
Текст книги "Empire"
Автор книги: Steven Saylor
Жанр:
Исторические приключения
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Текущая страница: 34 (всего у книги 45 страниц)
Lucius shrugged. “Perhaps, if the day predicted draws close, Caesar should summon this astrologer and order him to cast his horoscope again.”
“The astrologer is long dead.”
“So the man can neither be punished if his prediction proves false, nor rewarded if his prediction proves correct.”
Catullus grunted. “You twist words like Apollonius of Tyana!”
“You flatter me, Catullus. But surely there are other astrologers whom Caesar can consult.”
“He did so. Ascletarion, whom Caesar had never consulted before, cast Caesar’s horoscope afresh. The astrologer made no specific predictions, but what he had to say was unsettling nonetheless. Because of a conjunction of the stars, the beneficent influence of Minerva, the goddess whom Caesar most venerates, is waning. According to Ascletarion, Minerva’s protection will be weakest on the very day that was predicted for his death. Naturally, Caesar was alarmed. To relieve his anxiety, he decided to test the man’s skill. He asked if Ascletarion could predict the manner of his own end, to which the astrologer replied, ‘Yes, Dominus; I will be torn apart by dogs.’”
Lucius almost laughed aloud. “Could it be that Ascletarion feared the ill-tempered emperor was inclined to throw him to the dogs in the arena, and thought to save himself by predicting that very thing, knowing Caesar would then not dare to do so?”
Catullus grimaced. “If the astrologer outwitted anyone, it was himself. Caesar ordered the astrologer to be strangled to death, then and there. I watched him die a most unpleasant death, and thought: so much for his powers of prediction. Caesar ordered me to arrange the man’s funeral rites that very afternoon, so that his body might be disposed of quickly. But, though the day had been clear, a storm blew up. A deluge extinguished the flames before the body was consumed. A pack of wild dogs appeared. Before anyone could stop them, they bolted onto the pyre and tore the corpse to pieces.”
Lucius shook his head. “So Ascletarion’s prediction was correct. For their sake, I hope Caesar has sought the advice of no more astrologers.”
“His attention is currently fixed upon a soothsayer from one of the Germanic tribes, a man named Eberwig. Caesar summoned him all the way from Colonia Agrippina on the strength of the man’s reputed knowledge of lightning. As the art of lightning reading has declined among the Romans, it seems to have been taken up by the Germans. Even now the man is making a thorough study of all the lightning strikes that have taken place in recent months, charting their location and frequency. Eberwig will deliver his report to Caesar today.”
“This is all very fascinating,” said Lucius. “But what has any of this to do with me? Why am I here?”
“When he cannot sleep at night, Caesar reads; and of late, Caesar hardly sleeps at all, which means he reads a great deal. His current fascination is the reign of Tiberius, whose career he finds of great interest. Far into the night Caesar pores over documents from the reign of his predecessor. Secretaries are sent to fetch this document or that. Among Tiberius’s private journals, Caesar has come across a mention of your grandfather, who was also named Lucius Pinarius. You are aware that he was an augur?”
“As was my father.”
“Yes. Your father performed auguries for both the Divine Claudius and for Nero. But before that, your grandfather was known to Tiberius, and to Claudius, and even to the Divine Augustus.”
Lucius’s father had spoken little of his own father, whose exile to Alexandria he considered a chapter of the family’s history better forgotten. “I know that my grandfather was a friend of his cousin Claudius. And I know he ran afoul of Tiberius, who banished him from Roma. But that had nothing to do with augury, or with lightning. It’s my understanding that my grandfather’s troubles stemmed from dabbling in astrology at a time when Tiberius was banning all astrologers.”
“Yes, that’s correct. But before that, when the Divine Augustus was still alive, he called upon your father to interpret a lightning strike which occurred in the old imperial palace. Did your grandfather never tell you the story?”
“I never knew my grandfather, and my father never mentioned such a story.”
“Amazing, how families fail to pass on the most interesting tales about themselves! Yet I assure you, in his private journal, Tiberius gives all the pertinent details. There was a lighting strike. Augustus called upon your grandfather to interpret the omen. Your grandfather told Augustus that the strike meant he had exactly one hundred days to live. And when the hundredth day arrived, Augustus died.”
“This has the ring of a legend.”
“Tiberius recounts it as a fact, and Domitian accepts it as such.”
“Again I ask, what has this to do with me?”
