Empire (12 page)

Acilia was holding the other twin. How miserable she looked! Through all the agony of the last ten days, she had not said a word against him. Her father and brother had not been so kind. The two of them had arrived at the house the morning after Sejanus’s visit, first anxious and alarmed at the rumors they had heard, then furious and full of recriminations against Lucius. Acilius said hurtful words of the sort that could never be taken back, about the worthlessness of Lucius’s patrician blood and the shame he had brought upon the Acilii. He had argued that his daughter and grandsons should remain in Roma with him, and Lucius had wavered, trying to imagine his exile in Alexandria without them. It was Acilia who
had silenced her father, saying that she had no intention of abandoning her husband or of taking her sons from their father. Acilius had left in a rage and they had not seen him since. He had not even come to see them off.

No one had come. No one wanted to be seen saying farewell to an exiled enemy of the imperial house—no one except Claudius.

The twin held by his mother began to cry. Yes, it was Kaeso, as Lucius had thought; he could recognize the boys more readily by their cries than by their faces, which were truly identical.

Slaves began to load the crates into the cargo hold of the boat. Lucius and Claudius were in the way. They stepped to the edge of the dock and stood side by side, staring at their distorted reflections in the water.

“It may be that your exile is a g-good thing. Who can say?”

“A good thing? To leave the only city I know, the only home I’ve ever had? The idea of raising my sons anywhere else is unspeakably bitter to me, almost unbearable.”

“No, Lucius, hear me out. Tiberius is increasingly detached. He gives more and more authority to Sejanus. The situation in Roma can only grow worse. For the first time in my life, I’ve begun to fear for my own survival. The atmosphere around Tiberius is so clouded with suspicion, even a fellow as harmless as myself m-m-might become a target.”

“What will you do, Claudius?”

“I intend to disengage from public life as much as p-p-possible. Grow root vegetables at my country house. P-p-pursue my antiquarian studies. Get drunk with my low-life friends. As soon as you leave, I intend to head back to the tavern and get even drunker than I already am.”

The stack of crates had vanished. Packed inside one of them was Lucius’s trabea and his lituus.

The boat was ready to cast off.

His mother stumbled on the gangplank. When Lucius caught her, he was shocked at how little she weighed. He wondered how she could survive the journey.

Claudius stood alone on the dock and waved as they departed, then turned around and went back to the tavern.

Lucius gazed at the buildings passing by. He knew every street and rooftop of this part of the city, between the Tiber and the Aventine,
though he was more used to looking down from the top of the hill; the view was strange, looking up from the river.

Scanning the skyline, he happened to spot his house, high on the crest of the Aventine. But it was not his house any longer; the new owners were standing on one of the balconies, waving to their neighbors across the way. Lucius gazed at the sight and knew how the lemures of the dead must feel, watching the living from the shadows.

Titus and Kaeso both began to cry. Would they cry all the way to Alexandria?

The boat sailed on. On the shore, temples and houses gave way to warehouses and rubbish heaps, and then to open fields. The city disappeared from view.

As clearly as if a god had whispered the knowledge in his ear, Lucius knew he would never see Roma again.

“Impressive? I suppose. But so is Alexandria,” said Kaeso Pinarius, surveying the heart of Roma from the summit of the Capitoline Hill.

The Temple of Apollo atop the Palatine dominated the skyline; adjacent to the temple, the imperial complex had been much built up since the time of Augustus and presented a jumble of tile rooftops, aerial gardens, and colonnaded terraces. Directly below was the Forum with its procession of grand edifices along the Sacred Way, from the Senate House to the round Temple of Vesta and beyond. To the north and east lay the other hills of Roma, and nestled among them the concentration of towering tenements, some as tall as seven stories, in the crowded Subura.

