Empire

PART III
LUCIUS
The Seeker
AD 69

Lucius Pinarius sighed. “If only Otho were still alive, and mperor. You were able to twist Otho around your little finger.”

Sporus, wearing an elegant silk robe, made only a grunt for an answer. She – for Lucius always thought of Sporus as “she,” and Sporus preferred to be addressed as a woman – stretched with feline grace on the couch next to Lucius. Side by side, the two friends gazed up at the elaborate scene painted on the ceiling, its vivid colours softened by the slanting winter sunlight. The scene depicted the abduction of Ganymede by Jupiter; the naked, beautiful youth was clutching a toy hoop in one hand and a cockerel, Jupiter’s courtship gift, in the other, while the king of the gods stood with muscular arms spread, ready to make himself into an eagle to carry the object of his desire to Olympus.

“Is there a prettier room in all the Golden House?” said Sporus. “I love these apartments, don’t you?”

“I’d love them more if I were only a visitor, and Epaphroditus would agree to let me to return to my own house and family,” said Lucius.

“He’s only doing what he thinks is best for you. He made a promise to your father to look after you; I witnessed the vow. If Epaphroditus says you’re safer living here, then you should be glad he still has these apartments, despite all the changes, and gladder still that he has space for you.

Besides, if you were no longer here, I should grow awfully lonely without you, Lucius.”

Lucius smiled. “A year and a half ago, we hardly knew each other.”

“A year and a half ago, many things were different. Nero still lived. Imagine that – a world grand enough to contain Nero in it! Nero was too big for this world. Galba was too little.”

“Galba might still be emperor, if he had paid the Praetorians what he owed them.”

“Galba was a bore!” declared Sporus. “A miser and a bore. His reign was seven months of misery for everyone, including himself. The soldiers were right to kill the old fool. And right to make Otho emperor in his place. It was almost as if Nero had come back to us.” Sporus sighed. “Once upon a time, back in the golden days, Otho and Nero were best friends, you know. Their parties and drinking bouts were legendary. Nero told me Otho was like an older brother to him – though he flattered himself if he thought there was any physical resemblance. Otho was so good looking. And what a body he had! It was Poppaea who came between them. Otho was married to her; Nero had to have her. Poor Otho was forced to divorce Poppaea and head off to Spain.”

“And when the soldiers got rid of Galba, Otho was their choice to succeed him.”

“Because the people were already nostalgic for Nero, and Otho was the closest thing to Nero they could find. He was only thirty-seven; he could have ruled for a long, long time. He took Nero’s name. He restored the statues of Nero that had been pulled down. He announced his intention to complete the parts of the Golden House still under construction, on an even grander scale than Nero intended.”

“The bricklayers and artisans in Roma loved hearing that!” said Lucius.

“In every way, Otho seemed ready to rule just as Nero had done.”

“And ready to love as Nero had loved.”

Sporus sighed and nodded. “Yes. Dear Otho! Because I looked like her, of course. I remember the first time he saw me. It was in these apartments. He came to see Epaphroditus with some question about the household staff. Otho saw me across the room. He looked as if he’d been struck, as if he might fall. I could see his knees trembling.”

“His tunic was short enough to show his knees?”

“Otho loved to show off his legs, and with good reason. He had the legs of a mountaineer, as smooth and firm as if they’d been carved from marble. Thighs like tree trunks. Calves like-”

“Please, Sporus, that’s enough about Otho’s legs!” Lucius laughed.

Sporus smiled. “It didn’t take us long to get acquainted.”

“You dragged him straight to your bed, you mean!”

“It was his bed we slept in, though I don’t recall sleeping. It was like the night the Divine Julius met Queen Cleopatra in Alexandria – love at first sight.”

“Or lust!”

“Perhaps. Sometimes lust comes first, and love later. In private he called me Sabina, just as Nero did.” Sporus frowned. “Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I hadn’t looked so much like her. What a strange destiny the gods laid out for me. Ah, well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

A wistful expression crossed the eunuch’s face. Lucius had seen it before, and Epaphroditus had once explained it to him: “That is the look Sporus gets when she thinks about her long-lost testes.”

Otho had reigned for only ninety-five days. Many of those days had been spent away from Roma, mustering troops and preparing for the invasion of Aulus Vitellius, the governor of Lower Germania, who had been proclaimed emperor by his own troops. Otho took to the field against Vitellius in northern Italy, but before the campaign could begin in earnest, Otho killed himself.

Why? Everyone in Roma had asked that question. Otho had every chance of winning against Vitellius, but instead chose to die in his tent on the eve of battle. His friends said that Otho killed himself to save Roma from civil war. Lucius could hardly imagine such an act of self-sacrifice, especially from a man who had been hailed as a second Nero. But the story was repeated so often and so fervently that Otho’s suicide for the sake of Roma had already become the stuff of legend.

Otho might have hoped to give the city a respite from bloodshed and upheaval, but his death and the unopposed succession of Vitellius accomplished just the opposite. The new emperor arrived in Roma at the head of a licentious and bloodthirsty army, and the city became the scene of riot and massacre, gladiator shows and extravagant feasting. To reward his victorious legionaries, Vitellius disbanded the existing Praetorian Guard and installed his own men. Under Galba and Otho, a few brave voices in the Senate had spoken up for a return to Republican government; Vitellius’s reign of terror silenced all opposition.

Physically, the new emperor was the opposite of the statuesque Otho. He was grotesquely obese. Apparently he had not always been unattractive; rumour had it that the young Vitellius had been one of Tiberius’s spintriae at Capri, where his services to the debauched emperor had advanced his father’s career. Titus found it hard to imagine Vitellius as a pleasingly plump boy when gazing at the man in his late fifties.

The death of Otho had left Sporus without a role in the imperial household. As she had done in the confusion after Nero’s death and under Galba, Sporus again looked to Epaphroditus for protection. That was how Lucius and Sporus had been thrown together. Lucius was already residing with Epaphroditus, seldom stirring beyond his suite of rooms, trying to draw as little attention as possible to himself or to the personal fortune he had inherited from his father. There was plenty of space in Epaphroditus’s apartments to accommodate both Lucius and Sporus, but the two wards inevitably found themselves spending time together. They were about the same age: Lucius was twenty-two and Sporus a bit younger. Otherwise they had little in common, yet they never quarreled and often talked for hours, sharing gossip, laughing at each other’s jokes, and reminiscing about the dead – not only Lucius’s father and Otho, but all the others who had passed into oblivion in the tumult that had begun with Nero’s death.

So far, Lucius had remained beneath the new emperor’s notice, and so had Sporus. Epaphroditus told them that this was a good thing, but inevitably they grew restless shut up in Epaphroditus’s apartments.

Now change was again in the air. According to Epaphroditus, Vitellius might not be emperor much longer. The general Vespasian, vastly enriched by his war against the Jews and anticipating even greater riches from the sack of their capital, Jerusalem, had been proclaimed emperor by his troops in the East and by the legions on the Danube. While Vespasian and his son Titus remained in the East, commanders loyal to him were marching on Italy. Another struggle for control of the empire was imminent. The mood in the city had become increasingly unsettled and anxious. There was a sense that anything might happen, and fear of a bloodbath. Astrologers had predicted the end of Vitellius. Vitellius’s response, besides ordering every astrologer in Roma to be killed on the spot, was to throw one lavish party after another.

There were even rumours that Nero had not died after all – that he had staged his death as a hoax – and the heir of Augustus would return at any moment at the head of a Parthian army. Sporus and Epaphroditus knew better, of course, though neither of them would tell Lucius exactly what had transpired in the last moments of Nero’s life, which has also been the last moments of his father’s life. “The emperor chose the moment and the method of his death, and he died with dignity,” was all that Epaphroditus would say, “and so did your father, who bravely decided to follow him into death.”

Lying back on the couch, Lucius gazed up at the painting of the broad-shouldered Jupiter and the slender but elegantly muscled Ganymede, who looked a bit too mature and developed to be carrying a boy’s hoop.

“I can see why Ganymede is a smooth as a baby,” said Lucius, “but you’d think a brawny fellow like Jupiter would be shown with a bit more hair on his chest, wouldn’t you? Yet the painters never seem to show hair on a man’s chest, and neither do the sculptors. Is it true that Otho didn’t have a hair on his body?”

Sporus laughed. “True: Otho had not a hair on his body. Or on his head. When he took off that hairpiece-”

“Otho wore a hairpiece? You never told me that!”

