The Blood of Caesar Read online

  I looked at him as though I’d never seen him before. He was speaking with a fervor I’d heard only in some of the religious fanatics we encountered during our time in Syria.

  “Am I too old-fashioned, too republican, for you?” he asked.

  I took a sip of wine to calm myself. “You know that, on some level, I sympathize with you, but my uncle taught me to be a pragmatist. Since the time of Augustus, Rome has been ruled by a king, even if no one dares to use that word openly. We’ve lost the freedom to speak our minds on some subjects, but we live secure from the chaos of the late Republic.”

  “And you’re content with that bargain?”

  “What would life be like without a princeps? You’re old enough to remember the fighting that erupted after Nero died and there was no one to succeed him. If we’d been standing here then, we would have seen part of Rome itself in flames. Vespasian restored order and we’ve enjoyed fifteen years of peace.”

  “Under an iron-fisted dynasty.”

  “Things have changed. No one denies that. But can’t our future be as glorious as our past?” I turned to gaze back out over the Forum. “I think if our enemies were to stand on top of this hill, they would be so overawed that all resistance to us would cease.”

  “I think our greatest enemy lives on top of this hill,” Tacitus said softly, raising his cup to his lips to keep our slaves from hearing him.

  I gasped. “Great Jupiter, man! If you keep talking like that, you won’t have to worry about whether you’re connected to Agricola or not. You’ll bring disaster on yourself and everyone around you.”

  As I stepped away from Tacitus I noticed one of my slaves pointing unobtrusively to something behind me. I turned around, expecting to find myself staring at the point of a Praetorian’s sword. It was a relief to discover nothing more alarming than a man with a gray beard. He looked foreign, although his dress was entirely Roman. The narrow stripe on his tunic placed him in the equestrian class to which Tacitus and I belong. From his dark skin and hooked nose I guessed his origins to be eastern. From the tiredness—or was it sadness?—in his eyes I placed his age at about fifty.

  “Forgive me for startling you,” the man said, his voice deep but soft, the voice of a man who has learned that it’s safer not to speak loudly. “I am Flavius Josephus. I assume you are Gaius Pliny and Cornelius Tacitus.”

  “I’m Pliny,” I said, wondering how much of our conversation he had overheard.

  Josephus stroked his beard. “Ah, Pliny! I greatly admire your uncle’s work. I hope we’ll have a chance to discuss it during dinner.”

  “I’m always happy to talk about my uncle’s work.” Especially if it would draw attention away from Tacitus’ reckless comments. “Do you know how many others have been invited tonight?”

  “Only one.”

  I waited to hear a name, but he didn’t offer one.

  “Do you dine with the princeps often?” Tacitus asked.

  “Not as often as I did with his father or his brother, but on occasion.”

  I knew Josephus only from my uncle’s discussion of his history of the Jews’ rebellion against Rome in Nero’s last years. Josephus took an active part in the war until he deserted his troops at a critical juncture, surrendered to Vespasian, and, like a manumitted slave, took on the family name, Flavius. His own people despised him as a self-serving coward who abandoned his homeland, his religion, and his family for the security of life as a lap-dog. He now lived in an apartment in the princeps’ house.

  “Is Ajax escorting us?” Josephus asked. “He’s the dwarf, my lord Domitian’s newest and most exotic pet.” His voice betrayed the resentment of a displaced favorite.

  I nodded as the door opened and the dwarf slave reappeared. We followed him inside. As in any Roman house we entered an atrium, but a far grander one than I could ever imagine. The walls were the height of a basilica. Scaffolding stood in place for the artists who were repainting the frescos in the bolder, darker colors so popular now. I could hear the slaves whispering in awe behind us. My own atrium, which had just been repainted, looked like a smoke-stained peasant’s hut by comparison.

  “This was built by Caligula,” Josephus said, “when he enlarged Tiberius’ house. It had to be on this scale because that wall”—he pointed to our left— “is part of the temple of Castor and Pollux. Caligula incorporated it into his house and cut that door in the wall to pander to his delusion that he was a god himself. The walls have been repainted several times. As you can see, our lord Domitian is putting up scenes of his recent triumph across the Danube.”