“Impressive? It’s incredible! Alexandria simply can’t compare. Nor can any other place I’ve seen.” Kaeso’s twin brother, Titus, could hardly contain his enthusiasm. At the age of twenty-two, Titus could not claim to have traveled the world, but their late father had once taken them on a trip to Antioch, and he and Kaeso had stopped in several cities, including Athens, on their journey to Roma. “In Alexandria, all the streets are laid out in a grid. Every corner is like every other. It’s so regular and boring. But Roma is all hills and valleys and streets as jumbled as a pile of serpents, and huge buildings everywhere you look.”

Kaeso nodded. “Yes, it’s a mess.”

“It’s magnificent!”

“ ‘Magnificent’ would describe the Temple of Serapis in Alexandria, or the Great Library, or the Pharos lighthouse, or perhaps the Museum—”

“But none of those can rival the Temple of Jupiter,” said Titus. He looked over his shoulder and up at the grand structure with its immense columns and pediment roof surmounted by a gilded statue of the greatest of the gods in his quadriga, glimmering under the slanting light of a bright November sun. Titus turned in a slow circle, taking in the view in every direction, enchanted by the sinuous course of the shimmering Tiber, awed by the sheer immensity of the city. “Surely, brother, this is the most magnificent sight on earth.”

“Father certainly thought so. How he loved to reminisce about his beloved Roma!” Kaeso sighed. “If only he were still alive, to be here with us today.”

Titus nodded. “He was supposed to be here. He
would
be here, and so would mother, if the fever hadn’t taken them last year. Fate was cruel to our parents, Kaeso. More than anything, they wanted to return to this city. At last the opportunity came—and then Fortune snatched it away. But Fate has been kinder to us, eh, brother? We are finally home.”

“Home?” Kaeso shook his head. “We were babies when father and mother fled from the city. We have no close kin here, except the Acilii, who severed all ties with our mother. Father’s parents died before we were born—”

“Not Grandmother Camilla. She died on the journey to Alexandria. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember father telling us that, but I have no memories of
her
.”

“I do, I think.” Titus frowned.

“I don’t. And I have no memories of Roma, do you? We were babies when we left. We grew up in Alexandria. Alexandria is our home.”

“
Was
our home, Kaeso. We were born Romans, we have always been citizens of Roma, and now we are truly Romans again. It’s what our father wanted. Thanks to Claudius—”

“Did I hear my name? Being spoken k-k-kindly, I hope.” Claudius was nearby, stooping over to peer at the sculptor’s mark on a statue of Hercules. He straightened, groaning a bit—at fifty, his back was stiffer than it once had been—and ambled toward them. One of his toes had developed
a blister from walking, but he bore the pain with a smile. The sons of Lucius Pinarius and their wives were taking their first tour of the city, and it was his pleasure to act as their guide.

“I was reminding Kaeso of how grateful we should be for all you’ve done,” said Titus.

“I only wish I could have arranged for you and your father to return to Roma long ago. I thought it might be possible when Tiberius p-p-put Sejanus to death. Can that have been nine years ago? How the time flies! But getting rid of that treacherous viper didn’t make Tiberius any less unreasonable; if anything, Uncle became more suspicious and fearful than ever. Two of my nephews he put to death for plotting against him, locking them away and letting them starve to death, even as he indulged his every appetite—and not just for food.”

“What do you mean?” said Kaeso.

“In his declining years, Uncle decided to followed his impulses, no m-m-matter where they might lead.”

“His impulses?” said Tiberius.

Claudius glanced over his shoulder. His young wife and the wives of the twins were taking a rest, sitting on the steps of the Temple of Jupiter while their attendant slaves stood by. The three women smiled and waved, then went on with their conversation. No one else was close enough to hear. Why had he brought up the subject of Tiberius and his appetites? The fact was, Claudius needed to unburden himself. For years, he had had no one to whom he could speak in an unguarded way, not even his slaves, who either could not be trusted or upon whom he did not wish to thrust the responsibility of keeping his secrets. Looking back, he realized that there had never been anyone to whom he could speak with utter freedom except his dear friend and cousin Lucius Pinarius. Since the twins had arrived in Roma, Claudius found himself confiding in them more and more, as once he had confided in their father.

