Empire

AD 51

The weather was mild for mid-December. A crowd of dignitaries and members of the imperial household stood around the perimeter of the Auguratorium on the Palatine. The occasion was the fourteenth birthday of young Nero, the son of Agrippina, grandson of Germanicus, great-greatgrandson of Augustus, and great-nephew and now adopted son of Claudius. Titus Pinarius was present, wearing his trabea rather than his purple-bordered senatorial toga and carrying his lituus. He was to perform the augury for the young man’s toga day, his passage to manhood.

Chrysanthe was among the guests, looking beautiful as always and only slightly uncomfortable in the company of the Roman-born matrons, who would always think of her as an Alexandrian. She devoted most of her attention to their son, Lucius, who at four was deemed by Titus to be old enough and sufficiently well behaved to attend such a ceremony and watch his father at work.

While he waited to be called upon, Titus surveyed the crowd. Many of the women were dazzling in their finery, but none stood out more than Nero’s mother. At thirty-six, Agrippina was still a strikingly attractive woman. Her hair was parted in the middle; long curls streamed like ribbons on either side and were gathered by a purple-and-gold fillet at the back of her head. Her stola was a garment of numerous layers and folds, woven of a fabric of many colours. Her beaming smile showed her prominent canine teeth – a sign of good luck, many believed. Fortune had certainly smiled on Agrippina in recent years.

Despite his vow never to marry again after his humiliation by Messalina, Claudius almost immediately married Agrippina. It seemed the widower felt incomplete without a strong-willed and beautiful woman to manipulate him. Claudius’s choice of a bride had scandalized the city, since marriage between an uncle and a niece was incest. To forestall the fears of the populace that some supernatural calamity might result, Claudius had called on Titus to look for omens and precedents that favoured his marriage to Agrippina, and Titus had obliged. Agrippina was grateful for this service. Titus’s prestigious role at this day’s event was the latest proof of her favour.

Fortune had not always smiled on Agrippina. The untimely deaths of her parents, her humiliating exile under Caligula, the loss of two husbands – she had endured all these trials and emerged triumphant. She had even outwitted the machinations of Messalina – for most people now agreed that it was Agrippina and her son who had been threatened by the jealousy of Messalina, and not the reverse. It was said that Messalina had once sent an assassin to kill Nero in his crib, but the man had been frightened off by a snake in the baby’s bed – actually the skin of a snake, placed there by his clever and vigilant mother. Agrippina had become a stirring exemplar of Roman womanhood. She had survived every setback, and her marriage to her uncle Claudius had made her the most powerful woman in Roma.

Also in attendance was the nine-year-old son of Claudius and Messalina, Britannicus. He was dressed in the old-fashioned long-sleeved tunic still worn by many patrician boys. His hair was long and unkempt. He seemed a bit shy and standoffish, observing the proceedings with a lowered brow and sidelong glances. What sort of fellow would he grow up to be? wondered Titus, trying to imagine a combination of his wildly different parents. What must the boy’s life be like these days, three years after the terrible death of his disgraced mother? Claudius had once been a doting father, but it seemed to Titus that he now neglected the boy. No doubt Britannicus reminded Claudius of Messalina. How did Claudius feel about a son who looked so much like the woman who had made a fool of him, and had been put to death on his orders?

Certainly Agrippina had no love for Britannicus. She had not only persuaded Claudius to adopt Nero, making him first in line of inheritance ahead of Britannicus, but had arranged for Nero to be recognized as an adult a full year earlier than was traditional – a young man’s toga day was usually between his fifteenth and seventeenth years – so that he could begin accumulating the honours and rewards of a public career. This was clearly in service to her agenda of elevating her son, but there was also a sound political argument for advancing Nero as quickly as possible. As long as Claudius had no adult heir, potential rivals might be encouraged to plot against him. And if Claudius should die, an orphaned Britannicus would be highly vulnerable, while Nero was just old enough, especially with his mother behind him, to act as a plausible ruler. Also to his advantage was the fact that Nero was the direct descendant of the Divine Augustus.

Neglected though he might be, young Britannicus was not alone. With him was his constant companion, a boy a year or so older, Titus Flavius Vespasian, son of the general of the same name. Titus had been brought up alongside Britannicus, with the same teachers and athletic instructors. The boy’s bright smile and outgoing personality presented a contract to Britannicus’s withdrawn, almost furtive manner.

