The light glinting off the radiant crown of gilded sunbeams was blinding.
“You’ll come with me, Pinarius?”
It was a question, not an order. Titus was touched. “Of course, Caesar.”
“And you, Epaphroditus? And you, Phaon? And of course you, Sabina. Dear Sabina!” Nero opened his arms wide.
Sporus hesitated for a moment, then extricated himself from the encircling arm of Epictetus. He walked to Nero with eyes downcast and allowed himself to be embraced. Nero tenderly touched his fingertips to the bruises on the eunuch’s face and stroked his golden hair.
Epictetus went to the slave quarters to fetch clothing. The others retired to a private chamber off the courtyard. Behind a screen, Nero stripped off his purple-and-gold robes and removed his jewel-encrusted slippers. Titus took off his trabea. Epaphroditus and Phaon shed the elegant robes that marked them as freedmen of the imperial household. Sporus, with a woman’s modesty, went to another room to remove his stola and make-up and to let down his hair.
Epictetus arrived with their clothing. Nero made a face at the sight of the patched tunic, the faded cloak, and the flimsy shoes he was expected to wear, and seemed about to change his mind. Then he laughed.
“I shall pretend we’re doing Plautus – The Pot of Gold, perhaps? – with myself as the downtrodden slave. Comedy is a stretch for me; tragedy is my strength. But an artist must be willing to expand his repertoire.”
The coarse woolen tunic felt scratchy against Titus’s skin. He shuddered at the thought that Nero was being subjected to the indignity of wearing such clothes, but took strength from the emperor’s indomitable sense of humour.
Sporus appeared. In a plain tunic and with the make-up scrubbed from his face and the pins removed from his hair, he looked as much like a boy as a girl, despite his long blonde tresses. Epictetus put a hooded cloak over the eunuch’s shoulders. Sporus pulled the hood over his head, concealing his hair and obscuring his face.
Epictetus brought horses from the stable. The best had been taken already, and others had wandered off. Titus’s heart sank at the sight of the nag he was expected to ride, but Nero laughed.
“Mounts to suit our disguises!” he said. “Who would recognize the world’s greatest charioteer sitting astride such a pathetic creature?”
“Still, Caesar, I think you should hide your face,” said Epaphroditus. Epictetus produced a cloth and tied it around Nero’s head, pulling it low over his forehead to shadow his eyes.
“You’ll have me wearing an eye patch next!” said Nero.
Epictetus had also brought daggers for each of them. When the slave handed one of the weapons to Nero, careful to select the best, the emperor stared at the dagger with a strange expression, then threw it to the ground and refused to look at it again.
Epaphroditus gave orders to Epictetus to stay behind and listen for news of Galba’s progress and the outcome of the Senate’s debate. “As soon as you know anything of importance, follow after us as quickly as you can. Come yourself. No one else can be trusted.”
The slave shambled off, limping badly. Nero barked out a laugh. “A lame messenger! Surely this is a comedy, for no tragic playwright would resort to such a stale device. Well, let us be off!”
They mounted their horses, such as they were, and set out with Phaon leading the way. Titus decided to bring up the rear. He had to wait for Sporus, who lingered behind, looking over his shoulder at Epictetus until the limping slave disappeared from sight.
The streets were deserted except for a few skulking loners and roving groups of drunkards whom they saw at a distance. Titus frequently looked over his shoulder but saw no sign that they were being followed. Behind them, the colossal statue of Nero dominated the skyline but grew smaller and smaller as they made their way to the Colline Gate. A few soldiers were manning the wall but paid no attention to the ragged group as they rode out of the city.
The route took them past the Praetorian garrison outside the walls. Discipline had vanished. Outside the garrison, soldiers sat on the ground in small groups, some in full armour and others stripped to their tunics, talking, drinking, and throwing dice. The men looked up as Nero’s little entourage passed by but took no notice.
Suddenly the earth beneath them shook. Titus’s mount shied and whinnied. The soldiers sitting on the ground felt the tremor more acutely than the party on horseback. Some of them scrambled to their feet, only to be thrown down again by the violent shaking.
As abruptly as it had begun, the earthquake ended. Titus regained control of his mount. He saw that Sporus was having trouble with his horse and rode alongside to help him.
One of the nearby soldiers cursed. “Numa’s balls! Look at the dice! I swear the ones I just threw were all different, but now they’re all ones!”
Another soldier laughed. “What a fool you are, Marcus! Do you think the gods sent an earthquake just to turn your Venus Throw to Dogs? That was a sign from the heavens, alright, but it wasn’t meant for you.”
“Who for, then?”
“For Nero, I reckon. They’ve had enough of that scoundrel. Maybe that tremor sent that huge statue of him tumbling to the ground, and the rest of the so-called Golden House with it!”
“Quiet, Gnaeus! You talking about the emperor.”
“Not emperor for much longer, I reckon.” The soldier drew the edge of his hand across his throat and made a slicing noise.
Titus looked at Nero, who was still struggling to calm his mount. The emperor’s face was obscured by the rag around his head, but for an instant Titus glimpsed Nero’s eyes, wide with alarm, and knew that he must have overheard.
“Galba’s emperor now, or as good as,” the soldier went on, addressing his comrades. “I say, screw the mother-killer, and screw that pretty boy whose balls he cut off.”
“Ha! You’d like to, I bet!” someone yelled, and the men all laughed.
Nero regained control of his mount. Phaon rode on, leading them at a quicker pace.
A little later they met a rough-looking group of twenty or so men on horseback heading towards the city. Nero’s party pulled to one side of the road to allow the larger group to pass. The horses were as gaunt as their own and the men were even more shabbily dressed. One of them, taking Phaon to be their leader, called to him, “What news from the city?”
Phaon did not answer.
“Well, stranger?” said the man. “Is Nero still alive?”
“The emperor lives,” Phaon said.
“Good! Then we’re still in time to join the hunt!” The man and his companions laughed. Some brandished daggers. Others held up clubs and lengths of rope. “They say there’ll be good sport when the Senate outlaws Nero and all his rotten crew. You fellows are riding the wrong way. You’ll miss the fun!”
Nero swayed on his horse, as if he might faint. Titus reached out to steady him with a hand on his shoulder. The group passed by. Phaon set out again, leading them onwards.
They came to the Anio River. Coming towards them across the bridge was a single Praetorian guard. From his sleek horse, the satchels he carried, and the fact that he rode alone, Titus took him to be a messenger. Just as the Praetorian cleared the bridge and passed them, Nero’s mount took fright at a dead body that lay by the road.
The corpse was fresh. Blood streamed from a wound on the head. “That gang heading into the city must have just killed him,” whispered Titus, appalled.
The emperor’s horse reared. Nero managed to control the beast, but the cloth around his head came undone and fell to the ground. The Praetorian, pausing to see what was the matter, took a look at him and went pale. The young soldier looked utterly confused for a moment, then stiffened, gave Nero a salute, and shouted, “Caesar!”
Nero gazed back at him, reflexively raising his arm to acknowledge the salute.
The Praetorian reined his horse. He stared at the body on the ground, then at Nero and his ragtag entourage, then again at the dead body.
“Ride on, Praetorian!” said Nero. His voice shook.
