Empire

AD 68

“You are a man now, my son. You are the heir of the Pinarii. Sometimes the passing of the fascinum has taken place at the death of its wearer, sometimes while the wearer is still alive. It is my decision to pass it to you now. From this moment, the fascinum of our ancestors belongs to you.”

Titus Pinarius was repeating a ceremony that had been enacted by countless generations of the Pinarii since a time before history. He lifted the necklace with the fascinum over his head and placed it around the neck of his son. Titus was fifty. Lucius was twenty-one.

But the mood in the household was not jubilant. Chrysanthe averted her eyes. Their three daughters wept. Hilarion lowered his face, and the other slaves followed his example. Even the wax masks of the ancestors, brought into the garden to witness the ceremony, seemed melancholy.

The garden itself was full of colour and fragrance, surrounding them with roses and flowering vines. Like every other part of their splendid new home on the Palatine, the garden was remarkably spacious and exquisitely maintained, a place of beauty and elegance, especially on a warm day in the month of Junius.

As one of the emperor’s most loyal subjects, always ready to take the auspices, to give him trusted advice, and to encourage his endeavours, Titus had prospered greatly in the last few years. Thanks to Nero’s generosity, he had acquired a considerable fortune and owned properties all over Italy. The old house on the Aventine had begun to seem cramped and antiquated. It was a proud day when the Pinarii moved into a newly built mansion only a few steps away from the Palatine wing of Nero’s Golden House.

Titus made ready to leave the house. He wore his trabea – the same one he had worn long ago when he first joined the college at the invitation of his cousin Claudius – but the lituus he selected was his second-best. The ancient ivory lituus he had inherited from his father he decided to leave behind.

“Are you sure I can’t come with you, father?” said Lucius. There were tears in his eyes.

“No, son. I want you to stay here. Your mother and sisters will need you.”

Lucius nodded. “I understand. Goodbye, father.”

“Goodbye, son.” They embraced, then Titus embraced and said farewell to each of his three daughters. The youngest was ten, the eldest sixteen. How like their mother they all looked!

Chrysanthe and Hilarion followed him to the vestibule. Hilarion opened the door for him. Chrysanthe took his hand.

Her voice was choked with emotion. “Is there no chance-?”

Titus shook his head. “Who can say? Who knows where the gods will lead me this day?”

He kissed her, then drew back and took a deep breath. Quickly, not daring to hesitate, he strode out of the house and into the street.

The last member of his household he saw was Hilarion, who looked after him from the doorway. Titus paused and turned back.

“You’ve served me well, Hilarion.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“How old are you, Hilarion?”

“I’ve never been entirely certain, Master.”

Titus shook his head and smiled. “However old you are, you still look like a boy to me. Still, I suppose, if you were a freedman, this would be the time for you to think of starting your own family. You know that I’ve left instructions to Lucius that you should be manumitted, in the event…”

Hilarion nodded. “Yes, Master, I know. Thank you, Master.”

“Of course, I would expect you to continue to serve Lucius. He’ll need a slave – a freedman – he can trust. Someone loyal, like you, with intelligence and good judgement.”

“I’ll always be loyal to the Pinarii, Master.”

“Good.” Titus cleared his throat. “Well, then…”

“Shall I close the door now, Master?”

“Yes, Hilarion. Close the door and bar it.”

The door closed. Titus heard the heavy bar drop into place. He turned and walked quickly up the street.

He passed no one. The street was deserted. Perhaps that was a good sign.

He reached the nearest entrance to the Golden House, the one he was accustomed to using almost every day, but found it blocked by a massive bronze door. Titus had never seen the door closed before; invariably, at any hour, he had found the entrance open and guarded by Praetorians. Today there were no guards in sight.

He raised the heavy bronze knocker on the door and let it drop. The sound reverberated up and down the street. There was no response.

He used the knocker several times, self-conscious about the noise he was making. No one answered.

He would have to try another entrance. Probably the closest was the original entrance to the old imperial house, the one built by Augustus, which was now essentially the back entrance, the farthest from the grand vestibule of the Golden House at the south end of the Forum. Titus had not used that entrance in a long time.

Not all of the rebuilt Palatine was taken up by the Golden House or by private residences. His route took him through an area of shops and taverns that normally catered to a very exclusive clientele. The shops were all closed and shuttered, but one of the taverns was open and seemed to be doing a good business, especially for so early in the day. Passing by, Titus heard the drunken patrons inside singing a song:

Mother-killer,

Wife-kicker,

Who’s sicker than Nero?

Burned his city,

Killed his baby.

Crazy maybe? Nero!

Suddenly a group of men rushed by. They looked panic-stricken. One of them Titus recognized as a fellow senator, a staunch supporter of the emperor, like himself, but the man was wearing a common tunic instead of his senatorial toga. The man recognized Titus and grabbed his arm.

“What in Hades are you doing in the street, Pinarius? You should be home with your family. Or better yet, get out of town. Don’t you have a country estate to go to?”

The man hurried on without another word.

Titus saw more people coming up the street. They were brandishing clubs and chanting a slogan. Titus did not stay to hear what they were saying. He quickly headed in the opposite direction.

He passed through empty streets and came to a small square with a public fountain. A marble statute of the emperor stood nearby. Titus groaned. Someone had put a crude stage wig on the head, tilting it askew, and tied a sack and a sign around the neck. The sign read: THIS ACTOR HAS EARNED THE SACK!

Titus shuddered. The sack was the sort into which a convicted parricide was sewn up before being thrown into the Tiber to drown.

It had come to this. When had it all gone wrong?

Was it when Nero, tired of Seneca’s advice, dismissed his old tutor and replaced him with the cold-blooded, insanely suspicious prefect of the Praetorian Guards, Tigellinus? Things had certainly taken a turn for the worse after that.

Or was it when the senatorial conspiracy against Nero came to light? The bloodshed that followed tore the city apart, but what choice did Nero have but to ruthlessly suppress the plotters? To be sure, Nero might have flung his net too wide. The senator Piso and a handful of others were certainly guilty, but what about Seneca, Petronius, Lucan, and so many others who had made the court of Nero such a vibrant place? All were gone now, either executed or forced to commit suicide. Their deaths had been as memorable as their lives, and were already the stuff of legend.

Petronius held a lavish banquet, then cut his wrists and bound them up so that he could slowly bleed to death while he conversed with his closest friends. He was said to be as witty and outspoken as ever that night, thumbing his nose at Nero by dictating a letter in which he listed all the emperor’s sexual partners and the intimate details of their couplings. His final act as the arbiter of elegance was to seal the letter and send it to Nero.

Shortly after the punishment of the Christians, Lucan fell out with Nero and was forbidden to publish more poems. Nevertheless, verses attributed to him were widely circulated, in which he accused Nero of starting the Great Fire. When he was arrested for conspiring with Piso, Lucan was pressed to name accomplices and shamed himself by implicating his mother, then took his own life. While he bled to death he recited the words of a dying soldier from his poem about the civil war:

My eyes are opened wide by death’s mark.

You who go on living do so in the dark.

The gods keep you blind so that you may endure,

But I see the truth: death is the cure.

Seneca, whom many suspected of wanting to replace his protege as emperor, spoke bitter words when Nero’s Praetorians came for him. “Is this how all my efforts to educate him end? All my teaching, for this? He killed his brother and his mother, and now he kills his tutor!”

Seneca’s wife decided to die with him. They cut their wrists and lay side by side. But death was slow to come. Seneca took poison – hemlock, in emulation of Socrates – but that did not work either. Finally he was placed in a hot bath to quicken his bleeding and was suffocated by the steam.

When Nero was told that Paulina still lived, he declared that she had done nothing to harm him and ordered that her wrists should be bandaged. Paulina survived. Following the dictates of her husband’s will, she cremated Seneca without funeral rites.