“He made me take a vow to tell no one, even if he should die in battle. Well, he didn’t die in battle, did he? He chose to abandon me by his own hand! So I’ll tell you anyway. Yes, Otho wore a hairpiece. It was a very good one, I must admit. It fooled you, obviously!” Sporus laughed. “As for the rest of him, even I have more hair on my body than Otho did. He went to great lengths to remove every strand. He shaved here, plucked there, and in certain delicate areas he used a wax poultice to depilate himself. He was so vain about his physique, you see. When he was naked, he wanted nothing to obscure the sight of all those muscles. And of course he liked the touch of silk against his hairless flesh. What a wardrobe the man had! This robe I’m wearing belonged to Otho…” Sporus’s voice trailed off.

Lucius thought of another thing that Epaphroditus had said: “That is the look of Sporus remembering those who have died and left her behind.”

There was a quiet knock at the door. Epictetus entered.

For a long time, Lucius had been confused by the lame slave’s furtive, almost cringing demeanour whenever he was in Sporus’s presence. Epaphroditus treated Epictetus with respect, acknowledging and even deferring to his young slave’s immense erudition, and allowed Epictetus considerable freedom to do and say whatever he pleased. Epictetus was no cowed underling, yet around Sporus he behaved awkwardly and averted his eyes; even his limp became more pronounced. Eventually, Lucius realized that the slave was in love with Sporus and painfully aware that his love could never be requited. Sporus had been the consort of two of the most powerful men on earth; she could hardly be expected to take notice of a lame slave who hid his homely face behind a shaggy beard. To be sure, Epictetus was clever; Epaphroditus declared that he had never known any man who was better read or more thoroughly versed in philosophy, which was quite remarkable considering that Epictetus was the same age as Lucius. But what good was all his learning to Epictetus when the object of his affection was more interested in muscular legs and depilating poultices than in Stoic discourse?

“There’s a visitor in the vestibule,” said Epictetus, glancing at Sporus and then at the floor.

“Epaphroditus is out for the afternoon,” said Lucius. “The visitor will have to come back later.”

“I failed to make myself clear,” said Epictetus, daring to look up again. “The visitor is here to see Sporus.”

Sporus sat upright. “Me? No one ever comes to see me any more. A friend of Otho’s, perhaps?”

“No. He comes from the emperor Vitellius,” said Epictetus. “His calls himself Asiaticus.”

Sporus raised an eyebrow. “Not a big, muscular fellow, rakishly handsome? Struts like a gladiator but grins like a spintria?”

Epictetus frowned. “That might describe him.”

“Who is this Asiaticus?” asked Lucius. “How do you know him?”

“I don’t know him,” said Sporus, “but it looks as if I soon shall. Really, Lucius, you don’t know the stories about Vitellius and Asiaticus?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What a sheltered existence your father imposed on you, sparing your delicate ears from the gossip of the court. Nero loved telling tales about Vitellius and his stud horse. The relationship between those two made Nero’s bedroom antics seem quite tame.”

“My ears are open,” said Lucius, rolling onto his stomach and propping his chin on his fists.

“Quickly, then: Asiaticus was born a slave, no different from any other slave, until in adolescence a certain appendage became rather prominent. When Vitellius saw the boy standing naked on the auction block one day, he didn’t buy him for his brains. Like a racing master who’d acquired a new stud, Vitellius took him home and tried him out right away. Vitellius was happy with his purchase.

“But as you know, in these relationships it’s not always clear who is the master and who the slave, and desire isn’t always mutual. Asiaticus grew tired of Vitellius, and who could blame him? They say Vitellius is actually rather skilled at lovemaking, but really, can you imagine having that mass of quivering flesh on top of you? Or under you, I should imagine, since I suspect that to be his preferred position. Anyway, at some point, young Asiaticus had quite enough and ran off. Vitellius wept and tore out his hair! He was heartbroken. Then, one day, Vitellius was down in Puteoli and who should he come across at a little stand on the waterfront, flirting with the sailors and selling cheap wine hardly better than vinegar, but Asiaticus. Vitellius burst into tears and moved to embrace him, but Asiaticus was off like an arrow. Vitellius’s men gave chase, knocking down half the market stalls along the waterfront, and finally caught Asiaticus and brought him back in irons. A happy ending – the lovers were reunited!”

Lucius laughed. “Something tells me there’s more to this story.”

“Much more! So, it’s back to Roma, where all goes well – for a while. This time it’s Vitellius who decides he’s had enough of Asiaticus – the insolence, the lying, the thieving, the cavorting behind his master’s back. Vitellius stamps his feet and rants and pulls out his whip, but eventually he makes good on a longstanding threat and sells Asiaticus to a new master, a fellow who keeps a travelling band of gladiators. Again the lovers are separated. Vitellius thinks he’s seen the last of Asiaticus, who’s gone from spilling seed in his master’s bedroom to spilling blood in the arena.”

Standing in the doorway, Epictetus cleared his throat. “The man is just outside, still waiting-”

“Don’t worry, I won’t keep him much longer,” said Sporus. “Well, to make a long story short, one day Vitellius is invited to be the guest of honour at games being put on by a local magistrate in some country town. Who should be scheduled for the final match but Asiaticus! Vitellius goes pale when the love of his life enters the arena, but he puts on a brave face and tells himself he’s long since gotten over that scoundrel and would be happy to see him suffer an agonizing death. Then the match begins, and things go badly for Asiaticus from the start. He’s wounded once, twice, and ends up flat on his back with his opponent’s sword at his throat. The crowd screams for his death, and the magistrate is ready to give the signal, when Vitellius leaps to his feet and cries out, ‘Spare him! Spare my sweet Asiaticus!’ Vitellius buys him back on the spot, paying an outrageous sum, and down in the gladiators’ quarters the two are reunited. Imagine the tears and kisses and whispers of forgiveness! I know this sounds like a tawdry Greek novel, but I swear I didn’t make it up.”

Epictetus cleared his throat again.

“And the rest of the story?” said Lucius.

“Vitellius took Asiaticus with him when he went to govern Germania. He ruled there the way he’s ruled in Roma – wild banquets and gladiator shows to amuse the local chieftains while his soldiers raped and plundered the citizenry. To make amends for having made him a gladiator, Vitellius freed Asiaticus and gave him an official post. Asiaticus turned out to be rather useful, apparently; living by wits and brawn had trained him to be just the sort of factotum a governor like Vitellius needed. Few were the troublemakers Asiaticus couldn’t bully or seduce into submission. And now he’s here in Roma, helping his old master run the show. Not just a freedman any longer, but a respected member of the equestrian order.”

“No!” said Lucius.

“Yes. Not long after Vitellius became emperor, some of his fawning supporters urged him to elevate Asiaticus to equestrian rank, since he possessed the requisite wealth. Vitellius laughed and told them not to be ridiculous, that the appointment of a rascal like Asiaticus would bring disgrace to the order. When Asiaticus got wind of this, you can imagine his reaction. Quick as asparagus, Vitellius threw a banquet where he presented Asiaticus with the gold ring to mark his new status as an equestrian. He’ll make the fellow a senator next!”

Lucius laughed, then frowned. “And now Asiaticus has come to call on you. This can’t be good.”

“No? I’m eager to have a look at him,” said Sporus. “Epictetus, tell my visitor he can come in now. Have one of the serving girls bring suitable refreshments.”

Even as Epictetus nodded and turned, he was confronted by a figure coming through the doorway. The visitor pushed Epictetus aside and swaggered into the room.

In Lucius’s experience, men who craved the company of youths tended to look for the Greek ideal of beauty. The sight of Asiaticus surprised him. The man had a round head set atop a squat neck and an almost piggish face – an upturned nose, heavy lips, and squinting eyes. Even allowing for a coarsening of his features due to debauched living, it was hard to imagine that he had ever possessed the kind of beauty the old Greek masters immortalized in marble. Nor was he any longer a boy: there were flecks of grey in his wiry black hair. His equestrian’s tunic, with its narrow red stripes running up and over each massive shoulder, seemed barely to contain him, leaving his brawny arms and more of his hairy thighs exposed than was decent, and straining to contain the breadth of his bull-like chest. On his left hand, pushed onto a thick, stubby finger, Lucius saw the gold equestrian’s ring that had been placed there by Vitellius.

Lucius rose from the couch. He drew back his shoulders. Asiaticus gave him a glance, then settled his gaze on Sporus. He twisted his lips into a smirk.

“You must be Sporus,” said Asiaticus. His voice was not what Lucius had expected, either, tinged with what Lucius’s father had called the gutter accent of uneducated slave and freedmen.

“And you must be Asiaticus.” Sporus continued to recline on the couch. With one hand she smoothed a fold of her silk gown over her hips.

