David Read online

  I don’t like the look of the kid. A spoilt, patrician shit by the looks of him. Hair trimmed short, expensive silk tunic, clean-shaven despite being on a ship for days. I bet there’s not one callous on those milky-white hands of his.

  ‘Cocceius Nerva sent me,’ I say. ‘Asked me to help escort you to Rome.’

  ‘Ah,’ the cripple says. ‘He didn’t want the blind man groping his way along the Tiber.’

  I shrug. I don’t care if his feelings are hurt. It’s probably best he thinks I’m here because he’s blind, not because Nerva’s planning on fleecing him for some of his gold. (If he’s got any.)

  ‘Well,’ the cripple says. ‘I wonder if you’re required. One only needs to follow the Tiber east, and a touch north, isn’t that right? Are you able to offer anything other than directions?’

  ‘You’ve been before?’

  ‘Rome is everywhere, my friend,’ the cripple says. ‘One would be hard pressed not to have been there.’

  I’ve never spoken to a blind man before. I wonder whether all of them talk like this, staring off at the moon?

  ‘I meant the city itself,’ I say.

  Suddenly two sailors drop a chest and one end slams against the pier. Wood cracks and the top of the chest swings open. I nearly shit myself at what I see: coins, gold and silver, and jewels, green, red, and turquoise, more than I’ve ever seen in one place. A few coin spill out onto the pier. I look at all those chests lined up on the carts and wonder how many of them are also filled with coin.

  The two sailors who dropped the chest look like they actually shit themselves. Their mouths are wide open.

  It isn’t the Big Buck who’s the first to react; it’s the kid – which is a bit of a surprise, really. He walks to the chest and kicks it closed. After he looks to make sure none of the other sailors on the boat saw the mint hidden in the chest, he bends down, picks up the spilled coin, and presses them into the hands of the two sailors.

  ‘Our secret,’ he says quietly. It’s probably two years’ worth of wages. Then the kid says louder: ‘We’d like to make Rome before sunset.’

  The two sailors exchange a quick look before pocketing their money. They start loading the carts again like nothing happened.

  Pretty deft move, I have to admit, for a patrician shit and all.

  ‘Marcus,’ the cripple says to the kid. ‘Come introduce yourself to Calenus here. We should be getting on the road as soon as we can.’

  *

  We’re on the road out of Ostia by mid-afternoon. I should have them inside the city gates before nightfall.

  The kid and the cripple are in the first cart, the Big Buck and the Parthian slave in the second. I’m on horseback, between the Tiber and the road. They’re a quiet group, for the most part, except for the Parthian. He keeps asking me question after question. What do I make of the Emperor? Is Nerva my patron? Does he ever consult with the Emperor? Questions where the answer is no one’s business but my own. Or maybe Nerva’s. He asks me, ‘What is Rome’s mood?’ like the teat is my wife and we’re in a spat, not a city bursting with a million plus.

  He doesn’t stop, so I give my horse a little kick and I speed away. When I’m beside the cripple, I slow down to a walk. I decide to see if I can gather information from Ulpius that I can sell to Nerva.

  But before I can start, he says, ‘What legion did you serve with?’ His head is aimed straight ahead when he asks, like he’s watching the road. The question gives me the jitters. I never said a word about being a soldier.

  ‘How’d you know?’ I ask.

  ‘Know?’ He keeps staring straight ahead. ‘Know what?’

  ‘That I used to be a soldier?’

  He considers the question. He’s rubbing something in his hand, a piece of brick I think, that’s rounded and smooth.

  ‘I didn’t------ – I wasn’t certain, at least,’ he says. ‘I merely presumed and asked the second question, who did you serve with? I tried to save us both time. Unsuccessfully, it seems, but I tried.’

  ‘But what tipped you off?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, a number of items. Your walk being one. Right-left-right-left. It conjures up a triumphal procession. Hmm. What else? You didn’t back away from Theseus. That was another clue. Pride overruled common sense, which is often a product of training. And your patron. Men like that always have extra muscle on hand.’ The cripple shrugs a satisfied shrug. ‘More than anything, it was your smell. You stink of sour wine; it’s dripping from your pores. And no one drinks that swill but the rank and file or generals looking to slum.’

