‘So would I,’ said Octavian.
The augur had to steady himself against a column.
Thinking only of the unborn child she carried, Livia cradled little Julia while descending the temple steps. If she saw me among the crowd of well-wishers casting walnuts at her feet, she gave no sign of it. I said nothing to draw attention to myself, of course, but I guessed the words she said to herself. They were words of confirmation, repeated over and over, as loudly as she could without speaking them.
She told herself she loved this new baby. She told herself she loved Julia as her own. The more she said it, the more she almost began to believe it.
The Ides of the month was reached without a visit from Octavian’s men. Desperate for news, yet dreading what he still might learn, Tiberius Nero summoned me to go the Forum and listen to the praeco’s bulletin.
I returned within an hour, animated with information I hoped would cure him.
‘You have heard something, Iphicles?’
‘Oh, domine, the gods have surprises for you – there has been an unexpected development.’
But Tiberius Nero was so accustomed to anxiety he couldn’t conceive of things being any different. He felt his heart skip with another onslaught of palpitations. ‘Not my son …’
I fell into a panic. ‘Domine – it’s good news! You misunderstand me!’
But Tiberius Nero’s skin went blue and he fell into unconsciousness.
I flew back to the shopfront of the Sabine doctor and pounded on the door. ‘My master – please help my master!’ On the Field of Mars across the river the crowds were roaring at the Equirria, the sacred horse races held in honour of the god of war. I pitied the horse destined to win; it was so ignorant of what the prize would be.
The doctor opened the door but was grim. ‘Is he dead then?’
‘He’s in a state – he can’t be woken up. But he breathes – please come and help him.’
‘It’s pointless.’
‘But he still lives.’
‘By the strength of his will. But the will of others to see him dead is stronger. They’ll kill him in the end.’
‘You’re wrong – you’re completely wrong! It’s not that at all.’ I remembered so clearly, of course, how my domina had sworn to Martina that she would never sink to killing Tiberius Nero, so the Sabine had to be false in his insinuation.
He thought me a simpleton. ‘Consider your own situation now, slave,’ he said coldly, ‘and of who will inherit you when he’s gone.’
I was so distressed that my legs gave out from under me and I fell in the dust. Disgusted, the doctor closed the door on me.
I didn’t hurry home. With the doctor’s words in my head I could see no reason to. The path I took was a blind and meaningless one, as I skirted the river until I started crossing the Fabricius Bridge. I landed on the little Tiber island and found myself staring through the open door of the Temple of Aesculapius – the god of medicine. The bleak irony wasn’t lost on me.
‘I curse you god for letting that shit of a Sabine make people believe he can cure them,’ I murmured. ‘At my master’s funeral I will stand and denounce your doctor as a fraud. They can torture me to recant it but I never will.’ I spat on the temple threshold and then ran when a sacristan saw me.
As I crossed the Fabricius Bridge again, nearing the swarming Field of Mars, a mob of Equirria racegoers ran whooping and bellowing along the Vicus Aesculeti towards me. I pressed hard against a shop wall as they careered drunkenly past. From their jeers and distinctive colours I saw that this mob was from the teeming Subura district. Their leader had the severed head of the winning Equirria horse under his arm, its dripping brains and juices soaking his tunic.
The horse’s prize had been the honour of being sacrificed to Mars, of course, and the traditional brawl between the warring urban mobs over who would claim the head was in progress. The Subura had it now but thugs from the Via Sacra would ambush them before they reached their home turf.
In the wake of the mob, two young patrician men were dignified in contrast. They raced swiftly along the paving stones to polite applause from those who appreciated them. They handled the horse’s severed tail between them, held carefully with the wound upright to the sky so as not to spill blood. On their way to the Regia in the Forum – the office of the pontifex maximus – they would pass the tail to a sacred vestal virgin, who would drip the blood onto the hearth. No-one would fight them for this trophy, so I followed in the wake of the two runners to spare myself the violence that would come with the mob.
I returned at sunset to Tiberius Nero’s house on the Palatine. Inside was only silence. The other slaves had retired to the back rooms. I called for little Tiberius, but there was no answer. I entered Tiberius Nero’s bedroom to find it lit by a single lamp. Little Tiberius was curled asleep next to his father’s grey, unmoving body. I shook the boy, sobbing.