Tigellinus’s investigation of the conspiracy became so far-flung that Titus began to fear suspicion might fall even on him. But no one was more loyal to Nero than Titus. The emperor never doubted him.

As each conspirator was convicted, Nero confiscated the guilty man’s assets. By Roman law, traitors always forfeited their property to the state. Still, the confiscations caused a great deal of grumbling. People said that Nero convicted wealthy men simply to lay his hands on their estates. It was true that Nero needed all the money he could get. The lavish construction of the Golden House and the massive rebuilding of monuments and temples all over Roma had sent the emperor deeply into debt. People complained when he proposed that the resurrected city should be called Neropolis, but had he not purchased the right to rename it?

Money – that was the problem, thought Titus. If Nero still had money, he might yet be in control of the city, the Senate, and the empire. But all Nero’s money was gone. The treasury was empty. When Titus realized the severity of the situation, he had offered to donate his own property to the public coffers, a token of his gratitude for all the blessings Nero had showered on him. Nero only laughed. Even Titus’s considerable wealth was a pittance compared to Nero’s debts, a drop of water in the ocean.

Trouble in the provinces had also taken a toll. The bloody uprising of Boudica in Britannia, earlier in Nero’s reign, had been summarily dealt with, but the revolt that had been going on in Judaea for the last two years was more vexatious. Nero had appointed Vespasian to put down the Jewish rebellion. Resistance along the coast and in the northern part of Judaea had been quelled, but the city of Jerusalem, a hornet’s nest of fanatics, had so far resisted the Roman siege. It was in Jerusalem that the cult of the Christians had originated, Titus recalled. Why was that part of the world such a breeding ground for dangerous ideas and so resistant to Roman rule?

There had also been a revolt led by Vindex, the governor of Gaul, ostensibly against Nero’s exorbitant taxes. The revolt had been suppressed, but not before Vindex’s slanders about Nero’s personal life incited a great deal of prurient speculation across the empire.

Titus sighed. As crushing as events in the public sphere had been – the Pisonian conspiracy, the rise of Tigellinus and the loss of Seneca, the decimation of Nero’s inner circle, the vast expenditures required by the rebuilding of the burned city, the troubles in Britannia and Judaea and Gaul – perhaps the most pivotal event of all was the death of Poppaea Sabina. Was that when the trouble really began?

Poor Nero! With his own eyes, Titus had seen the emperor’s remorse after the death of Poppaea. Nero had been drinking heavily that night. The imperial couple were heard shouting at each other. Nero flew into a rage. No one witnessed what happened, but the physician who examined Poppaea later told Titus that only a kick in the belly could have caused the bleeding that killed both her and her unborn child.

Nero was inconsolable. Instead of cremating Poppaea in the Roman way, he had her body filled with fragrant spices and embalmed. Some said that this was in deference to her peculiar religious beliefs, but Titus thought it was because Nero could not bear to see her beauty consumed by flames.

It was purely by chance one day that Titus noticed a boy who might have been Poppaea’s double. The boy’s name was Sporus and he was a servant in the imperial household. When Titus drew Nero’s attention to the uncanny resemblance, Nero was instantly infatuated. But his attraction was not merely sexual or even romantic; Nero seemed to think that Sporus was linked in some mystical way to Poppaea, that his dead wife had returned to him in the form of a boy. This strange notion became such an obsession that Nero induced Sporus to undergo castration. Nero declared that by an act of divine will he had transformed the boy into a girl. He called his creation Sabina, which was Poppaea’s cognomen.

In a ceremony that exactly duplicated his wedding with Poppaea, Nero took Sporus, now Sabina, as his wife. Such a thing could never have happened when Agrippina or Seneca held sway. Titus took the auspices and Tigellinus performed the ritual, and from that day forward Nero dressed Sporus in Poppaea’s gowns and treated the eunuch in every way as his wife. Seeing the two of them quarrel at a banquet and then make up and dote on each other, Titus was sometimes startled by the illusion that Poppaea was still among them.

It seemed to Titus that Nero’s transcendence of male and female was yet another manifestation of the emperor’s divine nature. Nero’s appetites were not to be proscribed by the presumed limitations of the mortal body. The god-emperor could re-make a boy into a girl, and could even, after a fashion, resurrect the dead.

But not everyone possessed Titus’s delicate insight. Inevitably, cruder minds made the unconventional relationship the butt of jokes. “If only his father had taken such a wife,” went one, “there would never have been a Nero!”

Titus gazed for a long moment at the desecrated statue of Nero beside the little fountain. He climbed onto the pedestal, intending to remove the ridiculous wig and the parricide’s sack, then heard a group of men coming towards him. They sounded drunk and were singing another verse from the ditty he had heard from the tavern:

Performed in Greece

And took a crown.

Winning clown: Nero!

Fit for gods is

The Golden House.

Or fit for a louse: Nero!

The men carried clubs of some sort; Titus could tell because he heard them banging the clubs against the walls of the buildings they passed.

Titus jumped from the pedestal and hurried on.

It was no use now, raking over the past, trying to understand how Nero had landed in such a mess. Titus tried to remember the good times. The Golden House was surely the greatest architectural wonder of the age, even if parts of it were still unfinished. Nero had dared to build a house truly fit for a god to live in, a place so beautiful that every vantage point offered a delight to the eye and each of its hundreds of rooms invited visitors to indulge in boundless luxury. What parties Nero had held there, presenting the best and most beautiful performers from every corner of the world, offering the most sumptuous banquets, and making available the most refined and esoteric of sensual pleasures. “Pain is for mortals,” Nero had said. “Pleasure is divine.” To be a guest in the Golden House was to be a demigod, if only for a night.

The good times in the Golden House had been unforgettable, but no times had been better than the days of Nero’s grand tour through Greece. Away from the censorious gaze of fusty Roman senators and their wives, the emperor had performed publicly in the legendary theatres of Greece, playing the great roles – Oedipus, Medea, Hecuba, Agamemnon – always with Titus to take the auspices before his appearances. Some churlish critics complained that the emperor’s skills as a singer and actor were mediocre at best, despite the many prizes he won. Vespasian, who went along on the tour, actually fell asleep during one of Nero’s recitals. Only a select few, like Titus, were able to appreciate the full range of the emperor’s brilliance.

Wherever Nero appeared, the theatre was filled to capacity; everyone wanted to see an emperor on the stage. For the classic dramas, Nero declaimed while holding a tragic mask, in the ancient Greek style. For more modern productions, when the other actors went bare-faced, for propriety’s sake Nero still wore a mask, not of a character but of his own face. The effect, to Titus, only heightened the drama. How strange it was, to see a mask of the emperor and to know that the emperor himself was behind it. And how strikingly the whole logic of the theatre was reversed by having an emperor on the stage. Normally the audience felt invisible, with the power of their collective gaze focused on one man, but who in the audience could feel invisible when the emperor himself might be gazing back at him? Spectators became spectacle, actor became observer. Theatre had begun as a sacred institution, and once upon a time plays were religious rites. Nero had restored the sanctified power of the theatre, making it a truly transcendent experience. Over and over again, Titus was awed by the god-emperor’s genius.

Titus at last arrived at the entrance he was seeking, the original forecourt built by Augustus. The armour of the Divine Augustus was still in place, as were the original bronze doors and the marble lintel above them with its relief carving of a laurel crown. But, to Titus’s dismay, the two laurel trees that flanked the doors, which had been there since Livia had planted them and had miraculously escaped the Great Fire, were naked and withered. He reached for one of the branches. The brittle, black wood snapped off in his hand.

