The man hesitated. “If Caesar needs assistance-”
“Ride on, I said!”
The Praetorian kicked his heels against his mount and departed.
“He’s headed towards the garrison,” said Epaphroditus. “We should have asked to see the messages he carries. He might have news about Galba-”
“He recognized me!” said Nero, his voice shrill. “We should have killed him.”
“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 door-less, window-less 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 underground. 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 practising 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 mouldering 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.”
