The battling ram slides between two massive columns of marble and slams against the temple doors and a hollow thud momentarily drowns out the screaming. Three times the ram is swung before the doors open with a thunderous crash.
The battling ram is dragged back and soldiers stream into the temple. The two brave men who went first get no more than a step or two inside before they are falling back onto the colonnade, bloodied and dying. Two more soldiers try and meet the same fate. I’m behind the next two, with Virgilius beside me, and we grab them by the belt and push them through the door. We are working with them, but they are also fodder, because wars cannot be won without fodder. We burst into the dark temple and a small army of traitors stab and swipe at us with sword and spear, as we push our way inside. The two men in front of Virgilius and I fall to the floor and we press forward, ramming our shields into the men in our path, stabbing our short blades when they are off balance. Muscle and sinew make way for steel but bone – the shoulder blade, I think – stops my sword dead. I pull out my blade and the man falls to the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blade flashing down toward my head; I turn, knowing I’m too late and I will be soon be dead, knowing I was careless pushing my way into this crowd of traitors without enough men to guard my flank, careless to the point I deserve to die by some disgraced soldier’s hand; but Virgilius is there, shield held high, sending the blow harmlessly to the side, and then I stab my assailant with three short controlled thrusts to the neck and the man’s blade falls from his grip and harmlessly clatters on the temple floor.
The screams of terror and anger and physical exhaustion are overtaken by my voice, calling my soldiers to me. And then my men are around us and we form a circle, backs aimed at the other, protecting each other’s flank. The traitors’ attention is on us, the circle of ten or so soldiers in the middle of the temple, letting more men stream through the doors. The battle is incrementally easier now, knowing my back is safe – and an increment in battle is everything.
I stab and slash while trying to get a sense of the room. Over the top of the battle, I can see a giant guarding a corner of the room. Montanus. It has to be, if the descriptions of the man are accurate. He is guarding something, likely his meal ticket, Marcellus. They can wait, for now. I see the boy Marcus and the freedman Theseus, working together, back to back, holding their own. By the door, there are dozens of my men, dead and gone. We took heavy losses getting in here, but the battle is beginning to turn. There is a cadence to battle, a musical beat, and it shifts as the fight wanes. It took years to learn how to hear it, to feel its ebb and flow; but I am an expert now, my ear pitch-perfect. Even with my eyes closed, I would know the battle is ours.
*
As the fight continues, the staccato of steel against steel is occasionally broken by the long, lugubrious moans of men dying. I find myself outside again, on the colonnade, fighting between marble columns. The sun is up now, unhindered in the blue.
Through the din I see Marcus, at the edge of the hill, with his hand shielding his eyes from the sun, observing. Something clicks, a conclusion is reached, and he is running down the Capitoline’s slope.
Marcellus. He is chasing Marcellus.
The battle has turned and the day is ours; but Marcellus cannot be allowed to escape. I chase after Marcus, down the hill, the ground falling away from me, and then through the forum. I sprint through the square into an alleyway. Then I follow a rabbit warren of curves, bending and turning, this way and that, with Marcus just out of sight.
I’m not sure whether I’ve lost him or not (I have made countless turns since I saw him last), so I slow my pace and, over my heavy dog-like panting, I listen.
Something is ahead of me. I move quietly towards the sound, with short efficient steps. I turn the corner and the alleyway opens up slightly, from one spear length wide to three. Marcus is there, with his back to me. Over his shoulder, I can see the giant Montanus, a sword in each hand. He is facing Marcus, like a cornered bear. Behind him, someone is cowering against the brick wall. Marcellus.
We are all breathing heavily. No one says a word.
Marcus twirls his blade the way gladiators do, to get the crowd behind them. I make a note: if we survive this encounter, I shall have to teach him how a soldier fights. There is never a twirl.
Marcus has surprised me before. But I think this man Montanus will prove too much. He is three times the boy’s size and a trained soldier.
The giant takes three deep breaths and I know he will strike at any moment.