  Whatever information I could sell to Nerva isn’t worth talking to this prick. I pull on my reins and my horse slows, letting the cripple pull ahead.

  *

  We’re on the road for less than an hour when we spot four men on horseback coming the other way. One of them is a legionary. The other three aren’t soldiers; hired thugs by the look of them. One is tall and the other two are stocky. Trailing behind them is a woman. Her hands are bound, and the soldier on the horse has another rope tied to her hands, like he’s taking a dog for a walk. The woman has seen better days: her stola is torn, her top lip is swollen and bleeding, and her hair, which may have been up before, but is messy now, falling every which way. The whole thing doesn’t look right, but one of them is a soldier so it’s none of my business.

  As they draw closer, no one says a word. But the kid turns back on his seat and exchanges a look with the Big Buck.

  When our group meets theirs, the kid reins in his horse and stops the cart. The soldier reins in as well.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ the kid says.

  The soldier nods at this.

  I can see now that the woman’s gagged. She’s staring at us with wide eyes.

  ‘Looks like a dangerous prisoner you have there,’ the kid says, nodding his head to the woman. ‘Parthian or German.’

  The legionary is oozing confidence. It’s hard not to when you’re wearing armour, with the strength of the legions behind you. I remember how good that armour felt, and the confidence that came with it.

  ‘Clear the road,’ the soldier says. They’re on horseback and could easily go around the carts. Ignoring the kid’s question and giving an order is his way of putting the boy in his place. I expect the boy’s balls to shrink after the soldier speaks to him like that but they don’t. Instead, the kid asks again: ‘Parthian or German?’

  The plume of the soldier’s helmet, which is parallel with shoulders, marks him as an officer. When it dawns on him that some little shit is talking to him like this, things are going to turn quickly. I look at the Big Buck to see what he’s doing, whether he’s as unnerved as I am, but he’s barely paying attention. He’s looking up into the trees at some bird. Worst of all, the cripple is humming like he’s the happiest man in the Empire.

  The kid keeps going. ‘Or maybe she’s a Celt.’ He’s got the look of someone who doesn’t like heights but climbs up a rock face all the same. I’m not sure whether he’s brave, crazy, or just acting the part. ‘Is she for sale? I’ve always wanted to own a Celt. Let me buy her from you.’

  Then the kid takes out a coin and flings it at the legionary. It flies end over end a good fifteen feet and hits the soldier straight in the cuirass. DIIIINNNNGGGGG. The kid forces a smile to his lips, a crazy fucking smile.

  The legionary has had enough. To his companions, he says, ‘Ten lashings for the boy.’

  Two of them dismount and start walking toward us. They pull out wooden cudgels from somewhere inside their tunics. They’re walking towards the kid but he isn’t content to wait. He jumps off the cart and sprints straight at them. This catches them off guard just enough that the kid can land a quick punch right on the stocky one’s chin. With the one dazed, the kid grabs him by the tunic and runs him right at the tall one. Then all three of them fall to the grass.

  ‘Marcus, don’t dally,’ the cripple says. ‘We want to get to the city before dark.’

  This group is madder than a Th
racian priest.

  The centurion looks at the third thug and says, ‘Teach the boy a lesson. Twenty lashes.’ Then the officer points at me and the Big Buck. ‘You two stay where you are.’

  The third thug gets off his horse and makes his way to the three bodies rolling around on the grass.

  I look at the Big Buck. He still hasn’t moved. Not even an inch. He either trusts the kid can handle three grown men all on his own, or he’s hoping the boy breathes his last in the not so distant future.

  Nerva will be livid if I let his rich provincial die on the trip from Ostia. He’d never use me for anything again. But if I get involved it likely means laying a hand on a legionary. Usually, that’s a very, very bad idea. The best way out of this is to let the boy take the twenty lashes and hope that’s the end of it.

