The Blood of Caesar Page 6

  “Is that what you’ll be saying about me in a few years? ‘We were well rid of him’.”

  I took a deep breath to ease the tightness in my chest. Why is it that anything one says in Rome can be twisted to mean the very opposite? “No, my lord. Of course not. Your administration is winning praise on all sides. It’s well attested that Nero was erratic, even incompetent.”

  “But, my dear Pliny, he was the last of Augustus’ direct descendants, the last man who could claim Julius Caesar’s blood. If he’s still alive, then my family’s claim on the title of princeps could be contested. My opponents would have someone of Caesar’s blood to rally around.”

  “My lord,” Tacitus said, “the rumor of a resurrected Nero has been floating around practically since the day after he died.”

  Domitian looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean, son-in-law of Agricola?”

  Tacitus gritted his teeth but answered civilly. “As Josephus mentioned last night, a few months after Nero’s death an impostor appeared in the province of Asia. He gained quite a following before he was captured and executed. And in the fall after Vesuvius erupted another impostor appeared, also in Asia. He caused hardly a stir before he was apprehended.”

  Domitian mulled over that information for a moment. “But, even if Nero stays dead, what if some genuine, living member of his family were to appear, someone with Caesar’s blood?”

  His dilemma was real. Vespasian, his father, had assumed the name ‘Caesar’ when he came to power and passed it on to his sons, but he could not infuse their veins with the blood that ought to go with the name. To that extent, they would be pretenders as long as the memory of Augustus and his family lasted. Fifteen years after the death of Nero, the public’s love for Augustus’ family had not abated, if grafitti and crowd reactions in the theater were any gauge. The appearance of an actual descendant of Caesar—even the rumor of his existence—could prove troublesome to a ruler from any other family, and disastrous to one as unpopular as Domitian.

  “Nero had no children, my lord,” Tacitus said. I was again grateful for his acquaintance with history. Since our return from Syria he had spent hours in my library, reading my uncle’s finished works as well as his copious notes. “Well, there was a daughter, but she died in infancy. His mother, Agrippina, died almost twenty-five years ago. Nero was her only child.”

  “Her only child, as far as we know,” Domitian said, emphasizing the words by punching the air with his finger. “What if there is someone else?”

  “Do you have some reason to think there is?” I asked.

  “Possibly. And that’s why I need your help, Gaius Pliny. I’ve read the report from Florus, the governor of Asia, about your handling of a very serious matter in Smyrna. That’s why I invited you to dinner. He praises your keen perception, your ability to conduct an inquiry, and your discretion. You—and Tacitus here, even if he is Agricola’s son-in-law—seem the sort of men I might rely on. You acquitted yourselves admirably in the archives last night.”

  I was wondering if I dared to ask the question that had been gnawing at me all night. What would it cost me to accuse the princeps of murder?

  “And I did not have that man killed,” Domitian said. “I will eliminate anyone who threatens me”—he glared at Tacitus as Agricola’s surrogate—“but I don’t murder people in cold blood.”

  Rumors to the contrary had abounded since the day Titus died. Many people suspected Domitian had a hand—possibly both hands—in his brother’s death.

  “My lord, I never would have dreamed ...”

  Domitian stood and leaned over my table. “You’ve been wondering about it all night, Gaius the necromancer. ‘Did Domitian kill that poor man just to test me?’ As I told you last night, I can sense what people are thinking, just from the expressions on their faces. So, don’t deny it. That’s what you’ve been asking yourself.”

  “No, Caesar, I assure you ...” I wanted to run, to crawl under the table, anything so I wasn’t standing in front of this man right now. He seemed to be growing larger as he spoke, like some ogre from a nurse-maid’s story.

  “You think too highly of yourself, Gaius Pliny, if you believe I would waste a skilled mason just to pose a conundrum for you. Of course, your uncle always thought too highly of himself, so I guess you come by it honestly.”

  Domitian sat back down, returning to his normal size, and I managed to draw a breath.

  “My lord, may I ... may I ask what did happen to him?”

  Domitian examined his fingernails. “He was killed yesterday morning, about the second hour, by a falling brick. He was a workman on my new house. Regulus and I were observing the progress of the work when the accident happened. I had been trying to devise some way to verify what Florus said about you ever since I read his report. This opportunity just seemed to present itself, like a gift from the gods. Perhaps even from my deified father.” He chuckled at his own joke. “I’m satisfied that you do have some remarkable skills. I want you to put them to my service.”

  “We will assist you in any way we can, my lord,” I said. Tacitus nodded beside me. What other answer could we give? How can a trapped animal resist the collar closing around its neck?

  “Good.” Domitian leaned forward and folded his hands over my papers. “I want to know as much about the demise of Nero and his family as possible. I’m particularly interested in one item—his mother’s memoirs.”

  “But, my lord, you can buy a copy of Agrippina’s memoirs in any bookstore. I have one here in my library. My uncle referred to it in several of his books.”

  “Send someone to fetch it,” Domitian said.

  “Could we just go to the library?”

  “No,” Domitian snapped. “I don’t want to be seen by any more people than necessary. You’ll understand why in a few moments.”