“Just as the Divine Augustus was convinced, correctly, that your father was the man to interpret that lightning strike, so our Caesar has become convinced that you, the grandson of Lucius Pinarius, are the man who can determine the significance of this current plague of lightning. Why else have the gods inspired Caesar to spare your life when he had every reason to snuff it out, not once but twice? Caesar now sees that you were fated for this task.”
Lucius was about to dismiss the idea as nonsense, then realized that Flavia must have known that this was the reason Domitian was summoning him to the palace. Catullus was offering Lucius a means to enter the emperor’s presence and perhaps even to gain his confidence. How could such a charade lead to the result that he and Flavia mutually desired? That he could not foresee, but he knew that Flavia would want him to cooperate with Catullus.
“You realize that I’m not an augur, like my father and grandfather?” he said.
“Yes. But your father actively practised the science for Nero while you were growing up. You must have learned something about it simply from observing him.”
Just enough, Lucius thought, to perform a mock augury himself, if he had to, without looking completely foolish. “Yes, I saw the ritual performed many times. I know how it’s done.”
“And your father must have confided certain secrets of the science to you – the tricks of his trade?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. He liked talking about augury. I suppose he had hopes that I would follow his example one day and become an augur myself.” Lucius recalled the last time he had seen his father. On the day Titus Pinarius left the house to join Nero on his final flight, he took his second-best lituus with him, and left the family heirloom, the beautiful old ivory lituus of their ancestors, for Lucius, who had hardly looked at it since that day and had done nothing to pursue the study of augury. The old lituus was still in his possession, kept in a chest of keepsakes in the vestibule of his house, just under the niche that held the wax mask of his father.
“Caesar wishes you to take the auspices,” said Catullus. “He wants you to observe the skies for lightning and to give him your interpretation, not as a member of the college of augurs but as the grandson and namesake of Lucius Pinarius.”
“Here? Now?”
“Why not? The day is stormy, with no lack of lightning.”
“This seems most irregular. Isn’t Caesar’s German soothsayer already at work to interpret the lightning?”
“Caesar will listen to both of you, and compare your findings. Will you do this or not?”
“What if I refuse?”
“That is not the answer I’m looking for.”
Lucius took a deep breath. “I’ll do what Caesar asks.”
Without an assistant to guide him, using only his staff, the blind man led Lucius across the small, sodden garden and then through a series of hallways. Their destination was a gravel courtyard surrounded by a low portico. Lucius recognized the Auguratorium; he had seen his father take the auspices in this place, which had once been situated outside the imperial palace but was now completely enclosed within the House of the Flavians.
Under a nearby portico, shielded from the drizzling rain and surrounded by courtiers, sat Domitian, who looked up at their arrival. Lucius suddenly felt unsure of himself. To perform a religious travesty for a man he wanted dead, Lucius could hardly look to the Teacher for inspiration.
To stall for time, he told Catullus that he would need the lituus of his ancestors.
“Surely any lituus will do,” said Catullus.
“No, it must be the ivory lituus I keep with my father’s things. I’ll have to go home and get it.”
“No, you’ll stay right here. Someone will fetch it for you.”
A nearby courtier, overhearing, stepped forward. He was a middle-aged man with bristling eyebrows and a neatly trimmed beard. “I’ll go for it,” the man said.
“Very well, Stephanus,” said Catullus. Lucius’s ears pricked up at the name. “Pinarius will tell you where to find it while I explain the delay to Caesar.”
As soon Catullus was out of earshot, Lucius whispered, “I heard your name spoken earlier today, before I came here.”
Stephanus nodded. “Ten days hence,” he said quietly, barely moving his lips.
Lucius wrinkled his brow. What was the man talking about?
“Ten days hence,” Stephanus repeated. “Fourteen days before the Kalends of Domitianus, at the fifth hour of the day. Can you remember that?”
Lucius stared at him blankly for a moment, then nodded. “Yes,” he said, in a normal tone of voice. “I keep it in an antique chest in the vestibule, just under the wax mask of my father. You can’t mistake it – a beautiful old thing, made of solid ivory. My freedman Hilarion will help you find it.”
“Then I’m off,” said Stephanus. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”
Domitian was not pleased by the delay. He strummed his fingers against the arms of his chair. He tapped his foot nervously. He glared at Lucius. He muttered something to Catullus.
Catullus shook his head. “Dominus, surely it would be better to wait until after-”
“Fetch him now!” said Domitian. “And take Pinarius elsewhere, until he’s ready for the augury.”