A comment Titus had once made to Nero and Poppaea echoed in his head: “I believe those two laurel trees will survive as long as there are descendants of the Divine Augustus.” Now the trees were dead. Titus shuddered, more unnerved by the sight of the withered trees than by the roving gangs in the streets.

The huge bronze doors were shut. Titus pushed on one of them. It was very heavy and at first refused to budge, but at last he managed to push it open just far enough to slip through the gap.

What had once been the vestibule of Augustus’s modest home was now a garden open to the sky. There were cherry trees and grapevines, roses and other fragrant flowers, and shrubberies shaped to look like animals. Beyond this garden lay a meadow planted with grass, where an artificial stream cascaded down to rocky waterfalls. Hallways and rooms lay beyond, and then more gardens, and more rooms.

As he rambled through the house, seeing and hearing no one, Titus was sometimes inside and sometimes outside; to pass from interior to exterior was a kind of magical act in the Golden House, so perfectly did its design bring the two together. Inside, Titus often felt that he was in the heart of nature, surrounded by lush paintings of greenery, shimmering green mosaic floors, bubbling fountains, and high windows open to the blue sky. Outside, Titus often felt as if he were in the most beautifully furnished room imaginable, surrounded by marble columns and ivory lattices, sumptuous draperies, and furniture made of stone and elegantly wrought metal and strewn with plush cushions.

Decorating both the gardens and the room were a great many statues.

Nero had plundered the whole empire to find enough pieces to decorate his vast house; from Delphi alone he had taken 500 statues. Some depicted the gods and some mortals, some were quaint and some erotic, some were remarkably realistic and others boldly heroic. Some were new and some old, but all were freshly painted, so convincingly that they looked as if they might move or speak at any moment.

The painters who had decorated the Golden House were the best in the world. Along with the statues, virtually every wall was painted, as were the enormously high ceilings. To create borders and frames, the painters had used geometric patterns and medallions and images from nature – leaves, shells, flowers – while they filled the larger spaces with illustrations that depicted the great stories of mankind and the gods. The colours were incredibly rich and vibrant; the compositions were exquisite. There were so many rooms – hundreds of them – that Titus, as often as he visited, had never been in the Golden House without finding himself in a room he had never seen before, filled with paintings entirely new to him, each more beautiful than the last.

Equally dazzling were the floors and walls covered in marble and the soaring marble columns. There was rich green marble from Sparta, yellow marble veined with black from Numidia, and regal porphyry from Egypt, but these were only the more common types. There were colours and patterns of marble in the Golden House that Titus had never seen anywhere else, brought to Roma in great quantities and at enormous expense from all over the world.

Many of the floors, inside and out, were decorated with mosaics. Beautiful pictures were framed by multiple borders made from dizzying geometric designs. The mosaics showed sailors catching fish, harvesters at work in fields of grain, gladiators in the arena, charioteers in the circus, scholars in their libraries, women dancing, priests offering sacrifices, children at play. The tiles shimmered, catching the light at many different angles, so that the images seemed to live and breathe beneath one’s feet.

As Titus moved from garden to garden, from building to building, from room to room, he was struck by the utter stillness. The entire palace seemed deserted. The quiet was unnerving. At last, after descending the stepped terraces on the Forum side of the Palatine, he entered a building and heard a noise from the next room. Before Titus could decide whether to conceal himself, a lion came striding towards him through the doorway.

Nero kept an extensive menagerie in one of the gardens at the far side of the Golden House, at the foot of the Esquiline. Evidently the beast keepers had fled along with everyone else, and someone had left the cages open.

The big cat paused for a moment. It stared at Titus, twitched its whiskers, and flicked its tail. It was a magnificent specimen, with a fine tawny pelt and a magnificent mane.

Titus stood frozen to the spot. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine. He reached reflexively to touch the fascinum, which was not there. He had given it to Lucius.

The lion cocked its head, shook its mane, then appeared to reach a decision. It sauntered straight towards him.

Titus resisted the urge to run. He had seen condemned criminals run from lions in the arena. The result was never good. It occurred to him that he might try shouting at the animal, to see if he could frighten it, but he found himself unable to speak.

The lion reached him, tilted its head forward, and rubbed its face against Titus’s thigh. The beast emitted a noise that Titus first took for a growl, then realized was a purr. The lion looked up at him with large eyes, then rubbed its face against his other thigh.

His hand trembling, Titus dared to touch the lion’s mane. The creature stuck out its long, rough tongue and licked his hand.

Slowly, Titus turned and backed through the doorway, keeping his eyes on the lion. The creature watched him with a quizzical expression but made no move to follow. It threw back its head, opened a mouth full of sharp fangs, and yawned.

As soon as he was out of the lion’s sight, Titus began to walk very quickly, and then to run.

Rounding a corner, he collided with a pair of middle-aged household slaves, the first people he had seen since he had entered the Golden House. The male slave tumbled onto his backside and dropped the bulging sack he was carrying. The sack burst open. There was a great deal of clanging as silver cups and plates and serving implements went flying across the marble floor.

The female slave steadied herself and clutched the bulging, makeshift sack she was carrying, which appeared to be a bedsheet gathered at the corners. The woman stared at Titus, her eyes wide.

Titus caught his breath. Before he could speak, the female slave blushed a deep red and blurted out, “Polished! We were taking them… to be polished!”

All the scattered pieces had come to rest except for a small plate. With a ringing noise of metal against marble, the plate rolled on its edge in an ever-decreasing spiral. At last it tipped to one side and settled with a rhythmic clatter. The pieces of silver gleamed brightly on the floor, unsullied by the least hint of tarnish.

Titus ignored the slave’s obvious lie. “Where is everyone?” he asked.

The woman shrugged. “Gone their separate ways.”

“And your master? Where is the emperor?”

“We saw him in the grand courtyard a while back. Sitting at the foot of the Colossus. It’s straight ahead-”

“I know where it is,” said Titus. He hurried on. Behind him he heard the two slaves squabbling as they gathered up the scattered silver.

Entering the grand courtyard, whether for the first time or for the hundredth, inevitably produced a sensation of awe and vertigo. Everything was beyond human scale. The surrounding portico was suitable for giants, with soaring marble columns that alternated between black and white, as did the oversized marble paving stones underfoot. Zenodorus had convinced Nero that simple black and white would make the most striking yet at the same time the most harmonious showcase for the gigantic gilded statue that stood in the centre of the courtyard, towering higher than any other object in sight.

From the neck down, the naked statue, with its ideal physique, certainly did not resemble Nero, who had a protruding belly and spindly legs. But Zenodorus had done a splendid job of capturing Nero’s face, which was instantly recognizable even at a great distance. The statue represented the emperor in the guise of Sol, with sunbeams radiating from his head.

Titus spotted four tiny figures at the base of the Colossus. One of them, recognizable by his purple-and-gold robes, was Nero, who seemed to be lying flat on his back. He was also singing, if it could be called that, emitting long notes that echoed across the vast courtyard.

Of the three other figures, one, apparently male, was pacing back and forth, while the other two, a male and a female, stood close together, talking. All three stopped what they were doing and looked up as Titus approached, peering at him with trepidation. Eventually Titus drew close enough to recognize Epaphroditus, Nero’s personal secretary, and Sporus, with whom he had been conferring. The pacing figure was one of Nero’s most trusted freedman, Phaon. The three of them recognized Titus and sighed with relief.

At their feet lay Nero. Two metal plates, fastened together by leather straps, lay across his chest. He was holding a note for as long as he could, practising a lung-strengthening exercise. His breath smelled of onions. When Nero was in training for a singing contest he ate a special diet consisting of olive oil for his throat and onions to clear his nose and open his lungs.

