Текст книги "Empire"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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

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

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

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

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

The man hesitated. “If Caesar needs assistance-”

“Ride on, I said!”

The Praetorian kicked his heels against his mount and departed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I need to rest!” cried Nero.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Titus dozed.

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Sporus ran inside.

“How did he find us?” asked Phaon.

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

“What news?” said Epaphroditus.

Sporus looked at Nero and seemed afraid to speak.

“What news?” cried Nero.

“The Senate took a vote.”

“Yes?” Nero’s voice was shrill.

“They declared Galba emperor.”

Nero gasped. “And me? What of me?”

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

“The ancient manner?” said Nero.

“That’s was what Epictetus told me.”

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

Epaphroditus did not answer.

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

Nero let out a cry.

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

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

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

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

“What are you saying, Pinarius?”

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

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

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

“What, Caesar?” said Epaphroditus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Epaphroditus handed him the knife.

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

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

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

“Help me!” he whimpered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Titus gripped Epaphroditus by the wrist.

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

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

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

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.”