I grab Marcus’s shoulder and yank him back as hard as I can. Marcus back pedals and falls to the ground behind me. At the same time, Montanus screams and flies toward us.
My sword is up just in time – just before the first blade would have cut my neck in two. The force of the collision sends me back and I stumble until I’m down on one knee, and then I raise my sword to meet Montanus’s just in time. We continue like this, a barrage of swords, cutting down towards me, and my sword only just saving my skin. Then the force of his blows are too much and I fall back. I see Montanus’ other sword go high into the air, higher than any before, to maximise the momentum and cleave me in two, but then a shadow leaps over me, before I’ve even hit the ground, and Marcus’s flashing blade plunges into Montanus’s exposed armpit. Montanus screams in agony and his foot slams into Marcus’s stomach. I jump to my feet and put one hand on Montanus’shoulder and begin to stab his flesh with a frenzied animal pace. Then Marcus is beside me, ploughing his blade deep into Montanus’s flesh.
Montanus falls to the ground. His last words are a whispering gasp; his eyes go wide, listless and empty.
I walk to Marcellus who is sitting on the ground, with his back against the bricks. He looks dejected. He will not put up a fight now. He made his play and he lost.
I stand over him.
‘No trial then?’ Marcellus says. He is looking at my sword, not me.
I shake my head. No.
Marcellus fiddles with his earlobe, like a child.
I raise my sword to his chin and gently angle it up, so he’s forced to look me in the eyes. He meets my stare, but only for a moment. Then his eyes lose focus and he looks away.
I am about to push my blade into the traitor’s neck, when I feel a hand gently take my arm.
I turn to Marcus.
‘Put him on trial,’ he says.
I shake off his hand. ‘You’d give him a trial? Didn’t he murder your friend and try to murder you?’
‘He did.’
‘He would have killed me and my family.’ My voice is rising despite my best efforts. ‘There would have been no trial.’
‘Yes,’ the boy says. ‘But he is a villain. You are Caesar’s son.’
For a moment, the only sound is heavy breathing, mine, the boys, Marcellus’s.
It pains me to admit it, to take advice from a boy, but he is right.
I sheath my sword and haul Marcellus up by the ear.
‘Trial it is.’ I say.
NERO
1 May, afternoon
The forum, Rome
I look for Marcus after the battle. Doryphorus guides me through the smoking, bloody chaos that is the forum. At first, he’d refused to take me anywhere. He had taken me home after the banquet to keep me safe. But I insisted, in the way only an ex-Caesar can, and he eventually complied.
It is sometime near the end of the second hour. Doryphorus walks me to the foot of the Capitoline, but even that is not close enough.
‘Put him in my arms,’ I say.
Doryphorus drags me through a crowd of tired soldiers laughing over their victory – laughing in the euphoric way only men who have cheated death can laugh. A body is pushed into my arms and, by the way it attempts to squirm free, I know it is Marcus.
‘My boy,’ I say. ‘My boy.’
‘I’m fine,’ Marcus says. He lets his body relax and, eventually, returns my embrace. ‘Marcellus has been arrested. He will be put on trial.’
/> ‘My boy,’ I say again, only now realising how concerned I was for his safety. ‘You did it.’
‘There is still so much more to do. Terentius is in the east and the man who staged the hand in the forum. . .’
‘Ssshhh,’ I say. ‘Battles for another day. I’m proud of you.’
Marcus pushes his way out of my arms. ‘Proud? You won’t be proud when you find out what I’ve done. I could have killed Marcellus. I had the opportunity. But I convinced Titus to put him on trial.’
‘And why would that disappoint me?’
‘You’ve killed every man responsible for your fall from power. But I let Marcellus live.’
I reach out for Marcus’s hand. I snap it in my claws and squeeze. I wish – not for the first time – I could look him in the eyes.
‘Yes, I admit, once all I wanted was to bring death to those who earned it and then retake the throne. But . . .’