“This is for you.” Asiaticus stepped forward and held forth a scroll.

“What’s this?” Sporus untied the ribbon.

“A new play, written by the emperor himself.”

“By Jupiter, another one who thinks he’s Nero!” muttered Epictetus from the doorway.

“ ‘The Rape of Lucretia by the Son of King Tarquinius and the Subsequent Fall of the Last Dynasty of Kings, ’ ” read Sporus. “The title is certainly a mouthful, though the play seems hardly more than a sketch.”

“Short and sweet,” said Asiaticus. “It’s mostly action. The emperor doesn’t want to bore his audience.”

“Audience? Is there to be a performance? Are we invited?” Sporus cast a quick, wide-eyed glance at Lucius, then smiled graciously at Asiaticus.

“The audience will consist of the emperor’s closest friends and advisers. Men of high rank and exquisite taste.”

“Will you be there?” said Lucius. He kept a straight face. Sporus covered her laugh with a cough.

Asiaticus stared at Lucius for a moment, then grinned. “Oh, yes, I’ll be there. And so will you, young Pinarius. And so will your host, Epaphroditus. The emperor wouldn’t want either of you to miss Sporus’s performance.”

“Performance?” Sporus brightened.

“Did I not explain? You’ll play Lucretia.”

“I?” Sporus sprang to her feet and perused the scroll with greater interest.

“There’ll be a rehearsal tonight for the performance at the banquet tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! But I can’t possibly-”

“You don’t have that many lines.” Asiaticus stepped closer. Lucius was struck by how slender and delicate Sporus looked face-to-face with Asiaticus, who was only a little taller but massively broader. “If you forget a line, don’t worry. I shall be there to whisper it in your ear. Like this.” Asiaticus drew closer and blew into Sporus’s ear.

Sporus flinched and stepped back. “You?”

“Did I not explain? I’m to play Sextus Tarquinius, the son of the king. The villain who rapes Lucretia.”

Sporus took another step back. She opened the scroll with both hands, interposing it between herself and Asiaticus. “I see. You and I are to act in the emperor’s play together, performing opposite each other?”

“Exactly. I’ll leave you now. Try to get those lines into your pretty head, and do whatever else you need to prepare yourself. We’ll stage a private rehearsal for the emperor tonight while he dines.” Asiaticus looked Sporus up and down. The smirk vanished, replaced by a vacant, slack-jawed expression that Lucius found even more disturbing. Then he swaggered out of the room.

“This is ridiculous!” said Lucius.

“Ridiculous?” Sporus stood erect. “Do you think me incapable? I didn’t spend all that time at Nero’s side without picking up some knowledge of acting. Here, Epictetus, you and I will read the play together, and you’ll help me with my lines.”

As Asiaticus had noted, the so-called play was quite short. It could hardly be intended as the main part of an evening’s entertainment. It was more likely a vignette to fill out the programme; Vitellius’s parties typically included dancing boys and girls and gladiators fighting to the death along with declaiming poets and comic actors.

The story required little in the way of background. Everyone in the audience would know the tale already. When a friend of the king’s son boasted of his wife’s virtue, the reckless Sextus Tarquinius felt obliged to take it from her; arriving while her husband was away, he took advantage of Lucretia’s hospitality and raped her. Unable to bear her shame, Lucretia used a dagger to kill herself. When her body was shown to an angry crowd in the Forum, King Tarquinius and his wicked son were driven from Roma and the Republic was founded.

Epictetus quickly scanned the text. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Hardly more than a vulgar mime show,” he declared. “According to the stage instructions, the rape takes place right on stage, and so does Lucre- tia’s suicide.”

“Seneca saw fit to include all sorts of shock effects in his plays,” noted Sporus. “Thyestes eats his roasted children right in front of the audience, and Oedipus gouges out his eyes. They use hidden bladders and pig’s blood.”

“If Vitellius thinks he’s another Seneca, he’s completely deluded,” said Lucius, taking his turn at scanning the text. “This dialogue is utter drivel.”

Sporus shrugged. “Still, if this is the sort of thing Vitellius likes, it’s a chance for me to please him.”

Lucius shook his head. “I didn’t like Asiaticus’s manner. What an oily fellow!”

“Yes, he wasn’t quite what I expected, either,” said Sporus. “Men seldom are. Still, he has a certain beast-like appeal. If you imagine him outfitted as a gladiator-”

“I’ll let you get on with it, then,” said Lucius, glad that Sporus had chosen Epictetus to practise with her and not him. Asiaticus’s visit had put him in a foul mood. He needed to take a walk. Epaphroditus’s apartments were off the long portico that fronted the meadows and the man-made lake at the heart of the Golden House. Perhaps he would walk all the way around the lake.

He fetched a cloak, though for such a mild winter day he probably wouldn’t need it. As he made ready to leave, he heard Sporus and Epictetus declaiming their lines.

“Who is at the door?”

“It is I, Sextus Tarquinius, your husband’s friend and the son of the king.”

“But my husband is not home tonight.”

“I know. But would you deny me your hospitality? Open your door to me, Lucretia. Let me in!”

Lucius smiled. Epictetus seemed to be getting into the spirit of the thing, despite his avowed disdain for the material. It occurred to Lucius that the slave might be taking a certain vicarious pleasure in playing such a role opposite the unobtainable object of his affection.

It also occurred to Lucius that Sporus might be imagining yet another return to imperial favour. Why not? Nero had married her. Otho had made her his mistress. Vitellius might be oblivious to her charms, preferring a more “beast-like” partner (to use Sporus’s word), but Asiaticus had blatantly displayed his attraction, and Asiaticus was a powerful man.

Lucius sighed. As he left the apartments he heard a last exchange of dialogue.

“No! Unhand me, brute! I am faithful to my husband!”

“Yield to me, Lucretia! I will have my way with you!” Epictetus declaimed with such vigour that his voice broke. He cleared his throat, then spoke again, sounding rather chagrined. “And then the stage directions say that we struggle a bit, and then I tear your gown

…”

At sundown, a group of Praetorians arrived to escort them to the emperor’s private quarters. Sporus walked ahead of the others, conscious of her special status. Lucius and Epaphroditus followed. Epictetus came along as well, ostensibly to attend to his master.

They were shown to a large, octagonal banquet room. The walls were of dazzling multicoloured marble and there was a splashing fountain at the entrance. Lucius had never seen the room, but it was obviously quite familiar to Sporus, who must have spent many happy hours in this room, first with Nero, then with Otho. Lucius heard her sigh as she gazed about, assessing the changes wrought by Vitellius and his wife, Galeria, who was said to find Nero’s taste too understated. A great many statues, decorative lamps, bronze vases, ivory screens, and woven hangings had been crowded into the room, filling the spaces against the walls and between the dining couches.

The only part of the room not cluttered with precious objects was a raised dais against one wall. The dais’s sole decoration was a larger-than-life marble statue of Nero, who was depicted in Greek dress with a laurel crown on his head. It appeared that this dais was to serve as the stage for the play, since the dining couches where arrayed before it in a semicircle.

All the couches were empty except for two in centre of the front row. Upon one reclined the emperor’s wife, Galeria, and their seven-year-old son, Germanicus. Upon the other couch, occupying the entire space, lay the emperor. A Molossian mastiff almost as big as a man lay curled before his couch. The dog sprang up and growled when Lucius and the others entered, then came to heel when its master made a shushing sound.

As Vitellius roused himself and stood, Lucius pondered the considerable energy required to set in motion such an imposing mass of flesh. The emperor was very tall, with big arms and a huge belly and the flushed face of a heavy drinker. As he took a few steps towards them, he limped slightly. Vitellius’s lameness was said to be the result of a long-ago chariot accident in the days of his debauched youth; Caligula had been driving.

Vitellius held a sword, clutching the handle in his right fist and fondling the blade with the fingertips of his left hand. The pommel was ornately decorated and the blade was covered with gold. Lucius let out a little gasp when he realized what he was seeing: the sword of the Divine Julius. One of Vitellius’s followers had stolen Caesar’s sword from its sacred place in the Shrine of Mars and presented to Vitellius when he was first proclaimed emperor. Vitellius carried it in place of the traditional dagger that his predecessors kept on their person as a symbol of the power of life and death they wielded over their subjects. He kept it always at his side like a lucky talisman. He even slept with it.

Beneath the folds of his toga, Lucius touched his own talisman, the fascinum he had been given on the last day of his father’s life. Like his father, he wore it for special occasions and in times of danger.

Vitellius stared openly at Sporus. Unlike Asiaticus, he did not leer. His gaze was curious, but not lustful. If anything, to judge by the way he curled his upper lip, he was disgusted by what he saw.