Titus looked up at the Colossus and then down at the prostrate Nero. How large one was, and how small the other! The note Nero was singing went on and on, until at last his lungs gave out and he drew a deep breath, defying the metal plates on his chest. When his lungs were full, with his chest raised high in the air, Nero began to sing another note, higher than the last.

Titus looked at Nero’s companions. Epaphroditus was a highly educated Greek freedman, clean shaven with a touch of grey at his temples. As a reward for his key role in uncovering the conspiracy of Piso, Epaphroditus had been made Nero’s personal secretary and chamberlain of the court. No one knew more about the day-to-day operations of the Golden House than Epaphroditus, and within the immensely complex imperial bureaucracy, nothing of consequence could be accomplished without his knowledge and approval. He was a student of philosophy and famous for remaining calm in a crisis.

Sporus’s hair and make-up and elegant stola made him look uncannily like Poppaea. So did his posture, as he stood with one foot slightly in front of the other, hands on hips and chin held high. But when Sporus turned his head, Titus saw that the eunuch had an ugly bruise across one cheek. Sporus saw Titus looking, touched the bruise, and averted his face.

Pacing rapidly back and forth, the freedman Phaon seemed to be at his wit’s end. He was younger than Epaphroditus, but his rise under Nero had been rapid. For his loyal services, Nero had rewarded Phaon with many choice properties, including an estate near the city off the road to Nomentum.

The long-held note trailed into silence as Nero’s lungs were once again exhausted. Titus thought the emperor might pause in his exercises to give him some sign of acknowledgement, but instead Nero took a deep breath, heaving against the metal plates, and produced another note, this one very low.

Titus heard someone running towards them. Even before he turned to look, he knew from the irregular footsteps that it must be Epictetus, a slave owned by Epaphroditus. Epictetus was lame in one leg and walked with a limp; compelled to run, he assumed an awkward, loping gait. The slave was barely old enough to grow a beard, which he wore long and untrimmed in the manner of philosophers and pedagogues.

Epictetus reached them and struggled to catch his breath. He was not used to running. Nero appeared to take no notice. He finished the note and began to fill his lungs again.

“Caesar!” said Epaphroditus. “The slave may have news. Perhaps you should take a break from your exercises.”

Nero rolled his eyes up to look at Epaphroditus. He undid the leather fasteners holding the metal plates, which fell to the marble paving stones with a clatter. He sprang to his feet. His eyes glittered. He grinned broadly. Titus did not know what to make of the emperor’s ebullient mood. Perhaps it was a side effect of his breathing exercises.

“Well then, what news?” said Nero. “Has someone chopped off the old goat’s head yet?”

The old goat he referred to was Servius Sulpicius Galba, the governor of Spain, who was marching on Roma with his legions. Galba was in his sixties, tall, blue-eyed, craggy-faced, and completely bald. In many ways he was the exact opposite of Nero, a parsimonious military man with a dislike of pomp and ostentation and a reputation as a ruthless disciplinarian. When Caligula was murdered, some in the Senate had favoured Galba, then an energetic military man in his prime, as his successor; but Galba had declined to put himself forward and loyally served Claudius. Then, as Nero’s authority had crumbled, with no one from Augustus’s family in line for succession, Galba’s supporters convinced him that his time had come. His open bid for power and the news that he was marching on the city had caused chaos in Roma.

Epictetus leaned on his walking stick. He reached down to massage his lame leg. “I’ve come from the Senate, Caesar. They’re debating what to do about Galba. I listened to some of the speeches…”

“Yes?” Nero raised an eyebrow.

“The news is not good, Caesar.”

“What do you mean? Is there no one who supports me?”

“Some. But your supporters were drowned out by the rest. The sentiment for Galba is strong.”

Nero shook his head. “And what about my Praetorians? What is Tigellinus doing to deal with the situation? Tigellinus is loyal to me, and the Praetorians are loyal to Tigellinus.”

Epictetus exchanged uncomfortable looks with his master. Epaphroditus pursed his lips and spoke. “We don’t know where Tigellinus is, Caesar. I’ve sent messengers-”

“And the messengers can’t find him?”

“We don’t know; the messengers don’t come back. Caesar, we talked about all this yesterday-”

“Yes, yes, I remember. Well, if Tigellinus has run off, where is his fellow prefect, Nymphidius Sabinus?”

Epaphroditus looked to Epictetus, who reluctantly spoke again. “Nymphidius has openly declared his support for Galba. The Praetorians seem willing to follow his lead-”

“What? Impossible! Nymphidius is a kinsman of Poppaea. He would never betray her. What can he be thinking…?” Nero looked at Sporus and appeared confused. Titus frowned. Had the emperor come to believe that the eunuch was literally his dead wife?

Nero abruptly began to weep. “My Praetorians! So brave, so loyal! How have they been corrupted? What is to become of Neropolis with no one to defend it? What will become of the Golden House?”

Nero turned his back on them, drew back his shoulders, and took a deep breath. When he turned back, his smile had returned. “It’s a good thing that I’ve been strengthening my voice. One way or another, I shall be called on to use it.” He looked from one long face to the next. “Why do you all have such sour expressions? Why are you staring at me like that?”

“We are waiting to hear what Caesar plans to do next,” said Epaphroditus.

“Isn’t it obvious? I must appear before the common people, the citizens of Neropolis, for whom I’ve built new homes and baths and theatres, my beloved children, upon whom I’ve showered so many lavish festivals and entertainments. The people love me. They’re grateful for all I’ve done for them. They delight in the beauty and joy I’ve given them as an artist. It’s only the senators who hate me, all those little Galbas with their narrow minds and their spiteful jealousy and their hatred for beauty and culture. What do you think? Should I send out criers to call a public meeting? I’ll dress myself all in black and mount the Rostra to address the people. I’ll tear my hair, weep and wail, remind them of all the love I’ve shown them, plead for their help in my hour of need. I shall have to call upon all my skills as a tragic actor; perhaps I shall model my performance on Antigone, or Andromache. I shall move them to terror and pity. Terror and pity – that will rally the people to my side!”

“I think,” said Epaphroditus, speaking carefully, “that the mood in the city is far too uncertain to be sure of the people’s reaction to such an address.”

“What he’s trying to say is that the mob is likely to tear you limb from limb,” said Sporus, speaking at last. He stood apart from the rest and kept the bruised side of his face turned from them. Even the intonation of his voice was uncannily like that of Poppaea.

Nero blanched, then stiffened his jaw and glared at Sporus, who stared back at him. Nero blinked first. He swallowed hard. “Tear me… limb from limb?” he whispered. “Very well, if I can’t count on the people to protect me, then I’ll negotiate with the Senate. Not directly, of course. Caesar does not deal directly with his inferiors.” He furrowed his brow, then looked at Titus and smiled. “You’re awfully good at this sort of thing, Pinarius! I remember that day you spoke before the Senate on behalf of all those slaves. It took nerve to do that! You were so eloquent, so passionate. If you were to speak for me-”

Titus flushed. His mouth was dry. “Caesar, the slaves for whom I begged mercy were all crucified,” he said.

Nero blinked. “Ah, yes, so they were. Well, I suppose the negotiations can be done by letter. You can frame the terms for me, Epaphroditus.

What if I were to agree to step down as emperor, without protest, and in return the Senate makes me governor of Egypt? The Egyptians love the Greek culture handed down to them by the Ptolemies. The Egyptians would appreciate my talents. That’s where I should go, to Alexandria. They’ll love me there. What do you think, Sabina?” He turned to Sporus. “How would you like to sail up the Nile with me on a barge, as Cleopatra did with the Divine Julius?”

Sporus kept his face in profile, staring into the middle distance.