I’ve hinted at this before, but never told him outright – I’ve never told any of them outright. Not Marcus or Doryphorus; not even Spiculus. They assumed the end goal was the purple, to be Caesar once more.
‘But I have come to realise that is not what I want. That night we almost lost you, on Rhodes – it was that night I realised you are more important to me than revenge. In fact, you are my revenge.’
‘What?’
I cannot see his eyes. I wish I could see his eyes.
‘I cannot take the purple back, Marcus. It is lost to me. And I am no longer the man who was emperor. He is dead and gone, and all that remains is a cripple – a brilliant, humorous cripple, but a cripple all the same. However, I have a better plan. You are my revenge because you will retake the purple. You will be emperor one day, the greatest Rome has ever known. That is why I have asked Titus to take you on his personal staff. He will give you the training you require.’
Marcus is angry. ‘That is idiotic. I cannot lead. I have servitude in my blood. I am a coward.’
‘What?’ I say, almost laughing at the absurdity. I reach out for his shoulders, to find them and give the boy a shake. ‘You’re no coward.’
‘I have been a coward my whole life. I have always been afraid. You called me coward yourself.’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘You did. Here in Rome, when you were still prisoner.’
‘Why, that’s false.’
‘You did. You said I was no Germanicus, that I’m not even a Corbulo.’
‘What?’
‘You once told me a man is either a Germanicus or a Corbulo. He either possesses magnificence of mind or he does not.’
What is the boy talking about? I’ve no recollection of this conversation.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask. ‘It sounds a stupid distinction. Explain it to me? I’m not sure I even understand it.’
According to the boy, I told him a story years ago, while I was still imprisoned, my eyes recently gone. I’ve no recollection but he remembers it word for word. Gods, I must have told him this to light a fire under him, but I’ve created a dichotomy to the world, one he’s tried to force himself into. I wasn’t a father then. I didn’t know the power of my words.
‘My boy, you’ve forgotten one of the first lessons I ever gave you. Know your man. You can listen to what a man tells you, but you have to understand the man himself, look at him critically. I was broken then, still shallow and self-absorbed, speaking to hear my own voice. Gods, I’m like that now. What I told you was rubbish. I never met my grandfather. I’ve no idea the man he was. I knew Corbulo, and I would describe him as neither coward nor brave.’
‘I let Orestes die,’ Marcus says suddenly. His voice cracks; he is on the verge of tears. ‘I could have stopped it.’
Spiculus once said Marcus and I are too similar. I thought it true at the time; but now, listening to the boy’s anger at himself, and his melancholy, I realise we couldn’t be more different. At his age, I thought myself infallible (‘king shit’, as my tutors used to say). Any good in the world was thanks to me, and any bad another man’s fault. Marcus, however, blames himself for everything. He puts so much on his shoulders, it is a wonder he doesn’t collapse.
‘No, you could not have stopped it,’ I say. ‘You were a child then. All the gods asked of you was to stop those men from doing so again, from polluting the Empire with their dark arts. And you’ve done that. You’re the bravest man I know.’
Marcus is crying.
His shoulders are in my grip. I pull him in close.
‘I’m proud of you,’ I say, squeezing him tightly. ‘So very proud.’
Yes, Marcus and I are different. And he is the better man.
XXIX
Epilogue
A.D. 79
DOMITILLA
4 May, sunset
The Imperial palace, Rome
The night of Titus’s victory, while there was still the hum of excitement coursing through the palace, as we drank wine and planned future festivities, Father took ill. Although the illness was not particularly serious, it detracted from our collective mood. Father’s doctors advised that he should go north, where a cooler climate will be less oppressive over the summer months ahead. Titus thought it a good idea. We were victorious against Marcellus and his ilk, but we are not invincible. If Father is going to be bedridden, recovering from whatever illness he has, he should be away from the city’s more jaundiced eyes.
I visit Father the night before he is to depart. I cross paths with a man as I walk in. He is tall, in a black robe, with matching beard, and deep-set eyes. He stops to bow as I pass him by.