“So you’re the one who gave up his balls to please Nero, eh? Ah well, plenty of boys have lost their balls for less reason than that.” Vitellius slowly circled Sporus, fondling the sword in his hands. “Then along came Otho. He took a fancy to you, as well. I suppose he looked at you and thought: there’s a bargain, the work’s already been done! Rather like a quality piece of real estate already refurbished by the previous owner.”

The emperor completed his circuit and stood before Sporus, looming over her. She stared up at him for a moment, then lowered her eyes.

“That Otho!” Vitellius clucked his tongue. “Never knew what to make of the fellow. So amenable! Avoided confrontation at all costs. Supposedly he was Nero’s best friend, but when Nero wanted his Poppaea, Otho gave her up without a fight. I certainly wouldn’t give up my wife, just because a friend asked for her. Would I, my sweet?”

The empress Galeria, reclining next to her son, smiled sweetly. She was Vitellius’s second wife and considerably younger than her husband. She was wearing one of Poppaea’s gowns, a magnificent confection of redand-purple silk to which she had added a great deal of silver embroidery and strings of pearls. Her son reclined beside her, staring vacantly at Sporus. Germanicus was large for his age. Lucius could see that the boy resembled his father, with his chubby cheeks and fleshy limbs, and realized with a shiver that Germanicus was probably the age his father had been when Tiberius inducted him into the debaucheries at Capri. The boy was said to have a stutter so severe that he could hardly speak at all.

“As long as Nero reigned, Otho seemed quite content to live in exile,” continued Vitellius, fondling the sword and gazing at Sporus. “Never joined in any of the plots against the man who stole his wife, not even after Nero kicked poor Poppaea to death.” He glanced over his shoulder at Galeria. “If anyone kicked you to death, my dear, I would certainly take steps to avenge you.”

Galeria laughed quietly. Germanicus made a braying noise.

“Perhaps Otho was just biding his time,” said Vitellius, “waiting for his chance. It did seem that he was going to have the last laugh, at least for a while; he ended up living here in Nero’s Golden House, having his way with Nero’s new version of Poppaea. Poppaea with a penis, if you like!” He stepped closer to Sporus, towering over her. “But along I came, and poof! Otho vanished like a candle in the wind. In the taverns, they sing a song about him: ‘Gave up his wife, gave up his life, all without strife.’ I can’t have any respect for a fellow like that. I wonder what sort of lover he made. How did he compare to Nero? Poppaea could have told us, but Poppaea is dead. Perhaps you can enlighten us, eunuch. But not yet. We have a play to rehearse!”

The emperor clapped his hands. Lucius and Epaphroditus were shown to couches and offered food and wine. Epictetus stood behind his master. The fare was exquisite, but with Praetorians stationed against each wall, Lucius did not find the atmosphere relaxing. Little Germanicus made a great deal of noise when he ate, snorting and drooling and chewing with his mouth open.

Vitellius took Sporus’s hand and escorted her onto the dais. With his sword, he gestured to the statue of Nero. “This is one of the statues that was pulled down after Nero’s death, then restored by Otho. If you look closely, you can see where the head was reattached to the neck. It’s fitting the statue should be here, because tomorrow’s banquet will be in honour of Nero. First, there will be a sacrifice at his tomb on the Hill of Gardens, followed by gladiator games and then a feast for everyone in the city. Only very special guests will be invited to the banquet in this room.”

Vespasian’s supporters were marching on the city, Lucius thought, and the response of Vitellius was to invoke the spirit of Nero and to treat the people of Roma to yet another feast. The man knew only one way to rule, by throwing parties; the graver the crisis, the grander the party.

“The highlight of the menu will be a dish of my own devising,” said Vitellius. “I call it the Shield of Minerva. If I am remembered for nothing else a thousand years from now, I hope that men will still speak of this dish. No vessel of pottery large enough to contain it could be fired, so a gigantic shield made of solid silver has been cast for the presentation. The shield will be carried into the room by a group of slaves. Upon it will be arranged an exquisite confabulation of pike livers, pheasant brains, peacock brains, and flamingo tongues, all sprinkled with lamprey milt. The total cost will be more than a million sesterces. My guests will have seen and tasted nothing like it in their entire lives.

“While we eat, we must be entertained. For the occasion, I wrote a little play about Lucretia. When I began to consider whom to cast in the title role, it was Asiaticus who suggested you, Sporus. I swear, that fellow can go for years without expressing a single intelligent thought, and then he produces a stroke of genius! To honour Nero’s memory, who else but Nero’s widow could play the role of Lucretia? Are you ready to show me what you can do?”

Sporus nodded. “I shall do my best to please you, Caesar.”

“Oh, you shall please me, I have no doubt.” Vitellius smiled. “The props will all be imaginary, except for Lucretia’s distaff and spindle and her bed. The stagehands will bring those on at the proper time. A piper will play whenever the scene changes, and to underscore the more dramatic moments.”

The emperor descended from the dais and reclined on his couch.

The rehearsal commenced. A chorus of three actors stepped onto the stage first, to declaim the prologue. The chorus then became the entourage of Sextus Tarquinius, played by Asiaticus, who engaged in a debate with an actor playing Lucretia’s husband concerning which man had the more virtuous wife. To settle the argument, the husbands decided to drop in on their wives unexpectedly. The chorus became the female attendants of Sextus’s wife, who was caught gossiping and drinking wine with her slaves. The chorus then became the female slaves of Lucretia; when the husbands dropped in, they found her spinning and overheard her deliver a soliloquy about the duties of a wife. Sporus’s first lines were a bit shaky, Lucius thought, but she seemed to gain confidence as she went on.

The chorus vanished. Lucretia’s gloating husband sang his wife’s praises. Vexed, Sextus ordered him to leave the city on a military mission, then delivered a speech expressing his fury at the man who had made a fool of him and declaring his intention to destroy Lucretia’s virtue.

Sextus paid a call on Lucretia. The hour was late. The slaves were all abed. Lucretia, spinning by candlelight, looked up at a sudden noise.

“Who is at the door?” Sporus cried, with a convincingly nervous quaver.

“It is I, Sextus Tarquinius, your husband’s friend and the son of the king,” said Asiaticus in a booming voice.

Standing behind his master, Epictetus snorted quietly, trying not to laugh out loud. Lucius likewise bit his tongue. Asiaticus was a terrible actor, though physically he fit the part. Had Vitellius written a comedy or a tragedy? It was hard to tell. How would the audience react the next day, besotted by wine and stuffed with the delicacies from the Shield of Minerva? The emperor’s guests would be thinking as much about the actors as about the play, titillated by the novelty of seeing Vitellius’s stud and Nero’s eunuch bride together on the stage.

The rehearsal continued with the determined Sextus forcing his way into Lucretia’s bedroom. He knocked aside her spindle. He threw her onto the bed. Above them loomed the statue of Nero.

Lucius recalled the stage directions, which read, “He tears her clothes and has his way with her; she resists and weeps.”

Perhaps Sporus and Asiaticus were merely acting, but to Lucius it seemed that the activity on the stage suddenly looked quite real, and became more so as the mock rape continued. Sporus seemed quite genuinely to struggle; Asiaticus seemed genuinely to overpower her, handling her very roughly, even slapping her face. Sporus let out a cry that did not sound like acting.

Epictetus stiffened. Epaphroditus, hearing the slave’s indrawn breath and sensing his agitation, shook his head and raised his hand. But Epictetus could not be still. He began to move towards the stage. Epaphroditus seized him by the wrist.

Vitellius was excited by the scene. So was Germanicus, who screeched and clapped his hands at the display of violence. Father and son both sat upright and leaned forward on their couches. Vitellius toyed nervously with the sword of the Divine Julius and began to direct the action.

“Come on, Asiaticus, you can do better than that! Tear her clothes, as it says in the script. Don’t just pretend – I want to hear the fabric rip. Yes, that’s it. And again! But not too much – we mustn’t see that the eunuch has no breasts. It’s the sound that will thrill the audience.

“Now slap her face again. Gather her hair in your fist, pull back her head, and give her a good, hard slap. Oh, harder than that! This is Lucretia you’re violating, the bitch who made a fool of you by parading her virtue. This is every patrician lady with her nose in the air who ever said no to you. You despise her self-righteousness, you want to see her disgraced, humbled, completely humiliated. I want to hear her squeal like a pig, Asiaticus. That’s better. Louder! The music must be louder, too, and more frantic.”

The piper, who stood offstage, was performing a piece called “Lucretia’s Tears,” one of Nero’s best-known compositions. He played louder and faster.