  I stuck my head out the tablinum door and sent Aurora to retrieve the book.

  While we waited, Domitian pulled a leather pouch from under his tunic and dropped it on my table. “This is a letter which Agrippina wrote to Nero. Josephus and his assistants came across it a couple of days ago. At the end, apparently as a taunt to Nero, she says she has recorded a certain incident in her memoirs. But that incident is not in my copy of the book.”

  “Are you sure yours is complete, my lord?” Tacitus asked.

  “It goes up to the last week of her life. The incident I’m referring to happened several months before that.”

  Aurora knocked on the tablinum door and stuck her head in. “Here’s the book you wanted, my lord.”

  Domitian grabbed the box of scrolls from me before I even had a good grip on it. It fell on the table and one of the scrolls began to unroll. “Just as well,” he said with a laugh. “We need to get toward the end.” He found the scroll he wanted, scanned the last few pages and shook his head. “It’s not here either.”

  “What is the incident, my lord?” I asked.

  “You’ll see when you read the letter. Then I want you to find out if this is a true version of Agrippina’s memoirs. Could she have written something else and hidden it away? Could her memoirs have been censored by Nero to remove anything embarrassing to him?”

  “But, my lord, don’t you have more resources for that than we do?” I said.

  Domitian shook his head quickly. “Josephus will continue to search the archives. But I don’t believe any other copies of the memoirs are there. If I set my men looking for them elsewhere, everybody will become aware of it and want to know why I’m interested in them. I’ve already told Josephus and his assistants to tell no one about this letter or any other references to the memoirs, under penalty of death. And this is the original, not a copy. I don’t want anyone else to see it.”

  “I’ll be sure it’s locked away, Caesar.” Since my return from Syria I had become more careful about keeping important documents out of sight, where only my two or three most trusted slaves could get to them. I had been given reason to believe that Regulus’ network of spie
s reached even into my household.

  “Good. And then you’ll look for a fuller version of Agrippina’s memoirs?”

  “But, my lord, where would we even begin?”

  Tacitus spoke up. “It seems likely that she would have entrusted an unedited copy to someone especially close to her. Perhaps one of us could look in the archives for the names of such people. They might be mentioned in letters or in reports to Nero.”

  “Then Josephus will find them, I suppose,” Domitian said.

  “Josephus might not recognize their importance, my lord.”

  “And you think you would?”

  “My search would be more specific, my lord, more limited. It might yield better results.”

  Domitian gave him a grudging smile. “You sometimes make good sense, Cornelius Tacitus. Come by later today and my secretary will have a letter giving you permission to use the archives. Just be careful you don’t trip over Josephus. He practically lives there.”

  “But,” I said, “if we can’t admit we’re looking for these other memoirs, what reason would Tacitus have to be in the archives? Other people will be there. They’ll strike up conversations.” I had accompanied my uncle on trips to libraries around Naples, so I know how the pale-skinned denizens of those places seek out others like themselves, mostly to show off their own work or some curious old document they’ve run across.

  “I’ve contemplated writing a biography of my father-in-law,” Tacitus said. “He began his career under Nero.”

  “Hmmph!” Domitian drummed his fingers on my table. “What has Julius Agricola done to merit a biography?”

  Let’s see, I thought. Besides conquering more of Britain than any other Roman governor—not much, I suppose. Tacitus’ mention of a possible biography was almost a challenge to Domitian. He’d never said anything about the project to me before.

  “Well, no matter,” the princeps said. “As a pretext it’ll do as well as any. If word of it gets out, people might even applaud my generosity.” He stood and we snapped to attention like soldiers. “Thank you for seeing me, Gaius Pliny. Keep me informed of how your search is going. You’ll have to communicate with me, and I with you, through Josephus. I can’t risk anyone finding out that I’m interested in this document.”

  As Domitian made his exit Tacitus and I collapsed into chairs. The room itself seemed to exhale in relief.

  IV

  WHEN WE COULD BREATHE normally again I looked at Tacitus in disbelief. “He wants us to find a book no one has seen for twenty-five years? A book that may not even exist? Who does he think we are?”

  “Apparently your reputation has preceded us all the way to the top of the Palatine.”

  “I don’t suppose we have any choice but to try, do we?”

  “Not when we’ve been asked to do a favor for the princeps. And asked in person. You know he doesn’t like to exert himself. He always rides in a litter when he goes out. Since he walked over here in the rain, he must consider this extremely important.”

  I picked up the pouch Domitian had left on my table and opened it. It contained a single rolled-up sheet of papyrus. Part of the broken wax seal still clung to the top edge. Before reading it, I examined it carefully.

  “I don’t think it’s a new piece of papyrus,” I said.

  Tacitus nodded. “It is drier and yellower than a fresh piece. Is there any way to tell how old it is?”

  “We could compare it to pieces in my library. Dymas would know when various things were copied or purchased.”

  “But do you want him to be able to read it?”

  I flipped the papyrus over. “I’ll let him look at just the back. There’s nothing on it but some scribbling.”

  “What is it?”

  “Greek letters. But badly formed, like a child was learning to write. I don’t recognize the word.”

  “Perhaps it’s a message in code.”

