Empire (39 page)

“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 doorless, windowless 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 under ground. 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 practicing 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 moldering 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 performance 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 hoofbeats.

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 toward 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 honored 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.