As Lucius was led away, he passed a man wearing such an outlandish costume that he looked like a parody of a German, with a huge mane of red hair and a bristling red beard, fur boots on his feet, tanned leggings, and a tightly laced leather vest that left bare much of his broad, hairy chest. His bare arms were decorated with bracelets that were fashioned as coiling dragons and covered with runes.
Lucius was shown to a small waiting room and left alone. He spied a grated window high in one wall. He stood on a chair. If he peered to one side, looking down the length of the portico, he could see most of the imperial party, including Domitian, and he could hear everything that was said.
Catullus spoke to a translator. “You will tell Eberwig that Caesar is ready for him to deliver his report.”
The translator spoke to Eberwig. The German replied to the translator at length.
Domitian leaned forward impatiently. “What is he saying?”
The translator looked uneasy. “He says, if he should deliver news to Caesar which displeases Caesar, what will become of him?”
“Tell him to speak,” said Domitian. “As long as he tells the truth, he’ll receive his reward and remain unharmed. But if he doesn’t speak at once, I’ll have him strangled.”
The translator and Eberwig conferred at length. At last the translator addressed Domitian in a quavering voice. “Dominus, the soothsayer declares that he has examined all the evidence of the lightning strikes most scrupulously and he is convinced that he has reached a correct interpretation. He says that the frequency and location of the strikes foretell an imminent change at the very highest level of power. He says that this can only mean… yourself.”
“Speak clearly.”
“He says that very soon there will be a new emperor in Roma.”
Domitian sat back, nervous ly picking at something on his forehead. “When?”
“He cannot say exactly. But very soon.”
“A matter of months?”
The translator questioned Eberwig. “Not months, Dominus. Days.”
There was a flash of lightning, followed by thunder.
“Take him away,” said Domitian.
Eberwig protested. The translator cleared his throat. “He says, what of his reward?”
“If his prophecy comes true, let him seek his payment from my successor!” snapped Domitian. “Now take him away and keep him under close guard.”
An uneasy silence followed. Eventually Stephanus appeared, slightly out of breath from running. Lucius was brought back to the courtyard. Stephanus stepped forward and handed him the lituus.
There could be no more delaying. Lucius took a deep breath. He looked at the lituus in his hands. He had not touched it in many years. What a lovely thing it was, with all its intricate carvings of birds and beasts!
As he had seen his father do many times when he was a boy, Lucius gazed up at the skies and marked out a zone for his augury. The sky was cooperative: almost at once a flash of lightning rent the dark clouds to the north, and then another. Lucius waited awhile longer and was rewarded by a third flash of lightning, so close that it illuminated the whole courtyard with a spectral blue light. It was followed by a tremendous clap of thunder that made everyone jump except Lucius, whose thoughts were focused entirely on what he was about to say.
He turned and faced Domitian. “The augury is done, Dominus.”
“So quickly?”
“The signs are unmistakable.”
“And?”
“There is to be a great change. A change so great it will affect the whole world. The change will be sudden, not gradual. It will happen in a single moment – like a thunderclap.”
“When?”
“The signs are very clear about that – unusually so. By counting the branches of all three strikes and observing their relationship to the main trunks of lightning, an exact number of days and hours from this moment can be calculated. The event will take place-”
“Not out loud, you fool!” snapped Domitian. “Whisper it in my ear.”
Lucius approached the emperor. He had never been so close to the man before. He was close enough to smell his breath, and to know that he had eaten onions recently. He was close enough to see a black hair that grew out of one nostril, and a wart on the man’s forehead. He was close enough to kill him, if he’d had a weapon. He fought back the revulsion he felt and spoke in Domitian’s ear.
“Exactly ten days hence, during the fifth hour of the day.”
Domitian calculated the date. “Fourteen days before the Kalends, in the hour before noon. You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
Domitian gripped Lucius’s wrist, squeezing it painfully hard. “You will return here on that day, Lucius Pinarius. You will be with me during that hour. If your prediction is false – if you’re playing some trick on me – I’ll see you strangled at my feet. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Dominus.”
“You will speak of this to no one.”
“As you wish, Dominus.”
Domitian released him. The emperor sat back, nervously picking at the wart on his forehead with one hand and making a curt gesture of dismissal with the other. Guards escorted Lucius from the courtyard, through the palace, and all the way back to his house. One of the guards, he noticed, took up a post across the street from his door. His comings and goings were to be carefully watched, and no one could call on him without being observed. He could expect no further visits from Flavia Domitilla.