Held down on the bed by Asiaticus, Sporus made such a plaintive cry that Epictetus pulled free of his master and began limping towards the stage. One of the Praetorians immediately blocked his way.

Lucius watched in dismay as Asiaticus knocked Sporus about and turned her this way and that. Throwing back his head and laughing, Asiaticus positioning Sporus on all fours, facing the audience. He hitched up her tattered gown, exposing her thighs, and pretended to mount her from behind. He was clearly enjoying himself, grinning broadly as he raised his hand to slap the eunuch’s buttocks. Sporus looked so terrified that for a moment Lucius thought an actual rape was taking place before his eyes.

But no – when Asiaticus, after a great deal of thrusting and grunting, finally feigned a climax and drew back, smirking and sticking out his tongue, and Sporus, dishevelled and shaken, crumpled to the bed, Lucius could see that the act was simulated after all.

Vitellius applauded. Mimicking his father, Germanicus likewise clapped his hands and made a braying noise. Galeria toyed with the pearls on her gown and looked bored.

“Very good,” said Vitellius. “Very good, indeed! Very much what I had in mind. But tomorrow night, I want it to last rather longer than that, Asiaticus. I know how excited you’ll be, but draw it out as long as you can. Take your time. Enjoy yourself. Relish the punishment you’re inflicting on Lucretia. And you must be much more violent – I know you’re capable of that! Remember that you are the brutal, merciless Sextus Tarquinius and this is the rape of Lucretia; her suffering is every schoolboy’s fantasy. Also, make sure you hold the eunuch’s face to the light at the critical moment, so that we can have a good look at her when she gasps and cries out. Let my guests see for themselves what Nero and Otho saw when they mounted the creature. Alright, then, on to the next scene!”

Asiaticus left the stage. Sporus lay motionless on the bed, hiding his face.

“On with it, I said!” Vitellius impatiently slapped the flat side of the sword against the palm of his hand. “Yes, yes, you’re miserable; quite convincing. So miserable that you reach for the dagger under the bed. Go on, reach for the dagger.”

Sporus looked up with a dazed expression. She straightened her twisted gown, pushed back her dishevelled hair, and reached under the bed. The dagger was a stage device made of soft wood. Sporus stared at it. Her brow became twisted and her jaw trembled. A trickle of blood from her swollen lower lip ran down her chin.

“Can you not remember the lines?” barked Vitellius. “‘T have been violated-’”

“I have been violated,” Sporus whispered, staring at the dagger.

“Louder!”

“I have been violated!” Sporus shouted. After a moment, she went on, speaking in a hollow, dull voice. “I cannot bear the shame. The king’s son had taken his vengeance on me for no other crime than my virtue. I call on the gods to witness my suffering. Avenge my death with the fall of the house of Tarquinius-”

“No good! You’ve learned the lines, but you speak without conviction and your voice keeps trailing away. This is the pivotal moment of the play; this is how everyone will remember you. Don’t you care? You’ll have to do better than that tomorrow night. Well, then, we know what happens next. If you need courage, look up at that statue and think of Nero. What was it the last Praetorian to desert the Golden House said to Nero when he begged the man to stay? ‘Is it so hard to die, then?’ Ha! Good words to keep in mind these days.”

Sporus clutched the mock dagger in both hands and pointed it at her breast, staring at it.

“Alright, then,” said Vitellius, “enough of this. Lucretia is dead. The audience is thrilled. Her lifeless body remains on the bed during the rest of the play, while her grief-stricken husband rouses the people to revolt.

Sextus Tarquinius gets his comeuppance, and the chorus delivers the final lines. You needn’t stay for this part, eunuch. You and your friends are dismissed. Go back to your quarters. And practise your lines!”

Her gown torn and her hair in disarray, Sporus managed to stumble across the stage and step down from the dais. The Praetorian who had been blocking Epictetus stepped aside and allowed him to join her. Lucius and Epaphroditus rose from their couches and made their way across the room.

As they stepped into the hallway, Asiaticus suddenly blocked their way. He seized Sporus’s chin in a vice-like grip and flashed a lascivious grin. “Did you enjoy that?” he said. “I know I did.”

Sporus tried to draw back, but Asiaticus held her fast. “Tomorrow night, we do it for real, for everyone to see.”

“Not… in front of an audience!” whispered Sporus

“Of course in front of the audience. That’s the whole point. Exciting, isn’t it? Here, feel how excited I am, just thinking about the things I’ll do to you while everyone watches.” Asiaticus pressed one of her hands between his legs and whispered in her ear, “Feels like a dagger, doesn’t it? And when I’m done with you tomorrow night, when you reach under the bed, you’ll find a real dagger waiting for you, not a toy.” He thrust his tongue into Sporus’s ear. She wriggled and squealed. He bit her earlobe, sinking his teeth into the flesh.

Sporus pulled free. She ran weeping down the hallway.

Lucius and his companions stood speechless. Asiaticus threw back his head and laughed.

Vitellius called to him from the banquet chamber, “Asiaticus! Leave the eunuch alone. You’ll have your way with that disgusting creature soon enough. Get back in here. We need to rehearse your exit speech!”

The Praetorians who escorted them back to Epaphroditus’s apartments did not depart but took up stations in the hallway outside.

Sporus resisted all attempts to comfort her. She withdrew to her bedroom and closed the door.

On a terrace overlooking Nero’s meadows and the lake, Epaphroditus sat and covered his face with his hands. Epictetus muttered and paced, tugging at his beard.

“Can this really be happening?” said Lucius. “Does Vitellius really expect-”

“It’s quite clear what he expects,” said Epaphroditus. “Tomorrow night, before an audience, Sporus will be publicly raped – the consort of two emperors degraded like the lowest prostitute! Then she’ll be given a dagger to commit suicide for the amusement of Vitellius and his friends.”

“Seneca and Nero are responsible for this,” said Epictetus.

“How do you arrive at that conclusion?” Epaphroditus looked up at him wearily.

“Vitellius is merely taking their work one step further. Seneca debased the whole idea of stage plays with those obscene dramas he wrote, playing up the prurient interest and the meaningless horror, making hopelessness and horror the whole point of the play. Nero took the tradition of execution as a public spectacle and raised it to what he and his depraved friends considered art – burning people alive and inducing bulls to rape young girls while the audience in the stands applauded and cheered. Now Vitellius intends to make his vile fantasies take place on a stage while his friends stuff themselves with pike livers and pheasant tongues.”

“Is there no way to prevent this from happening?” Lucius said. “Perhaps Sporus can flee the city.”

Epaphroditus shook his head. “The Praetorians stationed outside the door are there for a reason. If you look below this terrace, you’ll see more guards. Vitellius has no intention of letting his Lucretia run off before tomorrow’s banquet.”

Lucius left them on the terrace and went to Sporus’s room. Through the door, he heard her weeping. He called her name. She did not answer, but after a while the weeping stopped. He called her again and heard only silence. Lucius pushed against the door. It was locked, but the lock was flimsy, intended only to keep slaves from entering when they were unwanted. He pushed against the door with his shoulder. The lock gave way and he stumbled into the room.

Sporus lay on the bed, no longer in disarray but dressed in one of her finest garments, a gown of green silk with gold embroidery inherited from Poppaea. Her hair had been combed and pinned. Make-up hid the bruises on her face. Her hands lay crossed on her breast. She no longer looked distraught but seemed composed – too composed, Lucius realized. On the floor beside the bed, lying on its side, was an empty silver cup.

Sporus stared at the ceiling with glassy eyes. Her words were slurred. “Lucius, you’ve been such a good friend to me these last few months.”

He knelt beside the bed. “Sporus, what have you done?”

“Don’t pester me with questions, Lucius. There’s no time. But I’m glad you came. Glad it was you, not one of the others. Because I have to tell you something. I need to confess.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was responsible…”

“For what?”

“It was my fault Nero died.”

“No, Sporus. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Listen to me, Lucius! It was my fault Nero died – and my fault your father killed himself.”

Lucius drew a sharp breath.

“I was responsible for everything, for all the horrors since Nero died… all my fault…”

Lucius picked up the empty cup. “What did you drink, Sporus? Why is it making you say such things?”

“I know what I’m saying, Lucius. It’s been so hard to keep it a secret… all these months…”

“I don’t understand.”

“You weren’t there, Lucius… at the end… with Nero… and your father. You didn’t see… or hear. You’ve only been told what happened by Epaphroditus, but he doesn’t know the truth. Epictetus must know, but he’s never told anyone… because he loves me. But you should know.”