The elder Vespasian was also present, along with his wife, who held their newborn son. In his early forties, Vespasian was a veteran of thirty battles in the newly conquered province of Britannia. His victories had earned him a public triumph in which young Titus had ridden alongside him in the chariot, and he had been rewarded with a consulship, the highest office to which a citizen could aspire. With a large nose, a mouth too small for his fleshy face, and a heavy, furrowed brow, Vespasian was not handsome; he had the perpetual expression of a man straining to empty his bowels. His family fortune had started with his father, a tax collector in the province of Asia, but the Flavians were otherwise obscure. Behind his back, members of the imperial court complained of Vespasian’s uncouth manners and flagrant social climbing. To Titus Pinarius, on the few occasions when they had spoken, Vespasian had seemed forthright and without pretense, as befitted a military man. It did not seem quite proper that Vespasian should have brought his two-month-old infant to such a ceremony, but clearly the general was eager to show the child off. To everyone who greeted him he insisted on introducing “the newest addition to the Flavians, my little Domitian.”

Titus’s gaze returned to the youth who was donning the toga of manhood that day. He found Nero to quite charming and surprisingly self-possessed for his age. At fourteen, he was a connoisseur of painting and sculpture, wrote poetry, and loved horses. He was tall but had an ungainly physique. A boy’s long-sleeved tunic had not been flattering to Nero’s thick neck, stocky trunk, and bony legs; he looked better in his purple-and-gold toga. His blonde hair glinted in the sunlight, and his flashing blue eyes were wide, taking in the scene. Nero enjoyed being the centre of attention.

Standing beside him was the young man’s adoptive father. Claudius looked more decrepit than ever. The poor fellow had never been the same after his discovery of Messalina’s bigamy and the bloodbath that followed. Titus still felt a chill when he remembered how Claudius had expected Messalina at dinner on the very night that he ordered her death. And on the morning that followed, Claudius sent messages to some of the executed men inviting them to play dice, and complained when they didn’t come. He sent petulant messages accusing them of staying abed and being too lazy to reply. “Sleepy-heads,” he called them, forgetting that by his order they had lost their heads altogether.

On the other side of Nero stood his tutor, Lucius Annaeus Seneca, a bearded man in his forties, wearing a senator’s purple-bordered toga. Seneca was an accomplished man of letters, famous for his many books and plays. Messalina had talked Claudius into exiling Seneca, but Agrippina had arranged for his return, and had charged Seneca with giving Nero the most refined education possible.

The ceremony commenced. When the time arrived for the taking of the auspices, all eyes turned to Titus. He began with a short speech about the subject of his augury, whose full name, since his adoption by the emperor, was Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus.

“As many of you know, the name Nero comes from an old Sabine word meaning ‘strong and valiant,’ and those who have seen this young man perform on horseback and wield arms in the Troy Pageant know that he is worthy of his name,” said Titus. The appreciative applause for this pretty turn of phrase was cut short by a sudden outburst of crying from Vespasian’s newborn. Titus frowned. The baby’s wailing grew louder, until at last his mother carried little Domitian away. Vespasian, who seemed unperturbed by the interruption, wriggled his fingers at the departing infant.

Titus loudly cleared his throat and proceeded.

With his lituus he marked a segment of the sky. At midwinter, with few birds in Roma, patience might be required for the observation, but almost at once Titus saw a pair of vultures. They were quite far away, circling above the private racetrack Caligula had built for himself beyond the Tiber on the Vatican Hill. Titus waited, hoping to see more, but eventually he felt the crowd grow restive. He declared the auspices well and truly taken and announced that they were very good. In fact, the auspices had been only mildly favourable, almost non-committal. Claudius, standing behind him and able to see what Titus saw, would have known this, had he been watching; but when Titus glanced over his shoulder, he saw the emperor staring at the ground.

There were more speeches, and then Nero was called on to parade before the assembly wearing his toga. He did so with a swagger that was almost comical. (Titus was reminded of Messalina’s derisive comment: “What a little showman!”) No one laughed, though it seemed to Titus that Vespasian might have smirked; with his expression of perpetual constipation, it was hard to tell. At last the company retired to the imperial residence for the banquet, passing the armour of the Divine Augustus in the forecourt and the ancient laurel trees that flanked the massive bronze doors.

“Just how old is the emperor?” Chrysanthe asked Titus, after they had settled onto their couches and been served the first course of olives stuffed with anchovies. She was gazing at Claudius, who shared a couch with Agrippina across the room.