  Tacitus snorted derisively and I glared him into silence. Everyone knew Domitian had sat on the Roman side of the Danube while his troops massacred a few disease-ridden German villages. The Senate awarded him the name Germanicus and voted him a triumph. All of this so he could rival Julius Agricola.

  “Are you going to write a history of that German campaign?” Tacitus asked Josephus.

  Josephus smiled modestly. “I’ll leave that to someone who was there to see it.”

  Tacitus leaned over to me and whispered, “Well, that eliminates Domitian.”

  With Praetorians at every door and at strategic points in between, we passed from the atrium into a peristyle garden that was on a scale with the rest of the house. The center of the garden was decorated with a fountain instead of a piscina. Sea nymphs cast in bronze spewed water from every possible orifice, a memorial to Caligula’s crudity. On the other side of the garden, in what would have been the rear wall of a typical Roman house, we went through a door into another atrium, this one of more human proportions.

  “This is Tiberius’ original house,” Josephus informed us. “I’m sure you know the story of the antagonism between Tiberius and his mother, Livia.”

  At the mention of some juicy historical tidbit Tacitus stopped gawking like the country mouse in Horace’s fable. He reads more history than I do. My tastes run to rhetoric and poetry. I’ve not even read all of my uncle’s historical works. Tacitus has, along with some of his notes, since our return from Syria.

  Now my friend was eager to display his knowledge. “When Augustus died,” he said, “and his step-son Tiberius took power, he built this house because his mother, Livia, was still living in Augustus’ house.”

  “Yes ... Exactly.” Josephus’ face showed pleasure at finding someone who enjoyed historical gossip as much as he did, mixed with disappointment that his listener could rival him at his own game. He went on quickly. “Tiberius couldn’t force her out because of her status as Augusta, the widow of the deified Augustus. So he built his own, much grander, house next door.”

  At the rear of this atrium we were led into a triclinium of normal size where three couches were arranged around a single table. Tacitus and I exchanged a glance. It looked like we were going to have a most intimate dinner—us, Josephus, the mystery guest, and the princeps. The only thing that puzzled me more than our presence was Josephus’.

  Without being told, Josephus took a place on the lower couch. Tacitus and I started to join him there, but the dwarf stopped us.

  “If you please, my lords,” he said, pointing to the middle couch. He directed me to the low place on that couch.

  I eyed the guest of honor’s position with increasing apprehension. “There must be some mistake,” I said.

  “Those are my instructions, my lord. You and Cornelius Tacitus are to have the middle couch and you are to have the low place.”

  Tacitus and I reclined on the couch, looking at each other like men who know a trap is going to be sprung but don’t know whether it will happen sooner or later. Nothing so obvious as the sword of Damocles hung over our heads, but the prediction of Julia’s fortune-teller rang in my ears. Our slaves stood behind us as a flock of imperial servants entered the room. Some took their places around the spot Domitian would occupy. Others brought bowls of water, removed our sandals and washed our feet. Josephus was tended by a single slave, a woman almost as old as he was. Two s
laves placed silver platters of bread, cheese, olives, and mushrooms on the tables in front of our couches. Our slaves gave us our napkins and we began to eat.

  A few minutes later the dwarf escorted another guest into the triclinium and showed him to the middle place on the high couch. His height was somewhere between mine and Tacitus’, but he was already showing the girth of a man who had spent his life in self-indulgence. His hair was blacker than it was a month ago, the last time I saw him. A group of the most handsome and beautiful slaves one could imagine, clothed in tunics of linen and silk in a rainbow of colors, trailed behind him. I had considered my dining gown the rosy red of dawn until I compared it to his slaves’.

  At the sight of this man, Tacitus choked on an olive because he recognized the one person in Rome whom I regarded as an implacable enemy—Marcus Aquilius Regulus.