Sporus’s voice was very weak. Lucius leaned closer, putting his ear to her lips.

“When Epictetus arrived from the city with news… I ran out to meet him… while the others stayed inside. Then I took the message to Nero, before Epictetus could do it. I told Nero a lie. I told him the Senate… had voted to put him to death.”

“But that’s what happened.”

“No! The message Epictetus brought was that the Senate had failed to vote. They were still deliberating. They balked at the prospect of putting Augustus’s heir to death. There was still hope… for Nero. Praetorians had been sent from Roma to bring him back, but only so that the senators could address him face-to-face, to try to come to some… resolution. They wanted to negotiate. But that was not the message I gave to Nero. I lied. I made him think there was no hope left.”

“But why, Sporus?”

“Because I wanted him to die!” Sporus convulsed on the bed. Her brow was suddenly covered with beads of sweat. She gasped for breath.

“Only later, after Nero’s body was brought back to Roma… did the Senate pass the resolution calling for his death. But that was after the fact. They did it just to please Galba, to make him think they had taken the initiative to make him emperor. Don’t you see, that’s why there are so many rumours… that Nero must still be alive. All those senators couldn’t understand why Nero would kill himself, when they were ready to negotiate. They think he must still be alive, that his death was a hoax, that he’ll yet return… and have his revenge.”

Sporus gripped his arm. “But Nero is dead, Lucius. I saw him die with my own eyes. And I saw your father die. He wouldn’t have killed himself… if Nero hadn’t done so first. It was my fault. I didn’t understand… that so many people would die… because of what I did… to Nero.”

“But why, Sporus? Why did you want Nero to die?”

“I hated him… at the end. I think I loved him… once. I don’t know. I was always so confused… by what he did to me… by what he wanted from me. Who am I, Lucius? Am I the boy your father noticed one day in the Golden House and took to meet Nero? Am I Poppaea? Or am I… Lucretia? Why do they all want me to be someone else?”

Sporus convulsed again and grimaced. Her eyes glittered like broken glass. “I caused Nero to die. That means I caused all the suffering that followed. I created Vitellius, don’t you see? I’ve brought about my own destruction. Would you hold my hand, Lucius? I can’t see any longer. I can’t hear. I’m cold. If you hold my hand, it means you forgive me.”

Lucius took Sporus’s slender hand in his. Her flesh was like ice. She shuddered and went rigid. She opened her mouth wide, trying to draw a breath. A rattling sound came from her throat. The fascinum slipped from inside Lucius’s toga and dangled before her. She reached for it and gripped it tightly, pulling him closer.

Her grip slackened. The fascinum slipped from her fingers. The light went out of her eyes.

Lucius stared down at her for a long moment, then looked around the room. On a dresser nearby he saw the mirror she must have used when she combed her hair and put on her make-up, a round silver mirror with an ebony handle. The mirror had belonged to Poppaea. Poppaea and Sporus had looked in the same mirror and had seen the same face reflected there.

He held the mirror to Sporus’s nostrils. No trace of mist fogged the polished silver. Sporus was dead.

Epaphroditus sent a messenger to inform Vitellius of the death. Asiaticus came to confirm the news. He left in a fury. The Praetorians keeping watch on Epaphroditus’s apartments withdrew.

The next day, the city-wide feast in honour of Nero went on as scheduled. Even without the presentation of Vitellius’s play at his banquet, his guests were impressed. For many days the Shield of Minerva was the talk of the city – until news arrived that Vitellius’s troops to the north had been destroyed and Vespasian’s forces were marching unopposed on Roma.

From the terrace of Epaphroditus’s apartments, Lucius watched and listened to the signs of panic in the Golden House. Various residents installed by the emperor – friends, relatives, supporters, sycophants – were hastily gathering whatever precious objects they could carry and making ready to flee.

Epaphroditus joined Lucius on the terrace. “Vitellius is preparing an abdication speech. He sent a messenger to ask me to help him draft it.”

“And will you?”

“I sent the messenger away without a reply.”

Lucius frowned. “Abdication? No emperor has ever done such a thing. The man who becomes emperor dies as emperor.”

“Nero considered abdication. I suppose that’s why Vitellius wanted my advice, though my efforts to help Nero abdicate were fruitless.”

Lucius nodded but made no reply. He had not told Epaphroditus, or anyone else, what Sporus had confessed to him.

They heard the sounds of a scuffle and looked over the parapet. In the courtyard below, two well-dressed women were fighting over an antique Greek vase. The vessel slipped from their hands and shattered on the paving stones. The enraged women flew at each other.

“Apparently,” said Epaphroditus, “Vitellius will ask for safe conduct out of the city for himself and his wife and child, along with one million sesterces from the treasury.”

“One million sesterces? So little – the cost of his precious Shield of Minerva!”

“The Flavians, Vespasian’s relatives in the city, will attend the speech. If they give their approval, a bloodless transition of power may yet be accomplished.”

Below them, the women tumbled on the ground. One of them grabbed a shard from the broken vase and slashed the other’s cheek.

Lucius looked away, sickened by the sight of blood.

Lucius and Epaphroditus stood amid the crowd at the south end of the Forum. Before them, a vast flight of marble steps led up to the main entrance to the Golden House, with its highly ornamented facade of golden tiles and coloured marble. Beyond the entrance, above the roofline, Lucius saw the head and shoulders of the towering Colossus of Nero, gleaming dully against the leaden December sky. The gigantic statue formed a backdrop that threw everything before it bizarrely out of scale. How small Vitellius looked, standing at the top of the steps to address the crowd, with that gigantic head looming behind him. The man who had seemed so large when Lucius encountered him in the octagonal dining room now appeared no bigger than an insect, a trifling creature that could easily be crushed on the palm of one’s hand. Even the ranks of Praetorians flanking him looked tiny.

“Look over there.” Epaphroditus pointed to a group of men in togas who had just arrived and were making their way to the front of the crowd. “See how everyone falls back to make way for them. The Flavians.”

Vespasian’s relatives were surrounded by a vast entourage of slaves, freedmen, and freeborn supporters. Their arrival elicited various emotions from the others in the Forum – fear, hope, resentment, curiosity.

“Look there, in the centre,” said Epaphroditus, “the one all the others defer to, though he’s only nineteen years old – that’s Vespasian’s younger son, Domitian. The older son, Titus, is his father’s right-hand man in Judaea, but Domitian is in charge of things here in Roma.”

Lucius spotted the young man, who had the typical features of a Flavian, with his round face, prominent nose, and ruddy complexion. Domitian was notoriously vain about his luxurious head of chestnut hair, which he wore longer than was currently fashionable for young Romans. Even as Lucius watched, Domitian reached up and swept both hands through his wavy mane, combing it back, then gave a practised toss of his head to make his tresses fall into place.

“What a preener!” Lucius laughed.

“Maybe so, but he’s a young man whose time has come. The Flavians all feel it. This is their moment.”

Apparently, not everyone in the crowd agreed. As Vitellius stepped forward to speak, voices rose from the crowd crying, “Stand firm, Caesar! Stand firm!”

The Flavians responded with their own shouts: “Abdicate! Step down! Leave the city now!”

Vitellius seemed to hesitate. Was he reconsidering his decision? He exchanged glances with Galeria, who stood nearby with little Germanicus beside her. He called Asiaticus to his side. While the two of them conferred, the competing shouts from the crowd grew louder and more vociferous.

“Step down!”

“Stay where you are!”

“Abdicate!”

“Hold firm, Caesar! Stay the course!”

Asiaticus stepped back. Vitellius still did not speak. He crossed his fleshy arms and peered down at the crowd.

“Numa’s balls, what is he waiting for?” whispered Lucius.

The shouts grew more vehement and more threatening.

“Give way to Vespasian, you fool! Get out of the city now, while you can!”

“To Hades with the Flavians! Cut off their heads and send them to Vespasian with a catapult!”

Vitellius came to a decision. He turned to Asiaticus and said something. Asiaticus turned to the prefect of the Praetorians and pointed at the Flavians in the crowd below.

“No!” whispered Epaphroditus. “This can’t be happening! What is Vitellius thinking?”

The Praetorians drew their swords and rushed down the steps. The Flavians had come prepared for a fight; almost all of them carried daggers or cudgels inside their togas. Vitellius’s supporters were also armed.

Amid the screams and shouts, Lucius and Epaphroditus looked for a way to escape, but the crowd surged around them, knocking them this way and that. They were soon separated. Screams came from all around and from underfoot: men were being trampled to death by the mob. Lucius frantically searched for Epaphroditus, without success, but some distance away he caught a glimpse of Domitian. His long hair was now in disarray, hanging in tangles over his eyes and making him look like a wild man. Domitian was shouting, but amid the uproar Lucius couldn’t make out his words. The Flavians rallied to shield him on all sides.