Titus calculated in his head. “Sixty-one, I think. Why do you ask?”

“When we first came to Roma ten years ago, I thought he was old then, but he was so much more alive. Remember how excited he was to show us the city? Now he seems withered, like a tree that’s had its roots cut and might fall at any moment.”

“All his drinking doesn’t help,” noted Titus as he watched a serving boy refill the emperor’s cup. Chrysanthe was right. His cousin was more doddering than ever. What a contrast Agrippina presented. She was positively effervescent, smiling and laughing and entertaining everyone in earshot with a very witty anecdote, to judge by the laughter she elicited. Nero reclined on his own couch nearby and gazed at his mother adoringly.

While Titus watched, Agrippina gestured to Nero. Obeying her request, the young man pulled back a fold of his purple toga to bare his right arm. Coiled like a snake around his biceps was a golden bracelet. Agrippina’s listeners nodded and made appreciative sounds.

“What’s that about?” asked Titus.

“He’s showing off his snake bracelet,” explained Chrysanthe. “Half the children in the city wear a bracelet like that now, though not made of solid gold. Inside that bracelet is the snakeskin that scared off an assassin sent by Messalina when Nero was in his crib. He wears the bracelet to show gratitude and devotion to his mother, and they say the snakeskin still protects him. Do you think we should have such a bracelet make for little Lucius?” Their son was in another room with his nurse, eating with the other children.

“Perhaps,” said Titus, though it occurred to him that a more appropriate talisman for his son would be the fascinum of their ancestors. Why had he allowed Kaeso to take it? Titus realized that he was clenching his teeth. He drove thoughts of his brother from his mind, refusing to let them spoil such a joyous occasion.

As the meal progressed and more wine flowed, guests began to move about the room, standing in small groups or sharing couches while they conversed. Titus worked his way to Nero’s couch. Agrippina stood nearby, as did Seneca. Standing next to Seneca was a woman about half his age, his wife, Pompeia Paulina.

“Teach my son all the poetry and rhetoric and history you want, I told Seneca, but no philosophy!” Agrippina was saying. “All those notions about Fate and free will and the slippery nature of reality – perhaps they’re amusing for people who have nothing better to think about, but they can be nothing but a handicap to a person like my son, who must be ready to assume such a heavy burden of responsibility.”

“It’s true,” said Seneca. He had grown a beard in exile and kept it on his return; it made him look more like a philosopher than a senator. “Poetry gives consolation to the powerful-”

“While philosophy gives consolation to the powerless?” said Titus.

Seneca smiled. “Greeting, Titus Pinarius. Though I suppose I should address you as Senator Pinarius now.”

“Or address him as augur; that’s Pinarius’s special calling, and the one he performed today was splendid,” said Agrippina. “But you must excuse me while I attend to another matter. There’s to be an entertainment later, and I’m told the flute player and the dancing girl have both gone missing.”

Titus watched her leave, then turned to Seneca and his wife. “Speaking of entertainment, is it true that Nero will be singing a song which he composed especially for the occasion?”

“Of course not!” Seneca made a face. “Nero composed a song, to be sure; it’s a meditation on the virtues of his great-great-grandfather, the Divine Augustus, entirely appropriate for the occasion. But the song will be sung by a young freedman, a trained performer.”

“Is Nero a poor singer, then?”

Seneca and his young wife exchanged glances. He had married Paulina when she was very young and she had shared the years of his exile. Having no other student at hand, it was said that Seneca had taught his wife philosophy. Despite her youth, Paulina was probably the best-educated woman in Roma.

“Nero’s voice is not… unpleasant,” said Paulina. She was evidently being generous.

“But his talent as a singer is irrelevant,” added Seneca. “It would never do for a son of the emperor to perform as a mere actor before an audience. The very idea is vulgar.”

“Then I suppose I shall never have the pleasure of hearing Nero sing,” said Titus. “Still, I’ll look forward to hearing his composition. When it comes to writing, he certainly couldn’t ask for a better teacher than you. I was present at the recent gathering where your play about Oedipus was read aloud. Such powerful language! Such unforgettable images!”

