David Page 10

  That was forty years ago. At the time, the issue was life and death. But the world is changing. Today, if a man’s grandfather were a Gaul, his advancement would not be blocked, not necessarily. Now, every day, we have provincials coming to Rome and making a name for themselves. One day there may even be an emperor who hails from Gaul. Maybe. There may even be a time when such an emperor is not known as a new man, and is simply just a man. Then again, without these distinctions, how would a Roman know who is below and who is above? Hierarchy is the stuff of life. I’m Roman enough to know that.

  *

  Graecina, matriarch of the Plautii, visits during the eighth hour, as she does every week. We have wine; a weak blend, from the north, diluted with water, boiled with a handful of cloves and sage, and then honey is ladled in. It is the drink of the old, for those with weak teeth, weaker bellies, and dwindling energy.

  We meet in the Servilian gardens, under a fig tree. We sit; bones creak. We manoeuvre, slowly twisting in our seats like a screw, searching for relative comfort.

  ‘A cold week,’ I say, ‘thus far.’

  ‘There have been colder,’ Graecina says.

  ‘For Rome, I mean.’

  She considers the distinction. She has seen winters beyond Italy, in the north. ‘Yes, this is true. A cold week for Rome.’

  A bowl of pistachios sits between us. Graecina uses her mouth to open the shell, like a squirrel feasting on an acorn.

  ‘You’ve heard about this business with the hand?’ I ask.

  ‘I do not live under a rock.’

  ‘What do you make of it?’

  Graecina takes a shell out of her mouth and flicks it to the ground.

  ‘I think it is embarrassing for the principate, for the Empire . . . for you. Who is responsible?’

  ‘We are investigating.’

  Grey eyebrows furrow. ‘You mean Titus is investigating.’

  I nod, then say, ‘There is something more. One of your kinsmen may be missing.’

  ‘Who?’ Traces of concern crease her already wrinkled skin, and there is a sudden sheen to her milky eyes. ‘Tiberius?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Lucius Plautius.’

  ‘Oh,’ Graecina says, relieved. ‘Plautius is worthless. Do not waste resources tracking that one down.’

  ‘The Flavii and the Plautii have a long history together,’ I say. ‘Our family owes yours a great deal. I would not be emperor if not for the Plautii.’

  ‘You owe my deceased husband – gods rest his bones – a great deal, not the Plautii. And you have done more than enough to pay him back. Now you and I are friends – friends who are old and complain together for sport.’

  I served under Graecina’s husband. He was the best general I’d ever seen. I fear he will be one of the great generals rarely remembered. He conquered Britain, but Claudius Caesar (who had not lifted one of his stubby fingers) received the triumph, while Aulus Plautius was given a mere ovation.

  ‘There is more,’ I say. ‘Plautius wrote to Titus from Baiae, weeks ago. Before he went missing.’

  I hand her the letter. She reads. Occasional derisive snorts escape her dry, cracked lips.

  She looks up halfway through. ‘He protests too ardently, no? He sounds like a man complaining of dwindling morality while he can. The man has always been a hypocrite. Look for him in a brothel.’

  ‘The important part follows the moralising,’ I say.

  She finishes reading the letter.

  ‘Titus has Domitian making inquiries across the Bay,’ I say, ‘but so far there has been no sign of Plautius. I take it he never wrote to you, explaining what he was doing on the Bay?’

  ‘No. He did not.’

  Graecina sips her sweetened wine.

  I explain everything to Graecina. I explain the hand, the gold ring, Titus’s latest discovery, how the dog was likely trained to drag the hand into the forum. There is no need to hold anything back – not with Graecina.

  ‘The ring was solid gold,’ I say. ‘By law it belonged to a senator; or, at the very least, a knight.’

  ‘And you think this hand in the forum belonged to my kinsman, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’m not sure it matters. If your nephew is missing, I will consider the matter quite serious. A close friend of our family – a Plautii no less – learns of a plot to poison Caesar and then disappears?’