Epaphroditus assumed a pained expression. “Caesar, even if the Senate could be persuaded to grant you the prefecture of Egypt, which I doubt, I find it highly unlikely that Galba would agree to such an arrangement. The Nile grain trade is essential to the Roman economy, and the prefecture of Egypt has always been under the direct control of the emperor-”

“Yes, yes, I see your point,” said Nero. “Well then, what if I simply ask for safe passage to Alexandria? I don’t have to be the governor, I suppose. I can make my living as an actor, or playing the lyre.”

Epaphroditus grimaced. “Caesar cannot seriously suggest-”

“But I would no longer be Caesar,” shouted Nero, more exasperated than angry. “That’s the point! I would be free of all these endless, tedious rules of decorum. I would be my own man at last. Or do you doubt that I could support myself by my talents? Is that your worry? Are you forgetting all the garlands and prizes I won in Greece? Almost two thousand, Epaphroditus! No other performer in the history of the world ever achieved such a thing. And it wasn’t just the judges who loved me. Do you remember how they applauded me at Olympia, and the ovation I received at the Isthmian Games? Sweet memories!” Nero sighed and wiped a tear from his eye. “I should think the Alexandrians would be quite excited to receive the most famous actor in the world into their midst. The whole city will turn out for my debut. What should I perform? Something to please the locals, I think. What is that play where Odysseus is shipwrecked and finds Helen living in a palace up the Nile? We could perform it on the actual locations. But which of the leading roles would suit me best? Everyone loves wily Odysseus, but Helen is the one who flees from a burning city and finds herself in a strange land, a goddess among crocodiles, so perhaps I should play Helen-”

Sporus let out a shriek of nervous laughter and slapped his hand over his mouth. Epaphroditus groaned. Epictetus fretfully rubbed his lame leg. The freedman Phaon recommenced his nervous pacing. Titus averted his eyes and found himself gazing up at the Colossus. From such a low angle, the immense statue was hardly recognizable as a human figure; it loomed like a weird, monstrous image from a nightmare.

Nero observed their reactions and frowned. He was quiet for a long moment, then threw up his hands. “Very well, then! I’ll abandon my art and rely on state craft. Shall we proceed directly to the last resort? I’ll go to the Parthians as a suppliant. Why not? I shall give myself up to the only other empire on earth that can rival that of Roma. The Greeks and Persians used to do that sort of thing, didn’t they? When one of their leaders was deposed, he’d flee across the border and throw himself on the mercy of his enemy. Who better than a foreign rival to understand and sympathize with my plight? If I’m lucky, the Parthians may even help me return to power. That would make me beholden to a foreign king, not an ideal circumstance, but if it means I can return to the Golden House, I’ll do it. What do you think, Epaphroditus?”

Titus expected the chamberlain to deliver another pained objection, but Epaphroditus seemed to take this notion more seriously than the others. “If Caesar is finally ready to leave Roma and the Golden House for some safer destination, then yes, I would advise Caesar to consider approaching the Parthians. But there’s very little time. We have no reliable intelligence about Galba’s position; he may be only days away. The Senate even now may be voting on a resolution to proclaim Galba emperor. And if Nymphidius and the Praetorians decide to support such a move, they may take action at any time.”

“Action?” said Nero.

Epaphroditus cleared his throat. “Caesar, I am thinking of the fate of your uncle.”

The words sent a chill through them all. The death of Caligula at the hands of treacherous Praetorians had been much on everyone’s mind lately.

“But such a journey would require a great deal of preparation,” said Nero, tapping a forefinger against his lips. “Do you remember the size of my retinue when we travelled through Greece? You kept advising me to cut back, Epaphroditus, yet we found it was impossible for me to travel with fewer than a thousand attendants. Feeding and providing accommodations for all those people-”

“But that was because you were performing almost every night, and providing banquets to the festival organizers,” said Epaphroditus. “The journey we’re now contemplating would be a very different affair. The fewer the people who accompany you, the better. Indeed, it may be advisable for Caesar to travel incognito.”

“Incognito? Unknown?” said Nero. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Think of it as a role, Caesar. Think of wily Odysseus on the occasion of his homecoming, when he assumed the guise of a lowly vagrant to outsmart the suitors of Penelope.”

Nero nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, yes, I see your point. Dressed in tatters, even Caesar will be invisible to his enemies.” Suddenly he broke into song.

And to Odysseus in his rags Athena came.

“Why do you fret? Here is your home,

And there your lady, and your son,

As fine a son as any son could be… ”

While the emperor sang lines from Homer, Titus took Epaphroditus by the arm and spoke in his ear. “Has it come to this? Is there no choice but to flee?”

The chamberlain grunted. “I’ve been trying to steer him to this choice for days! So far he’s refused to leave the Golden House. He says he’d rather die, and he seems to mean it, at least sometimes. Yesterday he actually sent for one of his favourite gladiators to put an end to him, but the man disappeared when he heard what Caesar wanted. Then he called for some poison which he apparently obtained behind my back, but the slaves ran off with the stuff rather than bring it to him.”

“But is it possible to flee?” said Titus. “Are there horses available? Is there a ship for him at Ostia?”

“Not at Ostia, not any more, but it might be possible to cross the mountains and make our way down to Brundisium and hire a ship there, taking the route Pompeius took when the Divine Julius crossed the Rubicon. He would need to be incognito, as I said; we would all need to disguise ourselves. If Caesar can be made to see the necessity, and if he can endure the hardships-”

“But is his life truly in danger? Has it come to this?” Titus suddenly felt as Nero must have felt, pushed to the limit and desperate to defy Epaphroditus’s unassailable logic. “I realize that Caligula was killed by Praetorians, but those were conspirators who plotted in secret. And Claudius later put those conspirators to death! Would anyone dare to do the same to Nero?”

“They won’t have to plot in secret. Caesar’s fate is being discussed openly in the Senate right now.”

“And do you seriously believe the Senate would dare to impose a death sentence on the rightful emperor, the heir of Augustus? Would a majority of senators vote to set such a precedent?”

Epaphroditus shook his head. “The problem is that we have no precedent for an emperor to voluntarily relinquish his position. Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius – all of them died in power. Yes, Caesar has his adherents among the senators, and some of those men are attempting even now to negotiate a way for Caesar to cede his office to Galba without bloodshed. But the prospects are slim. Even if the debate should produce an acceptable outcome, Caesar should flee to some safe haven in the meantime-”

“Eureka!” cried Nero, abruptly abandoning his song, “if I may quote Archimedes.”

“We know how he ended,” mumbled Phaon, still fretfully pacing. “In a pool of blood on the beach at Syracuse.”

Nero did not hear. “It occurs to me that we are overlooking the obvious. I should make my appeal not to the Senate, not to the people, but directly to the legions.”

Epaphroditus sighed. “Unfortunately, Caesar, we have lost the allegiance of the troops in Gaul and of those in Greece as well. You may recall that we discussed this earlier-”

“I mean the legions under Galba, the ones marching this way from Spain.”

Epaphroditus cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

“Just because those troops are obeying orders from a rebel commander,” said Nero, “that is no reason to assume that the soldiers themselves no longer love their emperor. What if I were to make my appeal directly to them? Yes, what if we gather a theatrical troupe, go out to meet the legions, put up a stage… and I deliver the performance of my life? When they see me next to that shrivelled corpse Galba, the choice will be obvious. What do you say?”

Nero looked from face to face. No one responded, but his enthusiasm was undaunted.