That night he wrote a coded letter to Apollonius, telling him of the day’s events – his summons to the palace, the nervous demeanour of Domitian, and the sham augury, which he described in detail. Where was Apollonius now? Nerva would know. When he was done, Lucius would dispatch Hilarion to take the letter to an intermediary who would take it to Nerva. They never communicated directly.
Lucius finished the letter with the customary closing of “Farewell,” and felt a chill as he wrote the word.
On the morning of the fourteenth day before the Kalends of Domitianus, the month previously known as October, Praetorian Guards arrived at the house of Lucius Pinarius.
Lucius was ready for them, dressed in his best toga. He had slept surprisingly well the night before. He rose at daybreak and wrote farewell letters to his old friends Dio and Epictetus, and even an affectionate message to Martial. Hilarion stood by, unsuspecting. Lucius had told him nothing about his visit to the palace; the less Hilarion knew, the better for him. What a dreary morning this would have been, had Hilarion suspected that Lucius would be dead before midday. Instead, Hilarion was in a cheerful mood, and kept exhorting him to eat something, unable to understand why Lucius had no appetite.
Lucius took a stroll through his garden. The sky was overcast but not stormy. The garden was usually dull and dreary at this time of year, but all the recent rain had kept everything quite green. At the centre of the garden stood the statue of Melancomas he had inherited from Epaphroditus. It had arrived just the day before, and Lucius had insisted that the workmen install it at once. Like Epaphroditus, he chose to display the statue not on a pedestal but at ground level. It was a pity, Lucius thought, that he would have so little time to enjoy it.
When the Praetorians arrived, Hilarion was quite flustered. Lucius assured him that all would be well, and Hilarion seemed to believe him, until Lucius told him about the letters in his study, to be delivered in the event that he failed to return. Hilarion began to weep. Lucius embraced him, then left with the Praetorians.
He was led farther into the palace than he had ever been led before. The reception room where Domitian awaited him appeared to be attached to the emperor’s private bed chamber, for through an open door Lucius glimpsed an unmade bed piled with richly embroidered pillows and coverlets. On this morning, the emperor was not stirring far from the place where he felt most secure.
At the far end of the small reception room was a dais where Domitian sat on a chair, attended only by Catullus and the small-headed creature. There was also a water clock on the dais, a beautifully made device that used a dial to indicate the hours of the day. The dial was very nearly touching the numeral for the fifth hour of the day.
A balcony to one side admitted weak daylight from the overcast sky. Lucius instinctively took a closer look at the balcony, wondering if it might provide a means of escape, but the room was located on one of the palace’s uppermost floors. The balcony looked down on a garden several stories below.
“Take off your clothes,” said Domitian.
Lucius sighed. “Dominus, I‘ve already been searched for weapons. Your guards did a thorough job.”
“I didn’t ask if you’d been searched. I told you to take off your clothes. All of them!”
Lucius did as he had been ordered. He felt no embarrassment. Instead, he felt a kind of freedom, as he had felt when he stood naked before the emperor and all of Roma in the amphitheatre.
Domitian sent the small-headed creature to look through Lucius’s discarded toga and undergarments to make sure they contained no weapons, then sucked in a sharp breath when he noticed the fascinum on the chain around Lucius’s neck. “That amulet! You always wear it, don’t you? And no harm ever befalls you.”
“That is not true, Dominus. I’ve suffered harm. Those closest to me are all dead or banished, because of you.”
“But you still live. Is it because of the amulet? Give it to me!” Domitian’s wide eyes were bloodshot and his face was haggard. He looked as if he had not slept for days.
Lucius lifted the chain over his neck. The small-headed creature snatched it from him and scurried to the dais. Domitian put the chain over his head and touched the fascinum, which nestled amid the folds of his purple robes. “Yes,” he whispered, “I can feel its power. Let it protect me today, blessed Minerva! And let this man’s presence protect me.
“My presence, Dominus?”
“Are you not a magician, Lucius Pinarius, like that accursed teacher of yours? There can be no doubt that some protective magic clings to you. That sort of thing rubs off on others. Today, I intend to keep you close at hand, until the fatal hour passes.”
Lucius smiled at the idea that he himself might be a sort of lucky charm. He was also struck by the curious reversal of their roles. Once he had stood before the emperor, a condemned man; now the emperor sat before him, convinced that he was the one facing death. Lucius had found peace when he confronted almost certain destruction, but Domitian was growing more agitated by the moment.