  I shake my head in frustration. In the early days, when many still pined for Nero, stories like this, rumours of plots on my life – it infuriated me. I’d spit fire and demand blood. But, after a decade in power, they became familiar, a chore to attend to, like chewing my nails or taking my morning shit. And now, rather than fire me to action, they suck my energy, like a leech I can’t quite pull off. But these latest developments have the feel of something different, like ambitious men are converging on the principate, as though they’re coming at me from all sides. No one has ever dared move against one of the Plautii, a family so intertwined with ours that we are practically kin.

  To Graecina, I say, ‘What do you make of all this?’

  She gives the letter one last look before dropping it beside the pistachio bowl. ‘I think it is the weak mind that looks for coincidence. I think you are probably right, there is a murdered senator or knight, and you should find out who. But I am not sure it has anything to do with my worthless kinsman, who is lost in a brothel somewhere in the south.’

  Graecina does not stay long. We both appreciate a short, efficient discussion. After she’s finished her wine, she snaps her fingers and two slaves are at her side, helping her stand.

  ‘Caesar,’ she says with a nod.

  Graecina, with a slave on each hip, makes her way through the gardens. She passes Titus who is headed in the opposite direction. His expression is grim; a roll of paper is crushed by an iron grip.

  One should never be filled with dread when their son visits, unannounced. But such is the life of a new man in Rome, I suppose – at least one who holds the title Caesar.

  VII

  Magnificence of Mind, Part II

  A.D. 68

  MARCUS

  28 July, first torch

  South of the Imperial palace, Rome

  The entrance to the palace doesn’t look like an entrance at all. It’s only a dark crack in the brick, tucked behind a huge tree and covered in ivy. Nero told me how to find it. ‘Follow the aqueduct to the palace, heading south-east. When you get close, maybe a dozen paces or so, you’ll see a wolf painted on the wall. The passageway is right below it, behind an ancient oak.’

  Nero was right: I could see it in the moonlight, but only just.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself with guards,’ Nero said. ‘Only emperors know of this passageway. Augustus built it, years ago. Squeeze through the crack and there will be a stairwell on the other side. It leads to the upper levels of the palace, into my personal quarters . . . the Emperor’s personal quarters. At the top of the steps is my bedchamber. The door will take you through to my study. What you need is in there.’

  The passageway is narrow, barely wider than my hand, and pitch black. I don’t want to go in – even if Nero said the palace would be empty. But then I think of Otho, how he held my chin, the way he stared at me. My skin starts to itch and I think I could go anywhere if it meant Otho wasn’t my master. I take a deep breath and squeeze through the crack.

  Inside, like Nero said, there’s a flight of winding stairs. I follow them up in the pitch black, holding onto the wall to make sure I don’t fall. Soon there’s moonlight and, when I climb higher, I can see a skylight overhead.

  At the top of the steps, there’s a hole cut into the stone the size of a wagon wheel. On the other side of the hole, there’s cloth. Nero told me to expect this. ‘From your perspective, it will look like a circle of fabric. On the other side, it’s a beautiful tapestry.’ I push on the material, easing the tapestry away from the wall, and then I jump down into the room.

  The room is as big as Master Creon’s
atrium, bigger even. Overhead, there’s another skylight, with the moonlight streaming in, silver and bright. The bed is big enough to hold a Cyclops. The whole room is a mess: chairs are overturned; the sheets are torn half off the bed.

  I cross the room and open the door. Luckily, there’s another skylight. At one end of the room there’s a desk covered in rolls of papyrus and a bronze scale, with a big wooden chair pushed up against it. In front of the desk are three couches. Behind the desk, there’s a picture on the wall, made from little tiny stones, of a younger man carrying an older man. Behind them, a city is burning. The stones are purple and black and white in the moonlight.

  Nero said there’d only be one letter in the drawer. But when I open the drawer, there’s more than one. I can’t read, so I don’t know which one to take. I don’t know what to do. My heart starts pounding and I can’t get a hold of my breath. I shouldn’t take all of the letters because that’d be stealing. Then again, when I told Nero I didn’t want to take anything from the palace, he said, ‘They’re my letters, boy. Don’t forget that. Everything in that palace is mine by right. Think of this as an errand you’re running for Caesar.’