“The soldiers will want to see me play a warrior, naturally. What do you think, would they prefer to see me as Hercules or as Ajax? Hercules is more majestic, of course, but Ajax is more tragic, and thus more sympathetic. And it’s a better singing role; nine times out of ten it’s the voice that wins over the audience. Ah, but as Hercules I could kill the Nemean lion! As you know, Epaphroditus, I’ve been training for that performance for quite a while. The last time I rehearsed with the tame lion, everything came off without a hitch. The beast was practically licking my nose! It will be a shame to kill it, but it’s the authenticity of such a performance that makes it so riveting. I pretend to wrestle the lion, I release a bit of fake blood to make it look as though I’ve been scratched across the back and the face, the spectators gasp, convinced that I may be mauled to death at any moment, and then, in a glorious turnabout, I slay the creature and raise my arms in triumph. Killing it with my bare hands would be best, but I don’t think even that tame beast would allow me to crush it between my arms; I suppose I shall have to use a club. Well, what do you all think? I invoke the divine spirit of Hercules, place my life in his keeping, engage in a death-defying struggle, and then, right before the soldiers’ eyes, I kill the most dangerous creature on earth. Well, does anyone here seriously think those soldiers are going raise a hand against me?”

The others exchanged uncertain glances. The idea was absurd. And yet, Nero’s enthusiasm was compelling. Could such a mad gamble actually turn the tide of events?

Titus cleared his throat. “There may be a problem,” he said quietly. “I think the lion you’re referring to may have escaped.”

“Escaped?” cried Nero.

“I saw such a creature wandering though the Golden House. He licked my hand.”

Sporus nodded. “Someone opened all the cages in the menagerie this morning. Zebras and monkeys are wandering all over the place. Crocodiles are loose in the lake.”

“Then we shall have to catch the lion and put it back in its cage!” insisted Nero. “Where is the lion trainer? And how many stagehands will we need to transport the stage props and put on a show? Oh, and there must be someone to help me select my wardrobe-”

“Caesar, I think we should revert to your previous idea,” said Epaphroditus, quietly but firmly. “We must escape the city at once.”

The fire in Nero’s eyes flickered, then went out. His shoulders slumped. He let out a low moan and lowered his face.

Sporus sighed and smiled sadly. He stepped to Nero and moved to embrace him. Nero jerked back and slapped the eunuch across the face.

Sporus touched his stinging cheek and broke into tears. He staggered back. The slave Epictetus rushed to him, almost falling, but managed to catch him and steady him with an arm around his shoulders.

Phaon abruptly stopped pacing. “Epaphroditus is right. We must flee the city at once. No more hesitation, no more crazy ideas.”

“But where will we go?” said Nero quietly.

“To start, we can go to my estate off the road to Nomentum,” said Phaon. “It’s only a few miles past the Colline Gate.”

Nero brightened. “That will take us right by the Praetorian barracks! When the soldiers see me, we can gauge their reaction. Almost certainly-”

“But Caesar will be incognito,” Epaphroditus reminded him.

“Ah, yes.” Nero was crestfallen. Again, he seemed to hesitate.

Epaphroditus groaned. Phaon threw up his arms. Epictetus was still comforting Sporus.

“Pinarius!” cried Nero, startling them all. “It’s up to you now.”

Titus shook his head. “Caesar? I don’t understand.”

“You’ve taken the auspices for me on many occasions. You must take them once again. Shall I stay or shall I go? We must seek the judgement of the gods.”

Titus reached into his trabea and brought forth his lituus. He was afraid Nero would see that it was his second-best, but the emperor seemed not to notice. Within the vast courtyard, Titus had a great deal of open sky to choose from. He stepped a little away from the others, into the long shadow cast by the towering Colossus, and delineated a portion of the heavens with his lituus.

The simple dignity and the lifelong familiarity of the act calmed him and steadied his nerves. He remembered who and what he was: a citizen of Roma; a patrician; the descendant of one the city’s most ancient families, blood kin to the Divine Julius and the Divine Augustus; an augur trained to divine the will of the gods; the son of Lucius Pinarius and the father of Lucius Pinarius; the bearer, for most of his life, of the ancient fascinum; the friend and confidant of the emperor.

Titus watched the sky. He saw nothing: not a bird, not a cloud, not a leaf carried on the faint breeze. The gods were mute.

To Titus, it seemed that the silence of the heavens was itself a message. The gods had abandoned Nero.

Titus felt a chill, followed by a flush of anger, then a surge of pride. The gods in their fickleness might betray their favourite, but Titus never would!

He turned to Nero. “You must do as Epaphroditus and Phaon suggest. You must flee the city at once.”

Nero gazed at the terraces and rooftops of the Golden House, then looked up at the Colossus. He squinted. The light glinting off the radiant crown of gilded sunbeams was blinding.

“You’ll come with me, Pinarius?”

It was a question, not an order. Titus was touched. “Of course, Caesar.”

“And you, Epaphroditus? And you, Phaon? And of course you, Sabina. Dear Sabina!” Nero opened his arms wide.

Sporus hesitated for a moment, then extricated himself from the encircling arm of Epictetus. He walked to Nero with eyes downcast and allowed himself to be embraced. Nero tenderly touched his fingertips to the bruises on the eunuch’s face and stroked his golden hair.

Epictetus went to the slave quarters to fetch clothing. The others retired to a private chamber off the courtyard. Behind a screen, Nero stripped off his purple-and-gold robes and removed his jewel-encrusted slippers. Titus took off his trabea. Epaphroditus and Phaon shed the elegant robes that marked them as freedmen of the imperial household. Sporus, with a woman’s modesty, went to another room to remove his stola and make-up and to let down his hair.

Epictetus arrived with their clothing. Nero made a face at the sight of the patched tunic, the faded cloak, and the flimsy shoes he was expected to wear, and seemed about to change his mind. Then he laughed.

“I shall pretend we’re doing Plautus – The Pot of Gold, perhaps? – with myself as the downtrodden slave. Comedy is a stretch for me; tragedy is my strength. But an artist must be willing to expand his repertoire.”

The coarse woolen tunic felt scratchy against Titus’s skin. He shuddered at the thought that Nero was being subjected to the indignity of wearing such clothes, but took strength from the emperor’s indomitable sense of humour.

Sporus appeared. In a plain tunic and with the make-up scrubbed from his face and the pins removed from his hair, he looked as much like a boy as a girl, despite his long blonde tresses. Epictetus put a hooded cloak over the eunuch’s shoulders. Sporus pulled the hood over his head, concealing his hair and obscuring his face.

Epictetus brought horses from the stable. The best had been taken already, and others had wandered off. Titus’s heart sank at the sight of the nag he was expected to ride, but Nero laughed.

“Mounts to suit our disguises!” he said. “Who would recognize the world’s greatest charioteer sitting astride such a pathetic creature?”

“Still, Caesar, I think you should hide your face,” said Epaphroditus. Epictetus produced a cloth and tied it around Nero’s head, pulling it low over his forehead to shadow his eyes.

“You’ll have me wearing an eye patch next!” said Nero.

Epictetus had also brought daggers for each of them. When the slave handed one of the weapons to Nero, careful to select the best, the emperor stared at the dagger with a strange expression, then threw it to the ground and refused to look at it again.

Epaphroditus gave orders to Epictetus to stay behind and listen for news of Galba’s progress and the outcome of the Senate’s debate. “As soon as you know anything of importance, follow after us as quickly as you can. Come yourself. No one else can be trusted.”

The slave shambled off, limping badly. Nero barked out a laugh. “A lame messenger! Surely this is a comedy, for no tragic playwright would resort to such a stale device. Well, let us be off!”

They mounted their horses, such as they were, and set out with Phaon leading the way. Titus decided to bring up the rear. He had to wait for Sporus, who lingered behind, looking over his shoulder at Epictetus until the limping slave disappeared from sight.

The streets were deserted except for a few skulking loners and roving groups of drunkards whom they saw at a distance. Titus frequently looked over his shoulder but saw no sign that they were being followed. Behind them, the colossal statue of Nero dominated the skyline but grew smaller and smaller as they made their way to the Colline Gate. A few soldiers were manning the wall but paid no attention to the ragged group as they rode out of the city.