  Once the third thug reaches the mess of bodies on the ground, the Big Buck finally moves. Like I said: he’s a bit long in the tooth but damned if he doesn’t move well. He’s down from the cart in a blink of his one good eye, and he covers the distance to the scrum just as quick. He’s not armed, but he catches the third thug by surprise, landing a punch square on the chin. The poor bastard crumples; I wonder if he’ll ever get up again.

  After the thug collapses, the Big Buck shoves his hands into the threesome rolling around on the grass, trying to help the kid.

  The officer has seen enough. He draws his sword and spurs his horse forward. He drops the rope and the girl takes off. She heads to the tree line, taking strides as long as her ankle length tunic will let her.

  The situation has escalated like I feared. If the officer cuts down the Big Buck and the kid, his day will be that much easier if he just kills me and the cripple. My difficult decision isn’t a decision any longer. I’m now tied to this group until this is all sorted. Despite reservations to the contrary – despite having no armour or sword, and just a little dagger shoved in my boot – I spur my horse at the officer. I yell one of my old battle cries, wondering if it will be my last.

  TITUS

  11 January, afternoon

  The Imperial palace, Rome

  Domitian finally sends word from Campania, in not one but two letters.

  Ptolemy finds me after the baths, in my robe, making my way to my study. He waves two letters in the air, explaining that Domitian sent both, a day apart, but somehow they arrived at the same time, with the same carrier. Which means the Imperial service has more problems than I’d thought, or Domitian – despite my explicit order that he move with haste – failed to do so.

  In the hall, still dripping from the baths, I say, ‘Give them to me in order.’

  Ptolemy hands me the first letter.

  10 January (from Baiae)

  Brother:

  What gruelling tasks you assign. Sniff out the whereabouts of a Plautii, you say, like some mastiff let off the leash. Is this how you think to keep me feeling involved in the matters of state? Really, I’d rather spend my days here relaxing, which, I will remind you, is the reason I came to the Bay. Also, I will have you know, it is not all the debauchery the moralists allege. I have been reading and attending elegant parties where the conversation is good enough; and by that I mean there is substance to it, but it is not too Greek one feels effeminate.

  In any event, I cannot find Plautius or any other Plautii. The Bay is bereft of squashed noses and green eyes. (Thank the gods. I never understood Father’s affection for that family.)

  As for your inquiry about Vespasia, I’m not sure I will pay her a visit. Capri feels an empire away (though it is only a short boat ride). Anyway, I doubt I am welcome. I look too much like the brother she currently despises, though with more hair and smaller jowls. (I am only poking fun, brother. Lower your back, please.)

  I will return when the weather in the capital is better or, I suppose, if a social event trumps my need for iceless blood and warm toes. Must I keep searching for Plautius in the meantime? Please say no.

  Your Brother,

   T. Flavius Domitianus

  ‘And the other,’ I say to Ptolemy, and he hands me the second letter in exchange for the first.

  11 January (from Baiae)

  Titus:

  I may have spoken too soon. Last night, after I’d written to you of my lack of success, I attended a dinner party in the foggy hills above Baiae. Secundus’s nephew, the know-it-all Gaius Caecilius, was also in attendance. After he’d trapped me in conversation, he casually referred to a discussion he’d had with Plautius the week before. Once I’d picked my jaw off the floor, I asked him where, when exactly, and in what circumstance. As it turns out, he shares a mutual friend with Plautius, a merchant named Cinnius, whom Plautius was staying with while here on the Bay. According to the know-it-all, about a week ago, Plautius – somehow, without explanation – disappeared. I called on Cinnius later that evening to confirm the tale; or, at the very least, to hear the more accurate, less interesting version. But Cinnius not only confirmed the story, he showed me Plautius’s trunks of linens, amphorae of wine, and half a dozen slaves cluttering up his portico. According to Cinnius, Plautius arrived by ship in late December. He was with Cinnius for nearly two weeks before he went missing. Apparently, the night before, Plautius had been bragging about performing some important, clandestine task for the Emperor. The next day, Plautius and one of his freedman left early, before the sun rose, never to return.

