Текст книги "Empire"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

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?