Empire (42 page)

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 red-and-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 honor 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 honor 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 toward 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 toward 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, disheveled 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 disheveled 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. “ ‘I 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.