  After my meeting with Cinnius, I ran home, dictated this letter and ordered the carrier not to stop until he handed this letter to you personally.

  Has your paranoia finally led to something of substance? Send instructions to your brother – his interest is sufficiently peaked.

  Yours, Domitian

  ‘Find my father,’ I say to Ptolemy. ‘I need to see him right away.’

  VESPASIAN CAESAR

  11 January, afternoon

  The Servilian gardens, Rome

  I’m the new man. This is how I will always be known. I’m a retired general, with distinguished service in Britannia and Judea. I have earned the regalia of an ovation and a triumph, and I have held the consulship eleven times. I am Caesar, the Emperor of Rome. Still: I am and will always be the new man. The provençal. Italian, yes, but not from Rome. No matter how just or cruel, how wise or stupid, no matter how many years of peace I foster, or the state of the Empire’s coffers, I am simply the emperor whose father and grandfather did not hail from Rome; who began their careers as centurions before, respectively, lending money or collecting debts. At one time, there was even a rumour that my grandfather, Petro, was not even Italian, but a Gaul. The rumour began (and ruined) my first attempt at aedile more than forty years ago.

  After the votes were counted and the aedileship lost, and once the sting of failure had lessened, I returned to our family estate near Reate, in the Sabine hills, to confront my father. It was late January, crisp and green. I found him in the fields, watching slaves repair a harness. The beast of burden, a shit-brown ox, was chewing leisurely beside the gaggle of men hard at work. My father had an injury from his days in the legions, which left one of his arms useless. He kept it in a sling, tucked into his belly. It was half the size of his good arm from lack of use; it was the arm of a boy, but withered and wrinkled. Father was old then, bald with a crooked back. He was chewing a reed, as he always did.

  ‘Ho! The politician!’ he said as I approached, walking my horse through the long grass. ‘How did you do? Another win?’

  I wasted no words. ‘I lost. Was grandfather a Gaul?’

  He shrugged. ‘Officially? No. Definitely not.’

  My face reddened. ‘And unofficially?’

  The slaves slinked off to the barn, preferring not to learn more family secrets than they had to.

  Father shrugged a second time. ‘Who’s to say? The gods, maybe. Not I, certainly.’

  I spat venom. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Like you, I’d heard the rumours. But you remember your grandfather. He was a republican – the old, angry Cato-type.
He was a veteran, the dominus. He expected a warm meal every evening and an obedient son. He rarely spoke. I never asked and he never told me. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘You don’t care whether our blood’s polluted?’ I demanded.

  My father – always patient – considered the question. He held the elbow of his crippled arm. ‘Not particularly, no.’ He chewed his reed. ‘It’s my opinion that anything in concentrate is bad. Wine, investments, blood. It’s better to dilute, to diversify. You wouldn’t put all of your money in one apartment block in Rome, would you? Why, in one night your fortune could go up in a puff of smoke. You’d be destitute. And look at Tiberius, your Emperor. Does any man have a better pedigree? Claudian blood adopted into the Julian line. One can’t improve on that lineage. But where is he at the moment? On Capri, raping and drinking, while the public coffers foot the bill.’ He spat. For the first time, I thought he spat like a Gaul.

  ‘What about my career? It’s over before it started.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to be a politician. You’d let a rumour keep you down?’ He threw his good arm around me. He shook me with warmth. ‘Listen: Petro may have been a Gaul; he may not have been. I don’t know and neither do you. No one does, except maybe your grandmother. But she’ll not utter a peep if it’s bad for us. If there are family secrets, she’ll take them to the grave. But it doesn’t matter. The past is lost. People want a story, give them one. Truth is for philosophers and engineers, not politicians. Someone used a rumour to beat you. Use a better rumour to win. Better yet, forge documents.’

  The next year, I did as my father suggested. Letters of my great-great grandfather, a man of Italian decent, were ‘found’ and copies circulated. Money made its way to the right people. I won the aedileship handily.