  I’m still trying to decide what to do when I hear voices. My heart starts pounding even harder – so loud I can hardly think. The voices aren’t coming from the bedroom, but from down the hall that leads to the rest of the palace. I stuff all of the letters in my tunic and run for the bedroom. The voices get louder and louder, and then the hallway is lit up with lamplight.

  They are about to walk in . . .

  I drop to the ground. Luckily – somehow – I’m behind one of the couches. I can see their boots when they come in, but they can’t see me. Quietly, I slide myself along the marble until I’m under the couch. I have to move very slowly so the papyrus doesn’t crunch between my chest and the floor. I lift my legs up so my sweaty skin doesn’t stick to the tiles and squeak.

  ‘Did you leave that door open?’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘The bedroom . . . Check it.’

  There are four feet. Two walk into the bedroom. They come back a moment later.

  ‘Empty.’

  The other feet disappear behind the desk.

  ‘What is it, Terentius?’ the man behind the desk asks. ‘You think you’re above checking a bedroom?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You didn’t need to. It’s your demeanour, that hangdog expression of yours. Has cutting out Caesar’s eyes gone to your head? Don’t forget you are merely a centurion and you did it on my orders.’

  ‘Yes, and you did it on the orders of another.’

  ‘I wasn’t ordered to do anything. I’m prefect of the Praetorian Guard. I was asked to participate. I was asked by my colleagues, not my superiors.’

  ‘Of course, they are your colleagues. And where are your colleagues now that the plan has gone to shit?’

  I can hear the man at the desk lean back in his chair. He says, ‘There has been a snag or two. I will admit that. But we’ve hedged our bets.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘Nero is alive. That’s worth something. The Hunchback will pay for Nero, and reward us for our trouble.’

  ‘And you’re not concerned about crossing your colleagues?’

  ‘We will deal with that when it arises. In the meantime, I’ll send another letter to Galba.’

  ‘Another? Is there any point? Either your letters are not getting through or he is content to wait until he arrives in Rome. You put too much faith in that freedman of his, Icelus. He’s blocking your letters, seeing how he can profit from what he knows.’

  ‘I’m going to send an envoy this time. Someone I can trust to deliver the message . . . What is that you’re fiddling with? Not that figurine again?’

  ‘What of it? This is my small reward for doing your dirty work. Caesar’s lucky charm . . . Shit!’

  Something clatters against the floor. I can see it skitter along the marble, something small, made from dark stone. A little statue, I think.

  The man standing bends down to pick it up. I keep dead still. Luckily, he’s turned facing the desk, away from me, so he doesn’t see me under the couch. I keep so still I don’t even breathe. As he kneels down and reaches his hand out for the figurine, his head comes low enough to the floor that I can see the side of his face. It’s the Fox. Somehow – even though I didn’t think it could – my heart starts beating faster, a throbbing drumbeat – so hard I think it’s going to pop out of my chest and gush out of my ears.

  ‘For gods’ sake, Terentius. Put it away.’

  The Fox stands up without seeing me. My heart doesn’t stop pounding.

  I hear the desk drawer open.

  ‘Where are my letters? They’re gone.’

  ‘They can’t be,’ the Fox says.

  ‘You thought I was being paranoid about the door,’ the man behind the desk says. ‘Jupiter’s piss!’ The drawer slams shut. ‘The thief couldn’t have gotten far.’

  Chair legs screeeech along the floor.

  ‘Those letters . . . we have to find them.’

  The man at the desk runs out of the room. I watch the other legs, the Fox’s legs, follow. When they’re gone, I get up and run.

  NERO

  29 July, dawn

  City jail IV, Rome

  It must be morning when the boy comes back. I’d wondered whether a bit of adventure might make him less woe-is-me, but he quickly dashes any such hope. He arrives shaking uncontrollably and muttering about foxes, as though he went for a walk in the woods.