‘Little one … Please, little one … You can’t sleep here now.’
But it was Tiberius Nero who awoke.
When I recovered from the shock of finding him still alive, I delivered the news I had gleaned hours earlier from the praeco: Livia had proved rash in her threat to take her son away from Tiberius Nero. While he was happy to twist his own legislation, Octavian would not abuse Rome’s most ancient laws.
Little Tiberius would stay with his father.
As I laid my head on my pallet that night, I drifted to sleep as I always did, thinking of my domina. Some months later I learned how she passed those same hours of darkness.
Octavian gulped his wine and Livia made the appearance of doing the same, yet she swallowed only air. She wanted her head to stay clear from now on; she needed to think. But Octavian was hard already and entered her before Palamedes had taken the drained cup from his hand. Livia’s sex was raw and dry around his, but it meant nothing to Octavian, who knew only his own pleasure.
He lifted her easily in his arms and shoved her against the wall, splayed and pinned against him. From the other side some one thumped against the plaster in complaint, oblivious to the identity of the man who disturbed his sleep. My domina gave herself to the pain of this intercourse, shouting with it, knowing she would be taken three or four more times before the dawn was upon them. Cleopatra’s advantage still worked; Octavian was enslaved by Martina’s wine. My domina could not complain.
But her head was filled with little Tiberius.
He would never be one of the four who ruled. Livia knew this in her heart; the first of the four was in her womb. But still Livia loved the boy – and the father who would raise him was inferior. Octavian would be a better father to her son, my domina was sure.
Livia let her mind wander until it reached the occasion of her first meeting with Martina. It had not been at Lollia’s house at all, of course – she knew that now. The first meeting had occurred at Fulvia’s deathbed. Whether it was a trick of the eye or some other sorcery, the beautiful Martina had also been the aged Egyptian crone who had murdered Antony’s wife on behalf of Cleopatra.
Livia then recalled what she had later said in response to Martina when rejecting her little glass vial: ‘I’m not the great queen.’ Disgusted, Martina had agreed. Yet some months later, Livia had found that the little glass vial had been used by Martina on her behalf. Tiberius Nero had been brought close to death by its poison.
This, Livia realised, was Martina’s call to her; she wanted Livia to know that she could still be just like the great queen, if only she had the courage and stealth. After all, the contents of the vial had brought Livia glory, not destruction. Martina meant this success to inspire Livia.
And inspire her it did.
As Livia rode the thrusts of the new husband inside her, she turned her mind towards becoming more like Cleopatra through a plan that would regain her lost son.
Bona Dea
December, 39 BC
Two months later: Antony’s forces,
under the general Publius Ventidius
&nbs
p; Bassus, achieve a third consecutive
victory over Parthia
I filled every spare minute that I had to call my own staring at the Timanthes. On some days I had only a few precious portions of time. On others I found myself with many more when Tiberius Nero took his son for walks along the wharf. On days like those I stood motionless before the painting, letting the image of the mother and son transport me to a time when I still had my domina’s love. Tiberius Nero came home one afternoon and caught me so engrossed in the painting that I didn’t hear his voice. He never once questioned why the treasure had reappeared among his household items when Livia had claimed to have given it to Juno.
Afterwards I took on a new chore, one far beneath my rank of ordinarius slave, but one I was happy to perform. I wiped the oil lamp soot from the atrium walls every morning – a lowly job meant for a vulgarius slave, but I didn’t care. It gave me an hour alone with my domina.
This is how I was engaged when the door-knock came that ultimately reunited me with her. It was not Livia at the door but the end of a long skein of wool that would guide me through the labyrinth to find her again.
I recognised the identity of a young man bearing a letter.
Tiberius Nero accepted the cup of wine from his new neighbour with gratitude as he examined the day’s letters that I handed him. He drank deeply, putting the first of the missives aside, and then sighed with contentment. ‘It’s excellent,’ he agreed.
‘I’ll buy you some amphorae of it when I visit Pompeii next week,’ said his neighbour, Quintus, happily.