  “Let’s not be so dramatic,” I cautioned. “More likely, someone was testing a pen.”

  Tacitus turned the letter back over. “What does it say?”

  “We’ll get to that. At the moment I’m more concerned about whether it’s genuine.” I moved an oil lamp closer to the document. “I wonder if we can find anything else with Agrippina’s seal on it.”

  “Do you think the princeps himself would hand you a forged document?”

  “Let’s just say that at times I appreciate the Skeptic position: Can we ever know anything for certain? It strikes me as a little too convenient that this letter was ‘found’ just two days ago.”

  “If the letter was actually just discovered then, it might explain why Domitian spent so much time discussing Nero at dinner last night.”

  “Or, if Domitian wants me to think the letter is genuine, the conversation about Nero could have been staged.”

  “Why would he go to such lengths to get you interested?”

  “That I don’t know, but I think there’s more to his request than just finding Agrippina’s unedited memoirs. And I suspect Regulus has some role to play, to settle a score against me if for no other reason.”

  Tacitus chuckled and shook his head, as though hearing something he considered ridiculous. “Regulus would be amused, I’m sure, to know how much credit you give him for being the guiding force behind all that is evil in Rome. Considering how evil Rome is, that role would be a tall order for any man.”

  “But Regulus was there, at Domitian’s invitation, and he heard the same conversation we did. I don’t think Domitian—or any ruler—does anything without design.”

  “Friend Pliny, your childhood nurse must have told you some memorable tales about monsters under your bed. You’re still seeing them, even in daylight.”

  “I’ll try to warn you before one of them bites your backside off.”

  I turned my attention to the text of the letter. The handwriting was amateurish, of a quality I would never accept from a scribe of mine, even in a short note, but it was easily legible. I read aloud:

  Agrippina, mother of Nero Caesar, sends greetings to Nero Caesar, son of Agrippina.

  “That’s a strange way for a mother to begin a letter to her son.” Tacitus held out his hand and I let him take the letter.

  “Unless she’s reminding him of who put him in power. From the stories I’ve heard, she wanted to be queen of Rome.”

  “She put her face all over Nero’s coins at the beginning of his reign,” Tacitus said. “And she sat beside him to receive foreign dignitaries.”

  I took the letter back and read a bit more.

  Dearest son, I’m sure you will be concerned to know that I have been having some distress with my stomach the last few days. But I am blessed with a strong constitution, fortified by some medications I’ve been taking. By the way, thank you for the pastries you sent me for the Saturnalia. They were quite tasty. What was that extra ingredient your cook used?

  “Hmmph!” Tacitus said. “Imperial correspondence sounds just as insipid as what the rest of us write.”

  “You’re missing the whole point.” I tried to remain patient. “He tried to poison her. And she knows it and wants him to know that she knows.”

  “How do you get that out of what you just read?” Tacitus snatched the letter out of my hand. A corner of the papyrus sheet tore off between my fingers.

  “It’s so obvious, my dear Tacitus.” I tapped the papyrus with my index finger. “Look at the juxtaposition of the items. ‘I have a stomachache after eating something you sent me.’ The sarcasm of the bit about the extra ingredient in the pastries is patent. She must have been taking antidotes for the poisons in advance. That would be the ‘medications’.”

  Tacitus eyed me like a schoolboy chastised by his teacher for missing the subtlety of some passage in Virgil. His reputation as an orator, I’ve come to realize, rests on his technical brilliance and his fine voice, not on his reasoning ability. I took the papyrus back from him and resumed reading.

  I shall record your act of kindness in my memoir
s, along with all your other signs of filial devotion, so that posterity may know just what kind of son you are.

  “So that sentence isn’t really a compliment?” Tacitus asked.

  “Exactly. This woman was vicious. No wonder Nero turned out to be such a monster. But at least she’s telling us that she wrote about this in her memoirs. And it’s not in my copy or Domitian’s.”

  Tacitus furrowed his brow and rubbed a hand across it, as though following my line of reasoning was painful for him. “But if she doesn’t mean what she appears to be saying in the rest of the letter, why do you take that part seriously? If you’re going to explain away some passages, why not all?”

  His questions stopped me for a moment. “Your point is well taken. Perhaps she used the fiction of putting things in her memoirs to threaten Nero.”

  “So we may be looking for a non-existent document. On the basis of a letter that might have been forged.”

  My shoulders slumped. “We can’t dismiss that possibility.”

  “Why would the princeps put us in such a position?” Tacitus asked.

  “I don’t think Domitian would. Regulus might.”

  “Gaius Pliny! Do you really think Regulus could manipulate the princeps himself?”

  “Domitian is still relatively young. He relies on advisors more than his brother or father did. Regulus has been waiting for years to worm his way back into the emperor’s good graces. His presence at dinner last night makes me uneasy about this whole matter. I wish we didn’t have to be involved.”

  “Do we have any choice?”

  “No more than gladiators who are told to enter the arena and fight.”

  Tacitus raised his arm like a gladiator saluting the crowd. “Well, read the rest of the letter as we march to our deaths.”

  “There’s no need for melodrama.” At least I hoped there wasn’t. I turned back to the letter.