“Thank you, Senator Pinarius.” Seneca beamed. “Nero also appreciated that play. His tastes are quite sophisticated. But he still requires instruction in matters of… propriety. The boy wanted to recite the role of Oedipus, if you can imagine that. The son of an emperor, playing the role of an incestuous parricide! I’ve tried to explain to him that emperors simply cannot be actors, yet he still talks about taking a part in the new play I’m working on, about Thyestes. I hope to have it ready for a recitation during the upcoming festivities attending Nero’s election to the consulship.”

“Doesn’t a consul have to be at least twenty years old?”

“Yes, but there is no law that says a man cannot be elected at fourteen and enjoy the privileges of a consul-elect until he reaches the age of twenty. I’m sure we can count on your vote to ratify his selection, Senator Pinarius?”

Titus nodded, acquiescing to this slippery bit of constitutional logic. Seneca was a politician after all, not just a philosopher.

“Anyway,” Seneca went on, “during the play to celebrate his election, I can assure you the consul-elect will be in the audience, not on the stage.”

Titus nodded. “A play about Thyestes, you say? Wasn’t he the Greek king tricked into eating his own sons?”

Seneca was about to bite into a pastry, but lowered the delicacy from his lips. “Yes. Thyestes’ brother, King Atreus, baked the boys in a pie, fed them to their unsuspecting father, then showed their heads to poor Thyestes. But Thyestes exacted a terrible revenge.”

“As they always do in these Greek tales,” added his wife. Paulina gave Titus a quizzical look. “Thyestes and Atreus were twins, they say. You have a twin brother, don’t you, Senator Pinarius?”

Titus frowned. After a long spell of not thinking about Kaeso, twice within an hour his brother had been called to his mind. He changed the subject back to Seneca’s work. “Oedipus and Thyestes – such grim stories.”

“I draw inspiration from the old Greek playwrights, especially Euripides. Despite the antiquity of his subject matter, his outlook is remarkably modern; the darkness and violence of his stories resonate with present-day Romans. Then there is my own experience of life, which has not been without tribulation. I was forced into a premature retirement by Caligula, thanks to his insane suspicions. I was brought back to favour by Claudius, and then sent into exile again for eight years, thanks to Messalina’s scheming. Now I’m back again, thanks to Agrippina, and I’ve been welcomed in the very heart of the imperial household. Agrippina is my deus ex machina, my Athena appearing at the last moment in the play, descending from the sky to restore harmony to the cosmos.”

“The empress is your muse, then?”

“My saviour, certainly.” Seneca cocked his head. “And then, of course, there are dreams.”

“Dreams?”

“As a source of inspiration. Do you not dream, Titus Pinarius?”

Titus shrugged. “Hardly ever.”

“Perhaps that’s a blessing. My dreams are very vivid, full of noise and blood and violence – louder and brighter and more startling than anything in the waking world. Sometimes I can scarcely stand my dreams. I wake in a cold sweat, then reach for the wax tablet at my bedside and scribble notes for a scene – Oedipus tripping blindly over the body of his mother, or Thyestes agape at the sight of his sons severed heads.”

Seneca raised an eyebrow. “Do you know, a dream has just come back to me. I’d forgotten it until this moment. I had it the night after Claudius told me I would have the honor of tutoring Nero. Odd, how one can forget a dream completely, and then it suddenly comes back. I dreamed I appeared at the imperial house, in this very room, ready for my first day, but when my young pupil turned to face me – it was Caligula! What a shock! And so nonsensical, since Nero is nothing like his uncle. Caligula was raised in army boots and had hardly any education, while Nero loves learning.” Seneca shivered. “Did you ever meet Caligula face-to-face?”

“Only once,” said Titus.

“Lucky you!”

Vespasian strolled over to join them. His wife, Domitilla, was beside him, still carrying the newborn Domitian, who had quieted down. Paulina left her husband’s side to have a closer look at the baby.

“Did I hear you mention the departed Caligula?” Vespasian said.