‘You’re too generous. You act like we’ve known each other for years.’
‘I feel as if we have,’ said Quintus, meaning it.
In a spontaneous gesture of sheer happiness, Tiberius Nero leapt from his chair, grabbed the other young man by his fleshy protruding ears and kissed him once on each cheek. Then he threw the dregs of his cup of wine at him, laughing.
‘You arse.’ Quintus pitched his own cup at Tiberius Nero’s skull, landing a glancing blow that bounced the cup to my shoulder and then straight into startled little Tiberius’s hands as the boy entered the chilly terrace.
‘Are you and our neighbour fighting, Father?’
Tiberius Nero and Quintus made an effort to be sober. ‘We were just being silly, son.’ Tiberius Nero rubbed his head and picked up the letters and scrolls from where he’d kicked them over. ‘Where is Quintus Secundus?’
‘Hiding from me,’ said the boy.
‘Well, go and find him then. And don’t worry about us. We’re quite happy talking out here.’
Tiberius went inside the villa again in search of Quintus’s young son. Tiberius Nero breathed deep the sea air of Herculaneum and unrolled some more correspondence. ‘I despise Octavian and all those he fucks, but I am grateful he returned my properties to me.’
‘So am I,’ said Quintus. ‘Your place down here was always so empty. My son and I prefer having neighbours who actually live here now.’
‘I should have come down here more often – perhaps I’d still have a wife.’
‘Oh, I doubt it,’ Quintus mused. ‘Octavian’s still got the biggest prick in Rome. You never stood a chance.’
Tiberius Nero’s eyes narrowed, but Quintus’s own were wide-eyed in mock innocence. ‘Did I say something insensitive?’
Tiberius Nero couldn’t hold the laugh in. ‘Don’t make me get the measuring stick out if it’s a dick competition you’re seeking, Quintus. Your tears will humiliate us.’
Quintus sloshed some more wine into the cups. ‘So then, now that you’ve waved goodbye to Rome, how do you find the life down here? Truthfully?’
Tiberius Nero considered. ‘I wondered if I’d miss the city’s pleasures … but I’ve found that Campania’s distractions, while on a simpler scale, are very restorative. I had a heart malady before I left – the doctors didn’t know what it was. But here it has gone away completely’.
‘Must be something in the water,’ said Quintus.
‘I think it must be. I go for long walks along the shore with Tiberius – we’re being taught the art of fishing with a string and hook by some of the men there.’
‘Isn’t it easier just to walk past the fish market?’
‘Considerably,’ Tiberius Nero laughed.
They watched the sea birds dive and swoop on a shoal far out to sea and Tiberius Nero opened another uninteresting scroll that I passed him. ‘Catching the meal myself gives me time for contemplation;’ he went on. ‘Another reason my heart has improved. I have looked within myself, finding answers to explain my life’s path.’
‘And what answers have you arrived at?’
‘That I treated Livia harshly – that I belittled her sharp mind,’ Tiberius Nero said. ‘I was threatened by her wit and intelligence. I never appreciated what an asset she could’ve been in my political career in the time when she still loved me. She made suggestions that would have helped me in my advancement, and all of them I only paid lip-service to at best.’
‘But she’s a woman,’ said Quintus. ‘What could she know about all that?’
‘Everything her father taught her – he was one of Caesar’s killers.’
Quintus gave a long whistle, impressed.
‘I can only presume,’ Tiberius Nero continued, ‘that Octavian glimpsed the brain she holds and has seen it for what it can bring.’
‘I can only presume that Octavian glimpsed the titties she holds and really likes fucking her,’ said Quintus.
Tiberius Nero rolled his eyes. ‘You’re deliberately provocative, aren’t you?’
Quintus stood and stretched. ‘Tell you what, Tiberius Nero, what we need to do is get you out and about more. Get you meeting the right people.’
‘I’ve been out and about,’ said Tiberius Nero, ‘and I’ve had many invitations. I came to Herculaneum thinking my social status would be in ruins but it has proved otherwise. I’ve had a run of dull evenings thanks to a number of husband-free women who all seemed very keen to bed me.’