The small-headed creature gave a shriek and pointed to the water clock. The dial had touched the numeral V.
“Make sure the door is locked!” shouted Domitian. Catullus, who could move about the familiar room like a sighted man, stepped from the dais, strode past Lucius, and tested the door.
“Might I put on my clothes, Dominus?” said Lucius. “There’s a draft from the balcony.”
Domitian grunted and waved his hand.
Time passed with excruciating slowness. Lucius did not know what he had expected, but it was not this endless tedium. Was there not to be an attempt on the emperor’s life? What part was Lucius expected to play? Or was he simply to wait here until Domitian did or did not die, and then to die himself? It took all his presence of mind simply to stand in the middle of the room and show no emotion, as the time slowly passed.
Domitian fidgeted and sighed. His stomach growled. “Did you hear that, Lucius Pinarius? I’ve eaten nothing since yesterday morning.”
“Do you fear poison, Dominus?”
“It’s not poison that will kill me. I fear some drug that might render me unconscious and vulnerable. I’m hungry!”
“My stomach, too, is empty, Dominus.”
“Is it? I set aside some apples I was given yesterday, for my midday meal today – if I should live until then. They’re in the bowl on the table by my bed. Fetch one, Catullus, and give it to Lucius Pinarius. We’ll see if it makes him sick.”
Catullus brought him an apple. Lucius bit into the crisp flesh. Domitian watched him eat and began to salivate, so copiously that he had to wipe the drool from his lips. When Lucius was done, Domitian told him to get rid of the core by tossing it to the garden below. Lucius stepped onto the balcony. He dropped the apple core and watched it fall a great distance. Looking down made Lucius dizzy. The apple core struck and bounced off a large sundial in the garden below. The dial was an iron triangle set in a round stone pedestal. The day was too overcast for the dial to cast a shadow.
Lucius turned and looked at the water clock on the dais. The hour was almost done.
Domitian continued to fidget. He tugged at his chin and cracked his knuckles. He picked at the wart on his forehead. Suddenly, blood appeared on fingers. He gave a cry of alarm, then realized that it came from the wart. “Minerva, let this be the only blood I spill today!”
His cry brought a knock at the door. “Dominus, is something wrong?”
“Never mind, Parthenius,” called Domitian. “All’s well. But look, the clock has reached the sixth hour! It’s done! The hour has passed, and no harm came to me. Unlock the door and let him in, Catullus.”
The chamberlain Parthenius entered the room. Behind him, in chains and flanked by guards, was the German soothsayer, Eberwig.
“What do you say now, soothsayer?” demanded Domitian.
Eberwig muttered something, but there was no one present to translate. The guards pulled him to his knees.
“Strangle the fool,” said Domitian.
One of the guards wrapped a chain around the man’s neck and twisted it. Eberwig turned a dark shade of crimson. His eyes bulged and his tongue protruded. Domitian sat back in his chair, smiling. He appeared to take great pleasure from watching the man die.
The guards dragged the corpse from the room. Parthenius followed them. Lucius stayed where he was, on the balcony. By a great application of will, he had managed to remain calm for the last hour. Now his body began to exhibit signs of panic. His heart raced. His palms turned clammy. Sweat erupted on his forehead.
Did Domitian intend to kill him, as he had killed the German soothsayer? For the moment, the emperor was distracted. He told Catullus to bring him the bowl of apples from the bedroom. As the blind courtier walked by the balcony, Lucius held his breath, fearful of drawing the man’s attention. Catullus returned with the apples and Domitian began to eat ravenously, consuming one after another.
Parthenius reappeared. “The steward Stephanus wishes to see you, Dominus.”
“I’ll see no one,” said Domitian. “As soon as I finish these apples, I’ll retire to my private bath.”
“Stephanus is most insistent. He says it’s very important, Dominus. He says he has urgent information about a plot against you.”
“A failed plot, you mean! I’m still alive!” Domitian laughed. “But show him in. Perhaps he has names for me. Wait! Has he been searched for weapons?”
“Of course, Dominus. No one comes before you without being thoroughly searched.”
“Go ahead then, show him in.”
Lucius’s heart sank. The hour predicted for Domitian’s death had come and gone, and now he knew why: Stephanus had betrayed them. Poor Flavia; this would be the end of her. Would Domitian allow her children to live? Probably not. Lucius gazed over the parapet of the balcony, wondering if death by falling would be preferable to strangulation. He felt a sudden urge to flee, but the balcony was much too high. If only he could disappear, like Apollonius, in a puff of smoke!