Seneca eyed the general condescendingly. “Yes, I was telling Senator Pinarius a story about-”

“Who doesn’t have a Caligula story to tell?” said Vespasian. The general was more used to talking than to listening. “I suppose my tale is pretty harmless compared to most. Caligula was emperor; I couldn’t have been more than thirty – that’s right, because my Titus had just been born – and I’d just been elected aedile. One of my responsibilities was keeping the city clean. I thought I was doing a pretty good job, until one day Caligula summoned me to meet him on a muddy little back road on the far side of the Aventine – not a paved road, mind you, but a narrow dirt alley behind some warehouses. He asked me why the street was so dirty. ‘Because it’s made of dirt?’ I said.” Vespasian laughed. “Caligula was not amused. He was furious. By Hercules, it’s a miracle I didn’t lose my head on the spot! He ordered his lictors to scoop up handfuls of mud and to cram it inside my toga, until I was covered all over with mud and loaded with the stuff like a bursting wineskin. Then Caligula laughed until he wept, and off he went. Mind you, later, a soothsayer told me the incident was actually a good omen, something about the very soil of my homeland being next to my skin and under the protection of my toga. Ha! But these soothsayers can turn anything to a fellow’s advantage, can’t they?” He laughed, then stopped himself. “Oh dear, is that a rude thing to say to an augur?” He laughed again, louder. “Ah, but have you met my son Titus, Senator Pinarius? He was just here, with his friend Britannicus – oh, there they are, having a laugh with Nero.”

The boys were indeed nearby, but they were no longer laughing. Something had gone wrong. Nero’s face, naturally ruddy and prone to blemishes, turned a darker shade of red and was twisted by a sudden fury. He hurled his wine cup at Britannicus. The boy dodged and the cup went hurtling past Vespasian’s nose. Startled, the baby Domitian began to wail again.

Britannicus put on an exaggerated expression of shock. “But, Lucius Domitius,” he said, addressing Nero by his birth name rather than his adopted name, “I merely wished you a happy birthday-”

“You will address me by my proper name, brat!” cried Nero. His ringing voice penetrated every corner of the room. The guests fell silent.

Britannicus raised an eyebrow. “But how can I do that, big brother? Earlier today, the augur explained that ‘Nero’ means ‘strong and valiant’ – and you, Lucius Domitius, are weak and cowardly.”

Britannicus’s friend Titus stifled a giggle.

“That’s a lie, you little bastard!” said Nero. “What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be eating in the other room with the children?”

Agrippina approached the boys to stop the row. Claudius remained on his couch and seemed hardly to notice what was happening.

Britannicus left the room, followed by a small coterie of freedmen and attendants, the remnants of Messalina’s faction in the imperial household. He carried himself with remarkable poise for a nine-year-old.

Young Titus looked to his father. Vespasian nodded, and the boy left the room with Britannicus. Vespasian shook his head. “That Britannicus – willful and wayward, just like his mother! I should go after the boy. Perhaps I can persuade him to apologize to Nero. I managed to broker a peace between those Celtic tribes up in Britannia, you know. Maybe I can do the same thing here.” He departed along with Domitilla and the infant, who continued to wail.

Paulina returned to her husband’s side. Agrippina joined them. “What am I going to do about that boy?”

“I suppose you mean Britannicus,” said Seneca. “But more to the point, what are we going to do about Nero? He can’t call the emperor’s son a bastard in public. It won’t do.”

Agrippina nodded. “And yet… one does hear rumours about Britannicus.”

“Rumours?” said Paulina.

Agrippina looked sidelong at Titus, as if deciding whether to confide in him, then went on. “Not that the child is a bastard – though we all know what a whore Messalina was. No, there are some who believe that Britannicus is the child of neither Messalina nor Claudius, that their baby was stillborn and Messalina substituted some other child in the crib, eager to present Claudius with an heir. I ask you, does Britannicus look like either of his purported parents?”

“A changeling, you mean?” Seneca snorted. “That’s the sort of thing that happens in old Greek comedies.”

“When it happens in real life, the results are far from comic.” Agrippina turned to Titus. “Senator Pinarius, I make no secret of the fact that I favour astrology and know little about augury. But I wonder, in this case, could augury be of help?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Might there be a way to interpret the auspices so as to determine the true identity of a particular child? Your skills at divination are so great, and Claudius has such complete confidence in you…” Agrippina peered at him intently.

Unnerved by her scrutiny, Titus glanced at Claudius. His cousin had sunken deep into his couch and was gazing slack-jawed at his wine cup. Then Titus looked at the young Nero, who was over his tantrum and was flirting with one of the younger female guests. Claudius was the past; Nero was the future. Agrippina seemed to be asking for Titus’s help on behalf of the young man who would almost surely be emperor one day, perhaps sooner rather than later. Titus’s first loyalty would always be to his calling as an augur, to strive for the correct interpretation of the will of the gods; but could he not do that and please Agrippina at the same time?