From the corner of his eye, Lucius caught sight of Epaphroditus, who had reached the steps of a nearby temple and was fleeing inside for safety.

He looked again at Domitian, who was waving a sword with one hand and pointing with the other. Lucius still couldn’t hear him, but the gesture was unmistakable. Domitian was signaling a retreat. The battle was going badly for the Flavians.

An elbow struck him hard in the back. Lucius staggered forward. He turned and saw Asiaticus. The man’s face was covered with blood – whether his own or someone else’s, Lucius couldn’t tell. He brandished a bloody sword.

“Either fight or get out of the way, Pinarius!”

Lucius managed to stagger to the edge of the crowd and looked up at the entrance of the Golden House. Vitellius was peering down, pressing his fingertips together as he assessed the progress of the battle. Galeria stood beside him, shaking her head. Germanicus was jumping up and down, clapping his hands in excitement.

Above and beyond them loomed the gigantic statue of Nero. Crowned by sunbeams, his face looked utterly serene.

“Do you realize where we are?” said Epictetus.

The slave stroked his long beard and gazed at the amazing collection of precious objects that cluttered the vast room – Galeria’s doing, no doubt – then limped across the black marble floor and onto the broad balcony. He shaded his eyes against the bright, milky sunlight. “This must be the place where Vitellius watched the Temple of Jupiter burn, the day he unleashed his guards on the Flavians. You can see the whole of the Capitoline Hill from here. The ruins are still smouldering.”

They were high on the Palatine Hill in a part of the imperial complex Lucius had never before visited; this wing had originally been built by Tiberius and was later refurbished and incorporated into the Golden House by Nero. Between Epaphroditus’s apartments and these chambers they had encountered not a single armed guard. Except for a few looters seen at a distance and some panic-stricken slaves, the only people they had encountered were a gang of street urchins who had broken into a storeroom and gorged themselves on Vitellius’s private stock of wine. Lucius had been briefly alarmed when the boys brandished daggers and shouted threats, then fell in a drunken heap on the floor, giggling helplessly.

Lucius and Epaphroditus joined Epictetus on the balcony. Over on the Capitoline, the columns of the Temple of Jupiter still stood, but the roof was gone and the walls had collapsed. Smoke rose from the jumble of charred beams and fallen stones.

“The Flavians thought they’d be safe there, barricaded inside with Jupiter to protect them,” said Epaphroditus. “At worst, they must have thought Vitellius would surround the temple and hold them for ransom. That would have been a logical thing for him to do, to keep Vespasian’s son and the other Flavians hostage while he bargained for his own survival. I’m sure they never imagined that Vitellius would set the temple on fire. His own men balked at the order. They say Vitellius took a torch and some kindling and started the fire himself.”

“So Vitellius did what Nero was accused of doing: he set fire to his own city!” said Lucius.

“Thank the gods the fire didn’t spread,” said Epaphroditus. “In this chaos there’d be no one to put it out. Who knows what’s become of the vigiles?”

“They’re probably rioting and looting like everyone else in the city,” said Epictetus. He reached down to rub his bad leg. It seemed to Lucius that the slave’s limp was growing worse and that he was often in pain, yet he never said a word of complaint.

Epaphroditus gazed at the ruins. “While the temple went up in flames, Vitellius came here to watch the spectacle, and enjoyed yet another banquet. The burning of the temple and the slaughter of the Flavians was just another entertainment for him. The fire went on all night, as did the screams from inside.”

“I heard Domitian was killed in the fire along with the others,” said Lucius.

“I heard otherwise,” said Epictetus. “One of Vitellius’s scribes swore to me that he saw Domitian escape from the flames disguised as a priest of Isis. The mantle of his linen robe fell back for a moment and showed his hair; that’s how the slave recognized him. But before the scribe could tell Vitellius, Domitian lost himself in the crowd, so the slave kept his mouth shut. Vitellius thinks Domitian is dead.”

“He almost certainly is,” said Epaphroditus. “I wouldn’t put much store by the scribe’s story. Disguised as a priest of Isis, indeed! It’s rather far-fetched.”

“Not as far-fetched as an emperor of Roma setting fire to the Temple of Jupiter,” said Epictetus.

To that his master had no answer.

“Vitellius must regret that decision now,” said Lucius. “What’s that line from Seneca? ‘Such a deed, once done, can never be called back.’”

Epaphroditus nodded. “Yesterday he sent the Vestal virgins out to meet the approaching army, to plead for peace. They came back empty-handed. Then he assembled the senators, made a tearful speech, and offered the sword of the Divine Julius to them, one by one, to show his willingness to abdicate. No one would accept it.”

“Not one of them had the courage to take that sword and put an end to Vitellius!” said Epictetus bitterly.

“Like the rest of us, the senators are waiting to see how the thing plays out,” said Epaphroditus. “The last of Vitellius’s troops have defected. He may have some supporters left, but they’re hardly better than street gangs. Vespasian’s men crossed the Milvian Bridge this morning. The advance guard must be in the city already.”

“Today is the holiday of Saturnalia,” said Lucius, “but instead of slaves and masters changing places and everyone getting stinking drunk, we have a conquering army and the lowest rabble in Roma in a competition to ransack the city. Look over there, at the shopping arcade on the far side of the Forum. You can see dead bodies in the street.”

“And a woman being raped on a rooftop,” whispered Epictetus.

“And over there, towards the Subura, some sort of street battle is going on. People are watching from the tenement windows. They’re actually cheering, as if they were spectators at a gladiator show.”

“Probably gambling on the outcome,” said Epictetus.

The view from the balcony was like a scene from a nightmare. The more they watched, the more violence and bloodshed they saw. Chaos seemed to have spread everywhere. Lucius leaned over the parapet and saw with alarm that a group of armed soldiers was directly below them.

“We should leave the Golden House,” he said. “Anyone found here will be subject to retribution from Vespasian’s troops.”

“We’ll hardly be safer in the streets,” said Epaphroditus.

“We’ll take a cue from Domitian and disguise ourselves.”

“As priests of Isis?” Epaphroditus raised an eyebrow.

“We’ll put on common tunics, to make ourselves less conspicuous.”

“I fled the Golden House once before in such a disguise, with Nero. That day had a bad ending.”

“What choice do we have? It’s madness to stay here. We’ll make our way to my family’s house on the Palatine. It’s not far. Hilarion will have barricaded the door, but we’ll find some way to get in.”

Finding tunics to wear was not difficult. Finding a way to leave the Golden House proved more challenging. Vespasian’s men seemed to have converged on all the Palatine entrances at once. From every hallway that led south, east, or west they heard shouts and sounds of fighting.

They turned and headed north, taking one flight of stairs after another, heading for the courtyard of the Colossus. If they left by the main entrance, they would almost certainly be seen when they descended the broad steps to the Forum, but Lucius hoped that amid such grand spaces three men in simple tunics might escape notice. He touched the fascinum at this throat, then tucked it inside his tunic to hide the gleam of gold.

They reached the courtyard. With the Colossus of Nero looming over them, they hurried along the covered portico to the grand vestibule. They rounded a corner, only to discover that soldiers had already arrived at the entrance.

The soldiers glanced at them but took little notice. They were busy trying to break down a small door just inside the main entrance.

“That leads to the doorkeeper’s quarters,” said Epaphroditus. “What do they want in there?”

“It’s been barricaded from the inside,” shouted one of the soldiers, reporting to a superior officer. “But my men will break down the door any moment.”

The hinges gave way. The door was pulled outwards and thrown into the vestibule. Pieces of furniture – a couch, a mattress, a chair – had been stacked against it. These were pulled out into the vestibule as well. The way was clear.

The first soldier through the doorway was met by a huge dog. The snarling Molossian mastiff leaped onto the man’s chest, knocked him to the ground, and sank its fangs into his throat.

Blood was suddenly everywhere. Some of the soldiers slipped on it. The dog’s victim, unable to scream with his throat torn open, made a strange hissing sound. The growling mastiff refused to release him even when one of the soldiers poked a sword at its ribs. The officer pushed the men aside, raised his fist, and struck the dog’s head with the pommel of his sword, killing it with a single blow. The soldier on the ground was already dead.

The soldiers rushed into the doorkeeper’s quarters. A few moments later they brought out a man dressed as an imperial slave. The man was very tall and immensely fat. His hair was filthy and he had not shaved for several days, but Lucius recognized Vitellius at once.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” asked the officer.

