became more pronounced. Eventually, Lucius realized that the slave was in love with Sporus and painfully aware that his love could never be requited. Sporus had been the consort of two of the most powerful men on earth; she could hardly be expected to take notice of a lame slave who hid his homely face behind a shaggy beard. To be sure, Epictetus was clever; Epaphroditus declared that he had never known any man who was better read or more thoroughly versed in philosophy, which was quite remarkable considering that Epictetus was the same age as Lucius. But what good was all his learning to Epictetus when the object of his affection was more interested in muscular legs and depilating poultices than in Stoic discourse?
“There’s a visitor in the vestibule,” said Epictetus, glancing at Sporus and then at the floor.
“Epaphroditus is out for the afternoon,” said Lucius. “The visitor will have to come back later.”
“I failed to make myself clear,” said Epictetus, daring to look up again. “The visitor is here to see Sporus.”
Sporus sat upright. “Me? No one ever comes to see me any more. A friend of Otho’s, perhaps?”
“No. He comes from the emperor Vitellius,” said Epictetus. “His calls himself Asiaticus.”
Sporus raised an eyebrow. “Not a big, muscular fellow, rakishly handsome? Struts like a gladiator but grins like a spintria?”
Epictetus frowned. “That might describe him.”
“Who is this Asiaticus?” asked Lucius. “How do you know him?”
“I don’t know him,” said Sporus, “but it looks as if I soon shall. Really, Lucius, you don’t know the stories about Vitellius and Asiaticus?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What a sheltered existence your father imposed on you, sparing your delicate ears from the gossip of the court. Nero loved telling tales about Vitellius and his stud horse. The relationship between those two made Nero’s bedroom antics seem quite tame.”
“My ears are open,” said Lucius, rolling onto his stomach and propping his chin on his fists.
“Quickly, then: Asiaticus was born a slave, no different from any other slave, until in adolescence a certain appendage became rather prominent. When Vitellius saw the boy standing naked on the auction block one day, he didn’t buy him for his brains. Like a racing master who’d acquired a new stud, Vitellius took him home and tried him out right away. Vitellius was happy with his purchase.
“But as you know, in these relationships it’s not always clear who is the master and who the slave, and desire isn’t always mutual. Asiaticus grew tired of Vitellius, and who could blame him? They say Vitellius is actually rather skilled at lovemaking, but really, can you imagine having that mass of quivering flesh on top of you? Or under you, I should imagine, since I suspect that to be his preferred position. Anyway, at some point, young Asiaticus had quite enough and ran off. Vitellius wept and tore out his hair! He was heartbroken. Then, one day, Vitellius was down in Puteoli and who should he come across at a little stand on the waterfront, flirting with the sailors and selling cheap wine hardly better than vinegar, but Asiaticus. Vitellius burst into tears and moved to embrace him, but Asiaticus was off like an arrow. Vitellius’s men gave chase, knocking down half the market stalls along the waterfront, and finally caught Asiaticus and brought him back in irons. A happy ending – the lovers were reunited!”
Lucius laughed. “Something tells me there’s more to this story.”
“Much more! So, it’s back to Roma, where all goes well – for a while. This time it’s Vitellius who decides he’s had enough of Asiaticus – the insolence, the lying, the thieving, the cavorting behind his master’s back. Vitellius stamps his feet and rants and pulls out his whip, but eventually he makes good on a longstanding threat and sells Asiaticus to a new master, a fellow who keeps a travelling band of gladiators. Again the lovers are separated. Vitellius thinks he’s seen the last of Asiaticus, who’s gone from spilling seed in his master’s bedroom to spilling blood in the arena.”