“To determine whether a given individual is a changeling, traditional augury might be of little use,” said Titus carefully, “but there are other forms of divination to which one might draw the attention of the emperor, who is interested in all forms of prognostication. Cousin Claudius recently charged me with compiling a list of every omen and portent reported in Italy, and together we review that list at regular intervals. Only yesterday, in Ostia, a pig was born with the talons of a hawk. Such an occurrence is invariably a message from the gods. Freakish weather, swarms of bees, rumblings in the earth, strange lights in the sky – all require careful interpretation. I have a secretary who closely examines the registry of deaths, looking for any unusual patterns; on a given day, perhaps every man who dies in Roma has the same first name, for instance. You’d be amazed at all the connections you begin to see, when you look for them.”

“Remarkable!” said Agrippina. “But how does one correctly decipher these signs?”

Titus smiled. “The judgement of an augur begins with training but grows with experience. I’ve spent many years studying manifestations of the divine will.” He looked at Nero, noting his large head and prominent brow. “Tell me, has a physiognomist ever examined Britannicus?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said Agrippina.

“Nor to mine,” said Seneca.

“Their branch of science is very specialized. Based on precepts laid down by Aristotle and Pythagoras, they examine the face and the shape of the head for indications of a person’s destiny. Physiognomists talk mostly about the future, but perhaps they can see the past as well. If there is, as you suspect, something… untoward… about the origin of Britannicus, the truth might yet be revealed to the emperor. Yes, I think the first step to discovering the truth might be to summon a physiognomist. I know an Egyptian practitioner – ah, but here comes your son.”

Nero, having sufficiently charmed the young female guest, gathered the folds of his purple-and-gold toga and approached them.

“Brothers!” he said, rolling his eyes, as if to explain his altercation with Britannicus. “You have a brother, don’t you?” he asked Titus. “A twin, Seneca told me.”

“Yes.” Titus sighed. Yet again, Kaeso was being forced into his thoughts.

“Are you identical twins?” asked Nero. The young man’s curiosity appeared to be entirely innocent, but Titus still cringed.

“In appearance, at least when we younger. Otherwise, we’re so different that I should like to think he was… a changeling.” Titus glanced at Agrippina.

“Why do we never see him?” said Nero. “You’re always coming by to see the emperor in his study. Yet we never see your twin.”

“My brother is…” This was not the first time Kaeso’s unsavoury behaviour had caused Titus embarrassment, yet he had never come up with a good way to explain his brother’s complete withdrawal not just from public life but from decent society. How could anyone in the imperial household possibly understand Kaeso’s bizarre beliefs and perverse behaviour? What excuse could Titus make this time for Kaeso? Should he say that his brother was insane? A drunkard? Crippled by illness?

“My brother is…”

Seneca finished the sentence for him: “A Christian.”

Titus turned pale. “How did you know?”

Seneca laughed. “The tutor of the emperor’s son must know a great many things, Senator Pinarius.”

Agrippina frowned. “How can a Roman patrician be a Christian? I thought that was the name for a sect of the Jews.”

“So it is,” said Seneca. “But here in Roma, as in many other cities around the empire, they have recruited others to join their cult. Mostly slaves, one presumes. The Christians actually welcome slaves, and you can imagine why the less reputable sort of slaves find such a cult attractive – Christ-worship is yet another activity they can carry on in secret behind their masters’ backs. But they are not all slaves. I’m told there are a few Roman citizens among the Christians. They teach that this world is a terrible place, dominated by evil men – indeed, they believe that Roma and all it stands for is evil – but they also think this world will soon end, to be replaced by another world, in which their dead god shall come back to life and rule for eternity. A suitable religion, if one can call it that, for disgruntled slaves, but hardly for citizens of the city whose destiny is to maintain order in the world and uphold respect for the gods.”

“It sounds seditious,” said Nero. “If these Christians hate Roma so much, let them go back to dusty Judaea and await the end of the world there. Didn’t Claudius banish the Jews?”

“That edict proved to be impractical,” said Seneca. “It was short-lived and only haphazardly carried out, but it did serve as a warning to the Jewish sects in the city to keep the peace. They no longer stone each other in public, much less riot in the streets. They’ve learned to keep their feuds to themselves, at least here in the city. As a result, you don’t hear much about the Christians these days.”

“And that includes this mysterious Christian brother of Senator Pinarius,” said Nero. “But of Titus Pinarius I suspect we will be seeing much more in the years to come.” Nero bestowed on Titus his most charming smile.