Текст книги "Empire"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

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.