Текст книги "Empire"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

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.”