“Tiberius’s behavior in his last years was truly shocking. The m-m-man indulged every desire, without the least restraint. What must Augustus have thought, looking down from Olympus?”

“What sort of desires?” asked Titus, curious to know more.

“How I dreaded my visits to that debauched retreat of his at Capri. At least he had the sense to confine his excesses to his private island! All
those n-n-naked children wandering about. Not just nubile boys and girls, I tell you, and not just slaves, but freeborn children! Tiberius coined his own terms for them. In bed they were his spintriae—his tight little sphincters. In his bath, they were his little minnows. Uncle said there was no greater pleasure for an old man than to settle in a warm p-pool and be nibbled and suckled under water by tiny mouths while he gazed up at the pornographic mosaics on the ceiling.”

“Mosaics with pictures of people having sex?” Titus laughed. “I’ve never seen such a thing! What do you make of that, Kaeso?”

Kaeso shook his head. Claudius frowned, a bit flustered by Titus’s lack of proper outrage, but he was encouraged to see that Kaeso appeared to share his disdain.

“Oh, how Tiberius loved his p-p-pornography! The whole place was like a museum of sex, filled with the most salacious paintings and statues imaginable. I thought to find escape in the library, but the shelves contained nothing but smut—scroll upon scroll of the most salacious stories, especially written for Tiberius by slaves acquired solely for their skill at spinning such tales. Bedtime stories, he called them. Since most of his bedmates were too ill-educated or too young to read, Tiberius had artists illustrate the texts, so that he could use the pictures to show his partners exactly what he wanted them to do.”

Titus elbowed his brother. “What do you think of that, Kaeso? I never saw such books at the Great Library in Alexandria!” Kaeso made a sour face.

Claudius blinked. “But what started me on this dreadful subject? Ah, yes, my efforts to bring your father back to Roma. Well, eventually Tiberius lost all interest in running the state; he left that to his underlings and retired full-time to Capri. But every so often, when I could get Uncle to discuss something other than the gratification of his p-p-penis, I would bring up the case of your father. I pointed out that Lucius was my cousin, and that Sejanus’s agents had kept him under surveillance for years, and not once had he been heard to utter a treasonable sentiment, or to practice astrology, for that m-m-matter. I begged Tiberius to rescind your father’s banishment. But Uncle was not a forgiving sort. He wouldn’t hear of it. He wouldn’t even listen to me—except once, when I made the mistake of mentioning that Lucius had twin sons, trying to wring some pity from
him, and do you know what Tiberius said? ‘How old are they? Are they pretty?’ By that time you were old enough to wear togas, and I told him so, whereupon he lost all interest and ordered me never to m-m-mention my cousin Lucius Pinarius again.”

Claudius sighed. “So, we simply had to wait for Tiberius to die. How the people detested him, by the end. When word of his death at Capri reached Roma, there was d-d-dancing in the streets. You should have seen the jubilation that swept through this city when my nephew was named his successor—the only son of Germanicus whom Tiberius hadn’t managed to kill. . . .” His voice trailed away. He blinked and twitched.

“There were celebrations in Alexandria, too,” said Titus. “Back in Egypt, everyone says Gaius Caligula will make an ideal ruler. The legions love him. He’s young, energetic, sure of himself.”

“Yes, very sure of himself, as only a g-g-god can be,” muttered Claudius, averting his eyes. “At any rate, amid all the celebration, our new emperor expressed his willingness to hear pleas for amnesty, including mine for your father. It was granted. But the wheels of state turn slowly—you wouldn’t believe the layers of bureaucracy in this city—and of course your f-f-father needed time to settle his affairs in Alexandria before he could leave. In the last letter I received from him, he was finally making preparations for the journey. How happy Lucius was that he had convinced the two of you and your wives to come along with him. And then—a fever took both him and Acilia. So sad! But you two are here now, along with those lovely wives of yours. One always hears that Alexandrian women are the world’s most beautiful; Artemisia and Chrysanthe are proof. But here, what’s this?”