‘Delightful! And did you?’
‘I did not,’ said Tiberius Nero. ‘None of them were suitable.’
‘Congratulations on remembering to pack your snobbery,’ Quintus said dryly.
Tiberius Nero opened the final item of correspondence and saw what it was. This was the prompt I had been waiting patiently for and I stepped forward.
‘Domine, the slave that delivered this letter has remained in the house to take your reply back to his mistress.’
‘Mistress?’ Quintus’s ears pricked up.
‘Yes, Quintus, it’s another invitation – look.’ Tiberius Nero passed the scroll to his neighbour, bored. ‘Send the slave back home,’ he said to me.
I hid my terrible disappointment. ‘As you wish, domine.’
‘Wait!’ Quintus stayed him. ‘Do you realise who this mistress is?’
Tiberius Nero looked at the name again – Rutilia of the Picenii. ‘Her name isn’t patrician.’
‘Neither is mine,’ said Quintus, ‘but you’re still talking to me. For the gods’ sake, wake up, Tiberius Nero. Rutilia of the Picenii is a very rich widow. She’s just bought a nice big villa here. And from what I’ve heard, she hates being alone – she’s husband-shopping!’
With reluctance, and only to satisfy Quintus, Tiberius Nero asked me to send this Rutilia’s slave to him. Once I had done so they were amazed by the sight of a lavishly dressed youth, no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, who possessed such an impressive body that they drew salacious conclusions as to what other services he might perform for his widowed domina.
‘She has to be rich to have bought and clothed this specimen,’ said Quintus.
But Tiberius Nero was incredulous. ‘How can I possibly dine with such a woman? I’ll be the subject of gossip.’
‘And you’re not already? What have you got to lose?’
But Tiberius Nero began to ink a note of polite decline on the back of the invitation. As he pause
d for a moment to think of the right words, he had a flash of recognition of the slave’s features.
I began to perspire.
‘Did you once fight in the arena?’ he asked the lad.
The slave was exposed but denied it. ‘No, domine. Not me.’
‘Don’t give me that. I recognise you. You’re a Dacian.’
‘Not me, domine. You’re mistaken.’
Tiberius Nero laughed. ‘Your accent proves you a liar. Come on, own up. You were a favourite there for a while, weren’t you? You had one of those funny little names you gladiators give yourselves; a joke name. Something to make us think you weren’t ferocious. What was it?’
The giant youth was silent and Quintus was no help, not being a fan of the games. Tiberius Nero studied the youth. ‘Was it Kitten?’
I had stopped breathing. The slave said nothing, which in itself was confirmation.
I waited for Tiberius Nero to make the connection that I had, but he didn’t. Then I realised why. He had never been to Kitten’s Rome household. My hope remained.
Tiberius Nero reconsidered. ‘Tell me of your mistress then, Kitten.’
‘She is very rich and very beautiful,’ said the young giant – adding as an afterthought, ‘And widowed.’
‘What did I tell you?’ said Quintus, pleased.
Tiberius Nero tore up the note of rejection. He would attend.
Later that night, as he hugged Tiberius to sleep in his arms, Tiberius Nero told the boy something that he hoped would be pleasing to his young ears. ‘I’m going to begin the search to find you a new mother.’
Having seen nor heard nothing of Livia in months, this news was not distressing to little Tiberius. He had almost forgotten who she was.
Tiberius Nero left for the wealthy widow’s home at sunset the next day, with me as his only accompanying slave. He had taken particular care in his appearance, shaved and oiled at the baths and was wearing a new tunica of red silk. When we reached the villa we were shown into the atrium by the giant. Flutes were piping somewhere within the house, although we couldn’t see the players. Tiberius Nero dismissed me.
Not knowing where I should go, I found myself a seat in a corner and watched. As my young master waited for his hostess’s arrival, first one, then another of the lamps in the room extinguished, making the already impressive reception space seem that much larger in the shadows. A rustling behind his back made Tiberius Nero startle. He turned to see that a wall he had thought to be painted plaster was actually a tightly pulled curtain.
Empress Of Rome 1: Den Of Wolves Page 18