The route took them past the Praetorian garrison outside the walls. Discipline had vanished. Outside the garrison, soldiers sat on the ground in small groups, some in full armour and others stripped to their tunics, talking, drinking, and throwing dice. The men looked up as Nero’s little entourage passed by but took no notice.

Suddenly the earth beneath them shook. Titus’s mount shied and whinnied. The soldiers sitting on the ground felt the tremor more acutely than the party on horseback. Some of them scrambled to their feet, only to be thrown down again by the violent shaking.

As abruptly as it had begun, the earthquake ended. Titus regained control of his mount. He saw that Sporus was having trouble with his horse and rode alongside to help him.

One of the nearby soldiers cursed. “Numa’s balls! Look at the dice! I swear the ones I just threw were all different, but now they’re all ones!”

Another soldier laughed. “What a fool you are, Marcus! Do you think the gods sent an earthquake just to turn your Venus Throw to Dogs? That was a sign from the heavens, alright, but it wasn’t meant for you.”

“Who for, then?”

“For Nero, I reckon. They’ve had enough of that scoundrel. Maybe that tremor sent that huge statue of him tumbling to the ground, and the rest of the so-called Golden House with it!”

“Quiet, Gnaeus! You talking about the emperor.”

“Not emperor for much longer, I reckon.” The soldier drew the edge of his hand across his throat and made a slicing noise.

Titus looked at Nero, who was still struggling to calm his mount. The emperor’s face was obscured by the rag around his head, but for an instant Titus glimpsed Nero’s eyes, wide with alarm, and knew that he must have overheard.

“Galba’s emperor now, or as good as,” the soldier went on, addressing his comrades. “I say, screw the mother-killer, and screw that pretty boy whose balls he cut off.”

“Ha! You’d like to, I bet!” someone yelled, and the men all laughed.

Nero regained control of his mount. Phaon rode on, leading them at a quicker pace.

A little later they met a rough-looking group of twenty or so men on horseback heading towards the city. Nero’s party pulled to one side of the road to allow the larger group to pass. The horses were as gaunt as their own and the men were even more shabbily dressed. One of them, taking Phaon to be their leader, called to him, “What news from the city?”

Phaon did not answer.

“Well, stranger?” said the man. “Is Nero still alive?”

“The emperor lives,” Phaon said.

“Good! Then we’re still in time to join the hunt!” The man and his companions laughed. Some brandished daggers. Others held up clubs and lengths of rope. “They say there’ll be good sport when the Senate outlaws Nero and all his rotten crew. You fellows are riding the wrong way. You’ll miss the fun!”

Nero swayed on his horse, as if he might faint. Titus reached out to steady him with a hand on his shoulder. The group passed by. Phaon set out again, leading them onwards.

They came to the Anio River. Coming towards them across the bridge was a single Praetorian guard. From his sleek horse, the satchels he carried, and the fact that he rode alone, Titus took him to be a messenger. Just as the Praetorian cleared the bridge and passed them, Nero’s mount took fright at a dead body that lay by the road.

The corpse was fresh. Blood streamed from a wound on the head. “That gang heading into the city must have just killed him,” whispered Titus, appalled.

The emperor’s horse reared. Nero managed to control the beast, but the cloth around his head came undone and fell to the ground. The Praetorian, pausing to see what was the matter, took a look at him and went pale. The young soldier looked utterly confused for a moment, then stiffened, gave Nero a salute, and shouted, “Caesar!”

Nero gazed back at him, reflexively raising his arm to acknowledge the salute.

The Praetorian reined his horse. He stared at the body on the ground, then at Nero and his ragtag entourage, then again at the dead body.

“Ride on, Praetorian!” said Nero. His voice shook.

The man hesitated. “If Caesar needs assistance-”

“Ride on, I said!”

The Praetorian kicked his heels against his mount and departed.

“He’s headed towards the garrison,” said Epaphroditus. “We should have asked to see the messages he carries. He might have news about Galba-”

“He recognized me!” said Nero, his voice shrill. “We should have killed him.”

“There’s not a man among us capable of taking on an armed Praetorian,” said Sporus under his breath.

Nero looked down at the dead body. The man had been of middle age and was well dressed. “If that wretched gang murdered him, did they do it just to rob him… or did they kill him because he spoke up for me?”

“We’re not far from my estate, Caesar,” said Phaon. “We should ride on at once.”

They crossed the bridge. Phaon led them off the main road and onto a narrow, wooded path, saying he thought it best if they approached the estate from the back way and took shelter in one of the remote outbuildings, so that even his slaves wouldn’t know they were there.

Eventually they came to the door-less, window-less back wall of a building.

Turning around to take in the view, Titus saw why Phaon had chosen this property as one of his rewards from the emperor. The site was pleasant, secluded, and quiet, with a lovely view over the wooded plains of the Tiber. The skyline of the city could be seen in the distance. Despite the earthquake, the Colossus still stood, its radiant crown glinting in the afternoon sunlight, looking at this distance like a child’s toy.

Phaon told them to stay behind while he took a look around the corner of the building. After a moment he returned.

“It’s as I thought,” he said. “This is the old, disused slave quarters. It’s some distance from the rest of the estate up the hill, but the ground has been cleared from here on and the front of the building is completely exposed. There’s no way to enter through the front door without the risk of being seen by someone from the main house, higher up.”

“I need to rest!” cried Nero.

Phaon thought for a moment. “This is an old building. The walls are thin. We can break through the back wall. It may take a while, and we might make some noise. In case someone hears and comes to have a look, it’s best if they don’t see you, Caesar. There’s an old sandpit just over there, with shade. If Caesar would like to rest there-”

“No! Not a pit! I won’t be underground. Not yet…”

While the others found a loose plank and pulled at it, Nero wandered down the hill to a little pond. He knelt, scooped up some brackish water, and sipped it. Titus heard him cry out, “Is this my special water?” In the Golden House, the emperor was used to drinking only distilled water cooled in snow. Nero sat on the ground. From the expression on his face, Titus might have thought he was weeping, but no tears ran down the emperor’s ruddy cheeks. It was almost as if Nero were feigning despondency, like a mime practising a facial expression.

The plank came loose and without too much effort they managed to make a hole in the rear wall. Phaon went through to have a look, then gestured for the others to follow. Nero went first, getting on all fours to crawl through the passage.

They found themselves in a dusty little room with only a few stools for furniture and a sack stuffed with mouldering old straw for a bed. A short hallway led to a little vestibule. Not surprisingly for slave quarters, the door had no lock on the inside, not even a bar that could be dropped into place.

A small window, covered by a tattered cloth, provided light. Looking through a hole in the cloth, Titus saw a dirt courtyard, a grassy slope, and a bit of the main house, farther up the hill. How elegant the place looked, with its red-tile roof and its yellow-marble columns, surrounded by stately cypress trees and blooming rose bushes and hedges pruned in the shapes of obelisks, cubes, and spheres.

Nero sat on the bed with his back against the wall. He began to weep in earnest, sobbing until his face was wet with tears. “Weep with me, Sabina!” he cried. “Lament for me and tear out your hair, like a good wife!”

Sporus obligingly began to sweep the filthy floor with his unbound tresses and to make a keening noise.

“Caesar, there’s no need to give up hope,” said Epaphroditus quietly. “Not yet.”

“You think I weep for myself, but I don’t,” said Nero. “I weep for those who will never see me on the stage. What an artist the world is losing!”

Titus sat on one of the stools. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, exhausted. His consciousness came and went. The afternoon wore on, but time seemed to come to a stop. The whole world contracted to the dismal little room in which he found himself.