Father is in bed, sitting, with blankets of purple silk strewn over his legs, and his face is lit up by a constellation of braziers stationed around his bed. The room smells of burnt oil, sweat, and incense, heavy with cinnamon and clove.
‘Father,’ I say, ‘How are you?’
I take a seat on a stool beside him. Four blobs of perspiration dot his forehead. One pops and slides to the tip of his nose.
‘Fine, fine,’ he says.
‘Who was that man?’
‘The man who was just here? He is my physician.’
‘Oh, I remember you having a different man, a little Greek fellow.’
‘Yes, well, that man was clueless with my gout. So I’ve replaced him with a man who comes highly recommended by Nerva. He has done wonders already. I’m confident he can handle a cold.’
I fuss with Father’s pillow, fluffing it while he leans forward.
‘Oh, is it only a cold now?’
He smiles before letting a puppy-sized cough escape. ‘Yes, this a cold. Nothing more.’ He winces with discomfort, shifts his weight, winces again. He says, ‘How is your sister?’
‘She is . . . upset. She hasn’t left Caecina’s side.’
Father’s eyebrow curls in surprise. ‘Still alive, eh? I predicted today would be his last. I saw the blow Titus landed. It cleaved the Turncoat’s collarbone in two. Most men would have expired on the spot. It appears the playboy is made of sterner stuff than I thought. Do we have your sister to thank?’
‘She has hired excellent doctors.’
‘Will he live?’
‘Titus thinks not.’
Caesar nods. ‘It is easier that way. Marcellus’s trial will have fewer . . . distractions with Caecina gone.’ Something occurs to Caesar. He says, ‘Does the city know my daughter sits at the bedside of a conspirator?’
‘I don’t believe he was a conspirator, Father. I think Titus was mistaken.’
‘What does that matter? Once an accusation is made it’s as good as true. Oh don’t look at me like that, my dear. I didn’t make the people the way they are; I didn’t make them devoid of intelligence and happy to accept the worst. Titus named Caecina a traitor when he drew his blade. Whether he is or not, there is no going back now, not in the people’s eyes.’
What does one say to that?
He says, ‘Talk to her. She should not be with him.’
‘You know Ve
spasia. She is stubborn.’
‘Well, make her understand. I’ve no doubt you will be able to.’ He fiddles with his sheets. ‘Would you get your father another blanket?’
I walk only a pace or two before a slave hands me a blanket. I flick it open above the bed and let it drift down, slow as a snowflake, over Caesar’s person. I resume my vigilance on the stool.
He says, ‘You have been a help, my dear, these last few weeks. I have made a note of it; I have learned my lesson. I intend to involve you more in matters of state – behind the scenes of course – you are a woman and this is Rome after all – but you are an asset the principate intends to use.’ Father is staring at the mound his belly makes under his purple sheets. Finally, he turns his eyes to mine; he smiles. ‘I’d forgotten you’ve your grandmother’s blood in you, a streak of strength that overcomes your sex. The Sabine stubbornness, she called it. Do you know I was scared shitless of the woman? So was my father. Hell, so was all of Reate. She was a pipsqueak, the size of a child, but her voice was a hammer; she could bludgeon you with it. My father was twice the size of her and a veteran, but it didn’t matter. She said jump and he said how high.’ Father stares dreamily at the wall, remembering ghosts. ‘Voice and pedigree . . . in any marriage, those are the best weapons, good breeding and a voice that will carry.’
Father coughs; he shifts his weight three times until he gives up.
‘I will need you to use your voice in the coming months.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your brother loves you. You help humanise the general, when he allows it. When I am gone, you must make sure he relies on you.’
‘When you are gone? You mean while you are recovering in Reate?’
Father doesn’t answer.
He takes my hands in his; he looks me in the eye. On the surface, to anyone watching, the act is nothing of note, only a father holding his daughter’s hands. But the sudden act of intimacy reminds me how little there has been between us. He smiles and, in the corner of his left eye, there may be a glimmer of a tear. But this is all he is able to muster.
David Page 40
