulpius suggested it. ‘Being away from the palace may make the conspirators bolder,’ he said. ‘Plus it makes for a better party.’ Dozens of couches are set up along four long tables, all facing each other creating a perfect square. Massive torches are lit. Slaves – hundreds of them – weave to and fro. The April air – cool but not cold – fuses with the torches, giving the air a pitch-perfect warmth. ‘A good evening to catch a traitor,’ Titus says as we make our way from the palace, arm in arm.
Father knows the plan and he is happy with it. ‘Fine, fine,’ he said. ‘Make me the bait. Titus is the better hook in any event.’ We haven’t told anyone else, as Ulpius advised. ‘You don’t know who you can trust,�
� he said. We haven’t even told Vespasia or Domitian. Father likely told Graecina but he tells her everything.
Vespasia and I greet the guests as they arrive. Vespasia’s hair is crimped and twirled into a heap on her head. Her shoulders and neck jut out of pink silk. As is often the case, my style is more conservative: less curls, less skin, less blush.
Ulpius and Marcus, accompanied by the Persian and Theseus, are among the first to arrive.
‘My dear,’ Ulpius says. ‘There will be a fine turnout by all reports.’
‘Let us hope so,’ I say.
‘Excuse my sister,’ Vespasia says, oblivious to the conversation’s subtext. ‘She has never been described as an optimist.’
‘There is nothing wrong with a little caution, my dear.’ Ulpius says. ‘I will see you inside.’
Nerva arrives with the Batavian. Ever since the Batavian became famous in the wild beast hunts, Nerva brings him to every public event. Thankfully, the Batavian keeps his blue eyes aimed at the ground and Vespasia has no fodder for a joke.
Epaphroditus arrives alone. He moves gingerly, as he always does after his unexplained disappearance, with his useless arm in a sling. He speaks politely, eyes aimed at the ground, and shuffles inside.
Caecina and his wife are the next to arrive. While I am speaking to his wife, Caecina and Vespasia’s eyes lock – only for a moment, but it is unmistakeable. How did I not know they were lovers before she confessed? They are as conspicuous as a gladiator in a toga.
After the last guest arrives, Vespasia and I make our way to the tables. We pass under an arch made entirely of rose and myrtle, golden in the torchlight. Vespasia was put in charge of the decorations and I think she may have out done herself. She thinks this a true banquet, not a ruse to flush out traitors.
I have arranged to sit with Ulpius. I have grown to like the man’s company, and I want his insights as the evening progresses.
We had determined the figs should be served with the second course, to let the guests get comfortable, but not too late that conspirators may be too drunk and unable to react properly.
The first course is oysters and fresh fish from the Bay, which the palace slaves carry out on polished silver trays with matching domes and reveal the dish all at once, with a flourish. A slave announces the dish and its origin.
‘Your brother should sit,’ Ulpius says. ‘His pacing makes him look like he is waiting for calamity.’
For a moment, the fact he knows my brother is pacing catches me off guard, until I recall that his Persian whispers everything in his ear.
‘Titus is always pacing.’ I say. ‘It would seem strange if he were not. If he was laughing the entire party would run home and barricade themselves inside.’
Ulpius puts his hands up. ‘I relent,’ he says, smiling.
At the table across from us, Father is sitting beside Secundus and Graecina. Two seats over is Marcellus. Beside him is Lepida, Nero’s former mistress. The Praetorian officers are sitting to my right, twenty or so. Tonight they have set aside their armour in favour of brightly coloured tunics and dinner jackets. A feast is one of their few opportunities to show their sense of style. Half of them appear quite drunk, laughing and yelling and carrying on. The other half are quiet. One in particular – what is his name? Regulus, I think – is watching Titus with a scowl.
Vespasia is seated at the table on my left. She stands up and excuses herself. As she walks away from her table, she looks over her shoulder and smiles at Caecina. The exchange is subtle; I doubt I would have noticed if I didn’t know what I do.
The Persian is pulled away by Theseus. Ulpius says to me, ‘My dear, I am without my eyes so to speak. The second course will be out soon. I would ask you describe what you see. In particular, the exchequer Epaphroditus. I am curious what he does.’
I agree to do as Ulpius asks and then, almost on cue, a parade of slaves march out with the second course. Domed silver platters are placed onto the tables and all at once – in a flourish – the tops are removed. A slave announces, ‘Figs, fresh from the palace gardens.’
I try to watch everyone, to see what they do in this exact moment. Titus is to my right, behind his officer’s table, observing. His grey-haired soldier Virgilus is beside him. Marcellus is motionless, like a statue. He does not reach for the figs, but instead whispers to Lepida. At the same time, Caecina stands up and walks from the table. But is he running from the figs or to my sister? Epaphroditus takes a fig and, throwing his head back, drops it with aplomb into his mouth.
‘Epaphroditus ate a fig, so too did senator Nerva,’ I say to Ulpius. ‘Marcellus has not. Nor did Caecina or Lepida.’