Standing in the doorway, Epictetus cleared his throat. “The man is just outside, still waiting-”
“Don’t worry, I won’t keep him much longer,” said Sporus. “Well, to make a long story short, one day Vitellius is invited to be the guest of honour at games being put on by a local magistrate in some country town. Who should be scheduled for the final match but Asiaticus! Vitellius goes pale when the love of his life enters the arena, but he puts on a brave face and tells himself he’s long since gotten over that scoundrel and would be happy to see him suffer an agonizing death. Then the match begins, and things go badly for Asiaticus from the start. He’s wounded once, twice, and ends up flat on his back with his opponent’s sword at his throat. The crowd screams for his death, and the magistrate is ready to give the signal, when Vitellius leaps to his feet and cries out, ‘Spare him! Spare my sweet Asiaticus!’ Vitellius buys him back on the spot, paying an outrageous sum, and down in the gladiators’ quarters the two are reunited. Imagine the tears and kisses and whispers of forgiveness! I know this sounds like a tawdry Greek novel, but I swear I didn’t make it up.”
Epictetus cleared his throat again.
“And the rest of the story?” said Lucius.
“Vitellius took Asiaticus with him when he went to govern Germania. He ruled there the way he’s ruled in Roma – wild banquets and gladiator shows to amuse the local chieftains while his soldiers raped and plundered the citizenry. To make amends for having made him a gladiator, Vitellius freed Asiaticus and gave him an official post. Asiaticus turned out to be rather useful, apparently; living by wits and brawn had trained him to be just the sort of factotum a governor like Vitellius needed. Few were the troublemakers Asiaticus couldn’t bully or seduce into submission. And now he’s here in Roma, helping his old master run the show. Not just a freedman any longer, but a respected member of the equestrian order.”
“No!” said Lucius.
“Yes. Not long after Vitellius became emperor, some of his fawning supporters urged him to elevate Asiaticus to equestrian rank, since he possessed the requisite wealth. Vitellius laughed and told them not to be ridiculous, that the appointment of a rascal like Asiaticus would bring disgrace to the order. When Asiaticus got wind of this, you can imagine his reaction. Quick as asparagus, Vitellius threw a banquet where he presented Asiaticus with the gold ring to mark his new status as an equestrian. He’ll make the fellow a senator next!”
Lucius laughed, then frowned. “And now Asiaticus has come to call on you. This can’t be good.”
“No? I’m eager to have a look at him,” said Sporus. “Epictetus, tell my visitor he can come in now. Have one of the serving girls bring suitable refreshments.”
Even as Epictetus nodded and turned, he was confronted by a figure coming through the doorway. The visitor pushed Epictetus aside and swaggered into the room.
In Lucius’s experience, men who craved the company of youths tended to look for the Greek ideal of beauty. The sight of Asiaticus surprised him. The man had a round head set atop a squat neck and an almost piggish face – an upturned nose, heavy lips, and squinting eyes. Even allowing for a coarsening of his features due to debauched living, it was hard to imagine that he had ever possessed the kind of beauty the old Greek masters immortalized in marble. Nor was he any longer a boy: there were flecks of grey in his wiry black hair. His equestrian’s tunic, with its narrow red stripes running up and over each massive shoulder, seemed barely to contain him, leaving his brawny arms and more of his hairy thighs exposed than was decent, and straining to contain the breadth of his bull-like chest. On his left hand, pushed onto a thick, stubby finger, Lucius saw the gold equestrian’s ring that had been placed there by Vitellius.
Lucius rose from the couch. He drew back his shoulders. Asiaticus gave him a glance, then settled his gaze on Sporus. He twisted his lips into a smirk.
“You must be Sporus,” said Asiaticus. His voice was not what Lucius had expected, either, tinged with what Lucius’s father had called the gutter accent of uneducated slave and freedmen.
“And you must be Asiaticus.” Sporus continued to recline on the couch. With one hand she smoothed a fold of her silk gown over her hips.
“This is for you.” Asiaticus stepped forward and held forth a scroll.
“What’s this?” Sporus untied the ribbon.
“A new play, written by the emperor himself.”
“By Jupiter, another one who thinks he’s Nero!” muttered Epictetus from the doorway.
“ ‘The Rape of Lucretia by the Son of King Tarquinius and the Subsequent Fall of the Last Dynasty of Kings, ’ ” read Sporus. “The title is certainly a mouthful, though the play seems hardly more than a sketch.”
“Short and sweet,” said Asiaticus. “It’s mostly action. The emperor doesn’t want to bore his audience.”
“Audience? Is there to be a performance? Are we invited?” Sporus cast a quick, wide-eyed glance at Lucius,