  When we examine the letters, an odd problem presents itself: he has three rolls of papyrus instead of the one I’d sent him for. I left one letter in that particular drawer. I am certain of this. From what I gleaned from the boy’s confused retelling of the conversation he overheard, it sounds as though the soldiers that did this to me are using my office for their own personal use. It’s unnerving, but no more unnerving than soldiers cutting out Caesar’s eyes. Anyway, at the moment, this isn’t our chief concern. The problem is that neither of us can read the letters to determine which is the one we need. I’m blind and the boy is as ignorant as a mule.

  I pine for the days when presented with a problem I could merely wave my hand and tell my minions to fix it. Self-reliance is tedious and dull.

  The boy and I discuss the problem. He adds little, but we eventually come to the following conclusion: if he can see and I can read, we must combine these abilities. We develop a system. The boy traces my index finger over each letter, as though we were painting over the words. He does it slowly at first, with a good pause in between each particular letter, so that I can determine what it is. First we establish the letter, then the word, then the sentence. We improve as we go, and, luckily, the task is straightforward. It takes only a sentence or two to determine that the first two letters are of interest, but clearly not what we were looking for. The third is the one we need.

  Despite our success, the boy is reluctant to leave. He is afraid to continue. I’ve concluded he requires a particular type of guidance, a healthy mix of encouragement, inspiration, and a gentle shove in the right direction. Fear, however, affects him – so much so that it could sink us. It is the elephant in the room that must be addressed.

  ‘You’re young yet,’ I say, ‘so I will not go so far as to name you a coward, but fear clearly has hold of you. If we’re to have success in our scheme, you must – at the very least – control your fear.’

  The boy, as always, is struck dumb. I press on.

  ‘I am not one for advice, so I offer the following anecdote. There was once a soldier by the name of Corbulo who, for a time, was Rome’s greatest general. On the topic of courage, Corbulo once made a distinction that I think correct. When it comes to fear, when faced with danger, whether mortal, social or whatever else, he said there are two types of men: those who can think and make decisions without hindrance, as though fear did not affect them; and those who cannot. The
former have been blessed by the gods, according to Corbulo, and we should envy them. The Greeks call it “magnificence of mind”. My grandfather, the great Germanicus, is a recent example.’

  A story could inspire the boy; and I know which I should tell. But am I able to tell it – my mother’s favourite – without conjuring up that damned woman’s ghost?

  I press on.

  ‘No doubt you know of my grandfather by his Germanic victories, how he avenged the disaster of the Teutoburg Pass, Rome’s worst defeat in nearly a thousand years. But even as a boy he acted with daring. When he was eleven, not much older than you are now, he was sent to meet his father, my great-grandfather, who was on campaign in the east. He was sent by ship to Dalmatia, where he was then to proceed through the hinterland by horse. Four soldiers accompanied him. While stopped for the night, Dalmatian bandits raided their camp. All four soldiers were killed. The bandits took everything of value, including the legionary standard, the golden eagle that we Romans value so highly. The bandits debated taking my grandfather to ransom later but ultimately decided against it. (They were evidently unaware of his identity and the Imperial windfall they’d happened upon.) One bandit knew the Latin word for sea. He pointed in the opposite direction that they would eventually take and said, “Sea.” And then off they went.

  ‘My grandfather was completely alone. He could have easily turned back and made his way to the coast, and the mere fact that he survived would have been considered a victory, a commendable start for a boy his age. However, he refused to allow the loss of a legionary standard. Clearly, the Claudian streak of stubbornness was embedded in his bones, even at such a young age. He decided to follow those bandits through the wild mountains of Dalmatia – and follow them he did.

  ‘He was an experienced hunter, so he followed the plodding barbarians easily enough. The bandits stopped for the night as the sun started to set. They roasted rabbit over an open fire and ate before retiring for the evening. My grandfather watched them, hidden in the surrounding forest. When he was certain the bandits were asleep – they were too stupid or arrogant to place a guard – he went into the camp to retrieve the standard. The smell of the cooked rabbit stopped him. He’d travelled all day without anything to eat or drink. The sizzling flesh dripping with fat made his mouth water.’