The clouds had begun to break. A warm shaft of sunlight touched his face. The sky itself seemed to be smiling on the emperor’s deliverance.
Stephanus entered the room. Before he could speak, Domitian waved him aside. He called to Catullus and pulled him close.
“I’d almost forgotten about Pinarius,” Lucius heard the emperor say in a low voice. “What shall I do with him?”
“Whatever pleases you, Dominus,” Catullus said.
While waiting to be called on, Stephanus joined Lucius on the balcony. In his right hand he clutched a rolled document. Was this the incriminating list, and was Lucius’s name on it? Lucius noticed that the man’s left forearm was wrapped in bandages.
“A boar’s tusk can inflict a very nasty wound,” Stephanus explained, keeping his voice low. “It happened when I was out hunting a few days ago. Would you believe the guards made me unwrap the whole thing the first day I came here wearing it? Once they saw the blood and the oozing gash, they were satisfied. I think it made them a bit queasy. Since then, whenever I come, they search me like everyone else – but they never make me take off the bandages.”
Domitian finished his conversation with Catullus and called to Stephanus. The steward hurried to the dais, while Catullus backed away.
“Dominus,” said Stephanus, “the moment this document entered my hands, I headed directly here.”
“What is it?”
“A list of names, Dominus. When you see them, I think you’ll be shocked.”
Catullus stepped towards the balcony. Lucius moved as far from the man as he could. Again he gazed over the parapet. A shaft of sunlight stuck the sundial far below. Something was not right. Lucius squinted and peered more closely at the sundial. The shadow cast by the dial indicated not the sixth hour of the day – shadowless noon – but the fifth hour.
Lucius looked at the water clock. Without a doubt, the clock indicated the sixth hour. The water clock was in error. Someone had changed its settings.
Stephanus extended the document to Domitian, who unrolled it and stared at it. He scowled. “What is this? All I see is a list of provincial magistrates. What has this to do-”
Quickly, deftly, Stephanus loosened the bandages around his left forearm and reached inside. He pulled out a dagger and lunged for the emperor. Because of Domitian’s elevated position on the dais, Stephanus fell short of stabbing the man’s heart. His blade struck Domitian’s groin.
Domitian bellowed in pain. He struck Stephanus across the face. The steward staggered back, clutching the bloody dagger. Domitian bolted forward. The throne tumbled backwards. The small-headed creature shrieked and scrambled out of the way. Domitian grappled with Stephanus.
“My knife!” Domitian cried. “The one I keep beneath my pillow – bring it to me!”
The creature scurried past Catullus, striking him with his elbow and knocking him farther onto the balcony, where he almost collided with Lucius before grabbing the parapet to steady himself. The creature ran into the bed chamber and a moment later emerged with a stricken look on his face. He held a scabbard in one hand and in the other a hilt that had no blade. Someone had substituted a false dagger for the one Domitian kept under his pillow.
Other courtiers entered the room. They swarmed over Domitian, who roared and put up a tremendous struggle, like a lion attacked by dogs.
“What’s happening?” cried Catullus. “Dominus, how can I help you?”
Suddenly, the blind man realized that Lucius was next to him. He snarled like an animal and lunged for him. The accuracy of the man’s aim and the ferocity of his attack took Lucius by surprise. While Domitian struggled with the courtiers, Lucius and Catullus wrestled on the balcony.
Catullus used his sharp fingernails to gouge at Lucius’s eyes and nose, and sank his teeth into Lucius’s arm. Lucius seized the man’s wrists and tried to immobilize him, but Catullus was too strong. The best Lucius could manage was to push the man to one side, towards the parapet. Almost before Lucius knew what was happening, Catullus went tumbling over. With a bloodcurdling scream, Catullus plummeted to the garden below.
Lucius heard a sickening sound of impact and looked over the parapet. Face-up, with his limbs outstretched, Catullus was impaled on the metal blade of the sundial. His body was broken nearly in two. His mouth gaped open and his eyes glittered. His limbs flailed horribly for a moment, then fell limp.
Lucius realized that the room behind him had fallen silent, except for the sound of men gasping for breath. The struggle was over. Stephanus stepped beside him, throwing back his head to exult in the sunshine on his face. His hair was dishevelled and his torn clothes were covered with blood.