  Regulus, one of the most powerful—and, to my mind, most sinister—men in Rome, employs a web of spies in other people’s households and in any public place where useful information might be unearthed. He wielded enormous influence under Nero, who let Regulus do the dirty work of destroying anyone who posed the slightest threat to his regime. Regulus and my uncle frequently found themselves on opposite sides in court as my uncle tried to defend Regulus’ victims, who were usually guilty of nothing more than being rich. If they were convicted, Regulus received a quarter of their confiscated wealth. In spite of all my uncle and others could do, Regulus became a wealthy man.

  When Vespasian came to power my uncle managed to convince him that Regulus was a pernicious influence. Finding the princeps’ door shut in his face, Regulus never forgave my uncle. I inherited that enmity and I prize the legacy. Vespasian’s older son, Titus, kept the door barred to Regulus during his short reign. But it looked like Domitian, the younger son, had forgotten the lesson. Regulus was back in his accustomed place at the princeps’ elbow.

  Now I knew Tacitus was right. We had walked into a trap.

  Regulus lives on the Esquiline hill, but higher up than I do and his house fronts on a different street, so I can avoid running into him. He greeted me the way he greets everyone, as though I were his oldest, dearest friend. The man was so unctuous I was surprised he didn’t slide right off the couch.

  “Friend Pliny, it has been some time since I’ve enjoyed your company.”

  I’ve never enjoyed yours, I thought, but I said, “Service in the provinces drew me away this past year, Marcus Regulus. But I’m sure you knew that.”

  He popped a mushroom into his gaping maw. “I hope we’ll have a chance tonight to hear about your year in Syria. Perhaps sort out all the rumors surrounding your exploits. I seem to hear something new at every dinner I attend, especially about your return trip.” His lowered eyebrows emphasized the menace in his voice.

  I glared at Tacitus. “Are you encouraging the growth of these rumors?”

  He smiled slyly. “A man has to pay for his dinner. I can’t compose witty epigrams like your friend Martial, so I deal in what coin I have.”

  Before I could say anything else, Domitian entered, walking unsteadily and followed by a dozen Praetorians, who dispersed themselves around the room, except for two who remained immediately behind him. He brought only three slaves with him—all female and all wearing diaphanous gowns that emphasized, rather than concealed, their bodies. We started to stand, but Domitian waved us back down.

  “Please, no need for formality tonight,” he said with a belch.

  He was taller than I’d expected, having seen him prior to this only at a distance. Or maybe it was just in comparison to the dwarf at his side. His complexion was ruddy and his face not particularly imposing. Large, weak eyes in an oversized head were his most remarkable feature. He reclined next to Regulus, in the host’s place on the high couch, and picked up the cup of wine that a slave had waiting for him. The dwarf sat on the floor in front of the couch, getting a pat on his head from Domitian.

  I almost froze when I realized I was close enough to the princeps to reach out and ... By the gods! I was actually thinking about what I could do if I had a knife hidden under my gown. And I could have one. No one had searched me. I was as close to Domitian as Brutus had been to Caesar. This is what comes from spending so much time with Tacitus.

  Domitian drained his cup. As he held it out for a slave to refill he turned his face full on mine and smiled. “If you were to kill me, Gaius Pliny, you wouldn’t get off your couch alive.” He waved his cup broadly toward the Praetorians at attention around the room, sloshing some of his wine.

  I could hardly breathe. Surely I hadn’t been thinking aloud! Was there something in my expression? “My lord, I assure you— ”

  “Relax, my dear Pliny.” He reached over and patted my arm. “It’s what everyone thinks the first time they get this close to me. I can see it in their faces. I’m very good at reading people’s faces, almost their very thoughts. It’s a gift, a life-saving gift. Someday I may encounter a man crazy enough to sacrifice himself to rid the world of me. Someone with a grudge. Someone like ... the son-in-law of Julius Agricola. But not tonight. I can see it in his face.”

  Tacitus went rigid, but he kept his voice controlled, calm. I could tell he was measuring his words as carefully as a stone mason chipping away at the last block that must fit precisely, with no margin for error. “Caesar, my father-in-law has never spoken or acted disloyally toward you. He cast his lot with your father before the outcome of the civil war was clear. You’ve never had reason to doubt his loyalty or mine.”