‘Epaphroditus ate a fig, did he? Good. Good. A man of his word, it seems.’
I’m about to ask Ulpius what he means when Marcellus stands. So too does the officer Regulus. Marcellus – in an instant – disappears in a ring of his slaves. Regulus tries to step away from the table but Virgilius is there. He grabs Regulus by the collar, spins him around . . .
And then they are wrestling, fighting over a dagger each grips above their heads. A fight in the midst of a banquet seems surreal. Most guests watch in quiet shock.
Titus meanwhile is walking at full pace towards Caecina. Titus calls his name. Caecina turns. Titus draws his blade (hidden under his tunic) and slashes at Caecina. The blade cuts at his neck and shoulder. A splash of dark blood flies through the air. Caecina collapses.
Chaos ensues. Two dozen armed Praetorians surround the banquet. Titus is shouting out orders. The guests are crying out in shock. Several of the Praetorian officers are trying to fight their way out.
Vespasia runs back into the square. She falls to Caecina’s bloodied body, sobbing and screaming. She is hysterical. Titus stands confused for a moment, but the general takes over. He speaks to his soldiers pointing at Lepida and then in the direction Marcellus went.
I sense movement behind me. I turn and see the Batavian, standing a few paces behind me, watching the chaos intently. I wonder what he is doing – his duty is to Nerva and Nerva is not in the vicinity. And then I realise he is standing guard over me, amid the bedlam. I stand up and step back from the table. The Batavian steps in front of me. He turns back and says, ‘Safe.’
Ulpius is standing now; he grabs my arm. ‘What is happening, my dear?’
I turn back to the tables. I say, ‘Lepida has been taken into custody. So too has the Praetorian Regulus. Marcellus has escaped with several Praetorian officers. Caecina has been . . . I think he is dead.’
‘I see,’ Ulpius says. ‘And Caesar lives?’
In the chaos, I had forgotten about Father. I look to him. He is standing behind his couch. Secundus holds him by the shoulder. A slave girl hands Father a cup of wine. Father downs the cup and hands it back to the girl. When the slave girl turns, I see her face. Her one, thick eyebrow reminds me of my grandmother.
TITUS
1 May, cockcrow
The forum, at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, Rome
We wait for the sun to rise. The Temple of Jupiter sits in shadow at the top of the Capitoline. Massive columns of white marble surround the building; the black beyond hides an army of traitors.
‘How many are inside?’ I ask.
We are kneeling. In front of us, spread out on the ground is a model of the forum and the hill we are about to take, made from blocks of wood, little branches, and a stale, hard-as-hooves loaf of bread. Behind us, a mass of Praetorians stand at the ready.
‘Two hundred, I’d say,’ Virgilius says. ‘But that is only a guess.’
‘How many do we have?’
‘After the defections, about the same number, I’d say.’
‘How many armoured Praetorians do they have?’
‘Sixty, maybe seventy, I think. But many of the others are former soldiers – Montanus and his men,’ Virgilius says. ‘And they have the high ground. Taking the temple will be difficult.’
After Marcellus and his fellow conspirators were
exposed, the banquet descended into chaos. Somehow Marcellus and a handful of traitors and their slaves fought their way free. I took half of our men and whisked Father off to the palace. Meanwhile Virgilius and others followed the traitors into the city. A few skirmishes occurred in the streets until Marcellus rendez-voused with Montanus and his band of criminals. Clearly they had planned for such an event. Outnumbered, Virgilius had to back down. The conspirators rallied together and took refuge in the Temple of Jupiter, easily the most difficult building in all of Rome to take by force. Difficult, but not impossible.
Behind me, over my shoulder, Marcus says, ‘What of Cerialis’s men?’
He and Theseus have joined us, as though we’d invited them to our counsel. I should tell him to leave (this is no place for a boy), but I’ve no time. Anyway, I’d made a promise to his uncle.
‘They started marching north three days ago,’ Virgilius says.
‘We cannot wait for them,’ I say. ‘This ends today.’
‘Do you have a plan?’ Virgilius asks.
Virgilius and I have fought many battles together. Every so often I would devise an ingenious plan that saved lives and brought victory, quickly and efficiently. This is not one of those times.
‘There is no plan. When the sun rises we take the hill. The longer we give them, the deeper they’ll dig in. We concentrate our forces here.’ I point at the loaf of bread, which is the Temple of Jupiter in our model.
Virgilius looks at Marcus. ‘If he is going to come with us, he’d better have a cuirass. And a sword.’
*
The sun peeks over the Aventine and the world is awash in May’s brilliant morning light. I take my sword from its scabbard, raise it into the air, and tip it forward. More than one hundred soldiers start to advance. The sound of us jogging up the hill – armour rattling, heavy breathing – overtakes the eerie quiet.
Halfway up the hill, the twenty men holding the battering ram take the lead. One man starts a bloodcurdling cry; then the rest of the men chime in and a wall of furious screaming advances against Rome’s greatest monument.
David Page 39