Epictetus began to step forward. Epaphroditus pulled him back.

“I’m the doorkeeper,” said Vitellius, trying to pull free from the soldiers who gripped his fleshy arms. The motion caused a jingling noise. The officer ripped open Vitellius’s tunic. Underneath his protruding belly, an equally protruding girdle was cinched around his hips. The officer poked at it with his sword. The girdle burst open and golden coins poured out.

Some of the soldiers fell to their knees, scrambling for the coins.

The officer laughed. “Grovel for those coins if you want to, men, but I think we have something far more valuable here. This is the emperor Vitellius.”

“No! That’s not true!” Vitellius was drenched with sweat. He quivered from head to foot. He presented such a pathetic sight that the officer was suddenly doubtful.

Lucius stepped forward. Epaphroditus moved to stop him, but Lucius shook him off.

“This is Vitellius,” he said.

“Who are you, and how would you know?” said the officer.

“I’m Lucius Pinarius, the son of Senator Titus Pinarius, but that doesn’t matter. This craven mass of flesh is Aulus Vitellius and I can prove it.”

“How?”

“There’s something strapped to his leg.”

“So there is. Men, undo those wrappings. I suppose you can tell me what we’ll find, Lucius Pinarius?”

“Vitellius’s most precious possession, a relic he stole from the Shrine of Mars. Something he has no right to. Something he would never willingly be parted from.”

“It’s a sword, sir,” announced one of the men. “But not a regular sword. The blade’s covered with gold!”

“The sword of the Divine Julius!” The awestruck officer took the blade from the soldier. “So you are Vitellius. Deny it again and I’ll slice open your throat.” He pressed the edge of the sword against Vitellius’s neck.

Vitellius looked at the blade cross-eyed. “I have a secret,” he said. “A secret I can only reveal to Vespasian! Do you understand?”

“Oh, I think we understand,” said the officer. “Tie his arms behind his back. I’ll put the noose around his neck myself.”

The torn tunic clung to Vitellius’s flesh but the girdle had fallen away, so that only the folds of fat hanging from his belly shielded his genitals from view. The men laughed at his jiggling nakedness and the way he limped as they pulled him down the steps towards the Forum. The officer, elated by his catch, paid no more attention to Lucius or his companions.

Lucius felt that he had done enough and seen enough, but Epictetus would not be denied the chance to see what happened next. Lucius and Epaphroditus followed the lame slave, who followed the soldiers pulling Vitellius down the Sacred Way.

Word spread quickly. A mob gathered to watch, cheering and shouting, “Hail, Imperator!” as if they were witnessing a grotesque parody of a triumphal procession through the Forum.

“Hold up your head!” shouted the officer. “Look at the people when they salute you!” He pressed the point of the Divine Julius’s sword under Vitellius’s chin, forcing him to hold his head high. Criminals were taken to be punished in the same way, with their heads forced back so that they could not hide their faces. The point of the sword repeatedly jabbed the soft flesh. Streams of blood trickled down Vitellius’s throat and ran over his fleshy chest.

The mob pelted him with dung and garbage and hurled insults.

“Look how ugly you are!”

“As fat as a pig!”

“And see how he limps? One of his legs is bent.”

“Arsonist!”

“Pig!”

“You’re a dead man now!”

They arrived at the Capitoline Hill. Vitellius was dragged up the Gemonian Stairs to the Tullianum, the traditional place of execution for the enemies of Roma. While Vitellius blubbered and wept and begged for mercy, a fire was kindled.

“Have you no respect?” he cried out. “I was your emperor!”

In a fit of loyalty, one of Vitellius’s former soldiers broke from the crowd and rushed forward with his sword drawn. He stabbed Vitellius in the belly, meaning to put a quick end to him. The soldier was attacked by the mob and thrown down the stairs.

Vitellius’s wound was bound up to stop the bleeding. Men whose relatives had died in the temple conflagration were invited to heat irons and press them against Vitellius’s body. At first, he thrashed and screamed each time he was burned, but eventually the strength left his body and his screams turned to blubbering squeals, then to moans. Others preferred to prick him with knives, making small cuts so as not to kill him too quickly. The torture went on for a long time.

In the crowd, Lucius saw Domitian. The son of Vespasian was alive, after all. For a long time Domitian stayed back and watched, showing no emotion. Finally, when it seemed that everyone who wished to inflict punishment on Vitellius had been allowed to do so, Domitian stepped forward.

A soldier grabbed Vitellius’s hair and pulled his head back, shaking him until he opened his eyes. Vitellius gazed up at Domitian and opened his mouth, stupefied. The officer who had taken the sword of the Divine Julius handed it to Domitian, who gripped it with both hands. While soldiers held Vitellius in place, Domitian swung the sword.

Vitellius’s head flew through the air and tumbled down the Gemonian Stairs. The crowd cheered.

Clutching the bloody sword, Domitian was lifted onto the crowd’s shoulders. The head of Vitellius was placed on a pike and paraded through the Forum. The body of Vitellius – so burned and bloody that it was hardly recognizable as human – was dragged by a hook through the streets and thrown into the Tiber.

Lucius and his companions made their way to his house on the Palatine, where Hilarion and Lucius’s mother and sisters shed tears of joy at the sight of them.

Lucius tossed and turned all through the long midwinter night, unable to sleep. At the first glimmer of dawn he put on a tunic and left the house. The dim, chilly streets were deserted. He passed the ancient Hut of Romulus and descended the Stairs of Cacus. He stood for a while before the Great Altar of Hercules, thinking of his father and trying to make sense of all that had happened since his father had died.

He walked aimlessly for a while, then he found himself at the river- front. He followed the Tiber downstream, walking past the granaries and warehouses at the foot of the Aventine Hill. He came to the old Servian Wall and walked beside it all the way to the Appian Gate. He set out on the Appian Way, walking away from the city.

The rising sun sent slanting rays of red light across the tombs and shrines that lined the road, casting deep shadows. A short distance up the Appian Way, silhouetted by the rays of the sun, a cross had been erected near the road.

Crucifixion was the means of executing slaves. Amid the chaos of the previous day, who had bothered to carry out a crucifixion?

Lucius stepped closer. A man with a gladiator’s build was nailed to the cross. Lucius saw no movement, heard no sound. It could take days for a man to die on a cross. The gods had blessed this victim with a speedy death.

Lucius looked at the man’s face. Despite the uncertain light and the grimace that contorted the features, Titus recognized Asiaticus, the freedman of Vitellius.

Asiaticus had been a member of the equestrian order, legally immune from crucifixion. Those who had killed him in such a manner deliberately meant to degrade him. Lucius glanced at Asiaticus’s hand. The gold ring had been taken from his finger.

Lucius saw something in the grass nearby. He stepped closer. It was the lifeless body of a child dressed in a shabby tunic and a threadbare cloak. The head was twisted at an unnatural angle: the child’s neck had been broken. Lucius circled the body and looked at the face. It was Vitellius’s son, Germanicus. The boy must have been fleeing the city in disguise, with Asiaticus as his protector.

The sunlight grew stronger. The grey, shapeless world began to take on color and substance, but Lucius still felt surrounded by darkness.

Vitellius had been the most despicable man Lucius had ever met. Asiaticus had been a vile creature, and Lucius certainly had felt no affection for Vitellius’s son. Yet none of these deaths gave him pleasure. His reaction was the opposite. Witnessing the end of Vitellius had filled him with horror. Discovering the dead bodies of Asiaticus and Germanicus made him feel a dull ache of sorrow.

Why did he feel so empty, and so unsatisfied? Sporus had been his friend. Now the death of Sporus was avenged. Was that not what Lucius wanted?

And yet, Sporus herself had not been innocent in the long chain of horrors leading to this moment. If her confession was true, she had been responsible to some degree for the death of Lucius’s father. And Lucius’s father had not been innocent, either. As a senator and an augur, Titus Pinarius had been complicit in the acts that had led so many to clamour for the death of Nero.

The events of the previous day were as appalling as anything Lucius had ever witnessed. Yet, as far as he could see, the chain of crimes and atrocities that had led to this day had no beginning and would have no end.

He realized that he was clutching the fascinum. He held it so that it caught the sunlight. The gold glittered so brightly that it hurt Lucius’s eyes to look at it.

Did the god Fascinus exist? Had he ever existed?

Lucius’s glimmer of doubt was followed by a quiver of superstitious fear. The protection of Fascinus might be the only reason why Lucius was still alive, and not hanging on a cross like Asiaticus.

Lucius was alive, but towards what end? What was the point of living in such a world?

He returned to the road and walked back to the city.