  Domitian waved his hand. “Pssh! If I thought for a moment that I was in any danger from either of you, you would never have set a foot on that first step coming up from the Forum. But perhaps my attempt at humor was strained. Please, let’s relax and enjoy our meal.”

  He snapped his fingers and slaves brought in the gustatio—boiled eggs, oysters, and radishes cut into delicate patterns. I was pleased to see his tastes, like mine, ran to simpler, lighter foods, although—being the princeps—he couldn’t resist showing his power over even this most basic part of life. The oysters were served in bowls of ice, brought down, no doubt, from the peaks of the Apennines. It would never have occurred to me to serve them in this odd way, but I couldn’t refuse to eat them. I was surprised to discover that the chill enhanced the flavor.

  “Now, tell me,” Domitian said as we began to eat, “how do things stand in Syria?”

  “My lord,” I said with great hesitation, “I’m sure you’ve had reports from the governor. He would be able to see the situation in its entirety much better than Tacitus or I. We held the most junior positions.”

  I knew that Domitian, once a year, held a large dinner to welcome back higher-ranking provincial officials and to thank them for their service. I had never heard of him questioning two men of such low rank as Tacitus and I. Tacitus must be right. Domitian had set a trap and he was driving us closer to it.

  “The governor of a province,” Domitian said, “is primarily interested in convincing me that he’s the best governor since Rome first set foot on conquered soil. I think you and the son-in-law of Agricola might have a more disinterested view.”

  I didn’t believe him for a moment, but I saw the futility of further protest. “I would describe the province overall as tense, my lord.” Tacitus nodded his agreement.

  “And what is the source of this tension?”

  “Refugees from Judaea are not well accepted in Syria, my lord. The provincials, especially the Arabs, seem to despise the Jews as much as the Jews dislike them.”

  “Though an outsider,” Tacitus put in, “cannot distinguish one from the other, Caesar, except in the baths.”

  “How curious,” Domitian said. He turned to Josephus. “Why do the Jews and their neighbors dislike one another so much?”

  Josephus stroked his beard. “It goes back to the origins of both peoples, my lord. The Arabs claim descent from Ishmael, an illegitimate son of Abraham, founder of the Jewish nation. They resent the Jews for being
the genuine heirs and the Jews resent them as usurpers.”

  “Usurpers of what?” Domitian asked with a laugh, which Regulus echoed. “Some arid patch of land without even one navigable river?”

  “I believe you’ve just described Greece, my lord,” Josephus said. I barely suppressed a smile as he continued. “Whatever it looks like to an outsider, Judaea belongs to the Jews and they have given their lives to hold on to it against Assyrians, Egyptians, Babylonians, Persians, and Greeks.”

  “Some of them have given their lives,” Regulus said, provoking a smirk from Domitian and a deep blush from Josephus.

  “But, in spite of their ‘valor’,” the princeps said, “now we Romans have it.” He clenched his fist.

  “Others have held it for a time, my lord, but the Jews always get it back,” Josephus said in a softer voice. Even the lap dog could nip at his master’s fingers now and then. “King David reigned in Jerusalem before Romulus and Remus were born. Time has taught the Jews patience.”

  “Patience,” Regulus snorted, “is a mask behind which the defeated hide their cowardice.”

  Domitian patted Regulus’ shoulder clumsily in approval. “Oh, a neatly crafted aphorism! Now, my dear Josephus, you saw with your own eyes the devastation which my father and brother unleashed on Jerusalem. Not one stone of your temple was left standing on another. Surely you don’t think the city can rise again.”

  “My lord, when Rome in its infancy was still ruled by Etruscan kings, the Babylonians conquered Jerusalem and left it in ruins. And yet, barely two generations later, before Rome established its Republic, the city had risen from the ashes.”

  Domitian took another drink, something he’d apparently been doing for a while before he joined us in the triclinium. “A city rises from the dead,” he muttered. “Fascinating concept.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at Tacitus. His expression told me he was also wondering why we were pursuing this topic of conversation.