Phaon produced some bread and water. Nero sipped a bit of the water but did not eat. He told them that they should begin to dig a grave for him, so as to hide his body from his enemies. “Otherwise they’ll cut off my head and take it back to Roma to prove to everyone I’m dead. Don’t let them cut off my head, Epaphroditus!”

“That will not happen, Caesar. I swear to you, that will not happen.”

“Better yet, you must burn me. Bring water to wash my corpse. Gather firewood to make the pyre!”

“Not yet, Caesar,” whispered Epaphroditus, wearily closing his eyes. “Not yet. Rest. Sleep if you can. Night will come, and then another day…”

Titus dozed.

He was awakened by a stirring in the room. The others were crowded together at the window, gazing out in alarm.

The room was dim. It was the last hour before sunset. Titus joined the others and peered with bleary eyes beyond the torn curtain. Long shadows lay across the dirt courtyard in front of the building. Slanting sunlight pierced the clouds of dust stirred by a lone horseman. By his long, full beard, Titus saw that the horseman was Epictetus.

Before anyone else could react, Sporus rushed to the front door, opened it, and went outside. The eunuch ran up to Epictetus while he was still on horseback. The two exchanged words. From the window, Titus strained to hear what they were saying, but he could not make out the words.

Epictetus dismounted. His bad leg failed him and he fell. Grimacing, he got to his feet, looked about for a place to tie his mount, then clutched his leg, stumbled, and fell again.

Meanwhile, Sporus ran inside.

“How did he find us?” asked Phaon.

“He asked at the main house. The slaves knew nothing, but someone suggested he try this building.”

“What news?” said Epaphroditus.

Sporus looked at Nero and seemed afraid to speak.

“What news?” cried Nero.

“The Senate took a vote.”

“Yes?” Nero’s voice was shrill.

“They declared Galba emperor.”

Nero gasped. “And me? What of me?”

“The Senate declared you to be a public enemy.” Sporus averted his eyes. “They say… they say you’re to be put to death in the ancient manner.”

“The ancient manner?” said Nero.

“That’s was what Epictetus told me.”

“What in Hades does that mean? What does it mean, Epaphroditus?” cried Nero.

Epaphroditus did not answer.

It was Titus who spoke. His voice sounded hollow in his ears. “The ancient manner refers to a specific means of execution devised by our ancestors. The victim is paraded before the people and publicly stripped – ”

Nero let out a cry.

“When he is naked, his neck is fastened in a two-pronged pitchfork, so that he can be driven this way and that or held in place,” continued Titus. “Men with rods beat him until-”

“No!” Nero trembled from head to foot. His eyes were wide with terror.

Strangely, Titus did not share the emperor’s fear. He felt something very different. He was experiencing the extreme sense of wonder and revelation that had come to him when he heard Nero sing of Troy above the burning ruins of Roma, and again when he was made to witness his brother set aflame.

“Caesar, do you not see? This is the fate the gods have intended for you all along.”

“What are you saying, Pinarius?”

“What greater role could there be for the greatest of all actors? You will be the fallen hero, the god-emperor made to suffer the most terrible and disgraceful of deaths. Your execution will take place with all Roma watching. Everyone in the city will see you naked. Everyone will see you suffer and bleed. Everyone will see you soil yourself and weep and beg for mercy. Everyone will see you die. No one will ever forget the end of Nero. Your public execution will be the crowning per formance of a lifetime!”

Nero stared back at him, his mouth agape. For a moment he seemed to seriously consider what Titus had said. He slowly nodded. Then he shuddered and staggered back, shaking his head and waving his hands before his face. “Madness! What you say is madness, Pinarius!”

Suddenly Nero froze. He looked down at his right arm, and gripped it with his left hand. “Where is it?” he shrieked.

“What, Caesar?” said Epaphroditus.

“My bracelet! Where is the golden bracelet my mother gave me, the amulet that holds my lucky snakeskin?”

“Do you not remember?” said Epaphroditus. “Caesar cast it away long ago. Caesar declared it was hateful to him, after the death of his mother.”

Nero gazed at Epaphroditus, baffled, then gave a start. From the dusty courtyard came the sound of rumbling hoof-beats.

They gazed out the window. The men arriving on horseback were armed Praetorians.

“They must have followed Epictetus,” whispered Phaon. He set about gathering up the stools and bits of debris from the hole in the wall, stacking everything he could find against the door in an effort to block it.

The Praetorians quickly dismounted. Some of them seized Epictetus as he tried to limp away from them. One of them studied the building for a moment, then drew his sword and began to walk towards the entrance.

Sporus pulled at his hair and wailed. His shrill cries caused hackles to rise on the back of Titus’s neck. He gazed at Nero. Suddenly he saw not a god, not a genius, but a mere mortal, pitiful and afraid.

Nero ran to Epaphroditus. “Give me your dagger! Quickly!”

Epaphroditus handed him the knife.

Nero held the point to his breast, then hesitated. He looked at the others. “Will one of you not kill yourself first, to give me courage?”

Sporus continued to wail. The others stood frozen to the spot. From the vestibule, they heard the Praetorian bang the pommel of his sword against the door.

“Jupiter, what an artist perishes in me!” cried Nero. He pushed the dagger into his belly, but he could not drive it all the way. Blood stained his coarse tunic as he fell to the ground. He writhed in agony.

“Help me!” he whimpered.

Epaphroditus knelt beside him. His eyes glistened with tears but his hands were steady. He rolled Nero onto his back and pulled the dagger from his belly. He placed the dagger above Nero’s heart, gathered his strength, and drove the blade deep into the flesh.

Nero convulsed. Blood flowed from his mouth and his nostrils.

The Praetorian pushed open the door, scattering the stools stacked against it. He paused for a moment in the vestibule to let his eyes adjust to the dim light, then rushed into the room. Titus recognized the young messenger they had met at the bridge. The shocked expression on his face made him look almost childlike. The Praetorian pulled off his cloak and threw it over Nero’s bleeding wounds. He knelt beside the emperor.

“Too late!” Nero gasped, taking the soldier’s hand. “Too late, my faithful warrior!”

The emperor writhed, vomited more blood, clenched his teeth, and then suddenly went stiff. His glassy eyes were wide open. His mouth was fixed in a bloody grimace so awful that even the Praetorian shuddered and everyone in the room looked away – everyone except Titus, who stared spellbound at the agonized face of Nero.

To Titus, the horror of the moment was exquisite beyond bearing. Even Seneca at his goriest had never contrived a scene to rival this. Nero’s end had been unspeakably tawdry and pathetic. Watching, Titus had been moved to uttermost terror and pity. Even in the instant of death Nero had played the actor, making his face into a mask that could have made a strong man faint.

Nero had been right and Titus had been wrong. A public execution in the ancient manner would have been gaudy and overstated, an unseemly waste of Nero’s talents before an audience unworthy of his genius. Instead, Nero’s end had been a private performance played out before the eyes of a privileged few. Titus felt honoured beyond measure to have witnessed the final scene of the greatest artist who had ever lived.

Titus looked at the others in the room. Epaphroditus, Phaon, and Sporus were mere freedmen and courtiers and might yet hope to escape execution. But Titus was a senator, and as an augur he had declared divine approval for Nero’s every action. With Nero dead, Titus had no doubt that he would be tried and executed. If that were to happen, his family would be disinherited, disgraced, and driven from Roma. Only if Titus were to die by his own hand might his wife and son and daughters hope to escape retribution.

Titus gripped Epaphroditus by the wrist.

“Make a vow, Epaphroditus! Swear by Nero’s shade! If you survive this day, promise me you’ll do all you can to look after Lucius, my son.”

Overwhelmed by emotion and unable to speak, Epaphroditus could only nod.

More Praetorians came rushing into the little room, their swords drawn. Before they could reach him, Titus pulled out his dagger and plunged it into his chest.