Empire (41 page)

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 traveling 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 honor 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 gray 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, then smiled graciously at Asiaticus.

“The audience will consist of the emperor’s closest friends and advisers. Men of high rank and exquisite taste.”

“Will you be there?” said Lucius. He kept a straight face. Sporus covered her laugh with a cough.

Asiaticus stared at Lucius for a moment, then grinned. “Oh, yes, I’ll be there. And so will you, young Pinarius. And so will your host, Epaphroditus. The emperor wouldn’t want either of you to miss Sporus’s performance.”

“Performance?” Sporus brightened.

“Did I not explain? You’ll play Lucretia.”

“I?” Sporus sprang to her feet and perused the scroll with greater interest.

“There’ll be a rehearsal tonight for the performance at the banquet tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! But I can’t possibly—”

“You don’t have that many lines.” Asiaticus stepped closer. Lucius was struck by how slender and delicate Sporus looked face-to-face with Asiaticus, who was only a little taller but massively broader. “If you forget a line, don’t worry. I shall be there to whisper it in your ear. Like this.” Asiaticus drew closer and blew into Sporus’s ear.

Sporus flinched and stepped back. “You?”

“Did I not explain? I’m to play Sextus Tarquinius, the son of the king. The villain who rapes Lucretia.”

Sporus took another step back. She opened the scroll with both hands, interposing it between herself and Asiaticus. “I see. You and I are to act in the emperor’s play together, performing opposite each other?”

“Exactly. I’ll leave you now. Try to get those lines into your pretty head, and do whatever else you need to prepare yourself. We’ll stage a private rehearsal for the emperor tonight while he dines.” Asiaticus looked Sporus up and down. The smirk vanished, replaced by a vacant, slack-jawed expression that Lucius found even more disturbing. Then he swaggered out of the room.

“This is ridiculous!” said Lucius.

“Ridiculous?” Sporus stood erect. “Do you think me incapable? I
didn’t spend all that time at Nero’s side without picking up some knowledge of acting. Here, Epictetus, you and I will read the play together, and you’ll help me with my lines.”

As Asiaticus had noted, the so-called play was quite short. It could hardly be intended as the main part of an evening’s entertainment. It was more likely a vignette to fill out the program; Vitellius’s parties typically included dancing boys and girls and gladiators fighting to the death along with declaiming poets and comic actors.

The story required little in the way of background. Everyone in the audience would know the tale already. When a friend of the king’s son boasted of his wife’s virtue, the reckless Sextus Tarquinius felt obliged to take it from her; arriving while her husband was away, he took advantage of Lucretia’s hospitality and raped her. Unable to bear her shame, Lucretia used a dagger to kill herself. When her body was shown to an angry crowd in the Forum, King Tarquinius and his wicked son were driven from Roma and the Republic was founded.

Epictetus quickly scanned the text. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Hardly more than a vulgar mime show,” he declared. “According to the stage instructions, the rape takes place right on stage, and so does Lucretia’s suicide.”

“Seneca saw fit to include all sorts of shock effects in his plays,” noted Sporus. “Thyestes eats his roasted children right in front of the audience, and Oedipus gouges out his eyes. They use hidden bladders and pig’s blood.”

“If Vitellius thinks he’s another Seneca, he’s completely deluded,” said Lucius, taking his turn at scanning the text. “This dialogue is utter drivel.”

Sporus shrugged. “Still, if this is the sort of thing Vitellius likes, it’s a chance for me to please him.”

Lucius shook his head. “I didn’t like Asiaticus’s manner. What an oily fellow!”

“Yes, he wasn’t quite what I expected, either,” said Sporus. “Men seldom are. Still, he has a certain beastlike appeal. If you imagine him outfitted as a gladiator—”

“I’ll let you get on with it, then,” said Lucius, glad that Sporus had chosen Epictetus to practice with her and not him. Asiaticus’s visit had put him in a foul mood. He needed to take a walk. Epaphroditus’s apartments were
off the long portico that fronted the meadows and the man-made lake at the heart of the Golden House. Perhaps he would walk all the way around the lake.

He fetched a cloak, though for such a mild winter day he probably wouldn’t need it. As he made ready to leave, he heard Sporus and Epictetus declaiming their lines.

“Who is at the door?”

“It is I, Sextus Tarquinius, your husband’s friend and the son of the king.”

“But my husband is not home tonight.”

“I know. But would you deny me your hospitality? Open your door to me, Lucretia. Let me in!”

Lucius smiled. Epictetus seemed to be getting into the spirit of the thing, despite his avowed disdain for the material. It occurred to Lucius that the slave might be taking a certain vicarious pleasure in playing such a role opposite the unobtainable object of his affection.

It also occurred to Lucius that Sporus might be imagining yet another return to imperial favor. Why not? Nero had married her. Otho had made her his mistress. Vitellius might be oblivious to her charms, preferring a more “beastlike” partner (to use Sporus’s word), but Asiaticus had blatantly displayed his attraction, and Asiaticus was a powerful man.

Lucius sighed. As he left the apartments he heard a last exchange of dialogue.

“No! Unhand me, brute! I am faithful to my husband!”

“Yield to me, Lucretia! I will have my way with you!” Epictetus declaimed with such vigor that his voice broke. He cleared his throat, then spoke again, sounding rather chagrinned. “And then the stage directions say that we struggle a bit, and then I tear your gown. . . .”

At sundown, a group of Praetorians arrived to escort them to the emperor’s private quarters. Sporus walked ahead of the others, conscious of her special status. Lucius and Epaphroditus followed. Epictetus came along as well, ostensibly to attend to his master.

They were shown to a large, octagonal banquet room. The walls were
of dazzling multicolored marble and there was a splashing fountain at the entrance. Lucius had never seen the room, but it was obviously quite familiar to Sporus, who must have spent many happy hours in this room, first with Nero, then with Otho. Lucius heard her sigh as she gazed about, assessing the changes wrought by Vitellius and his wife, Galeria, who was said to find Nero’s taste too understated. A great many statues, decorative lamps, bronze vases, ivory screens, and woven hangings had been crowded into the room, filling the spaces against the walls and between the dining couches.

The only part of the room not cluttered with precious objects was a raised dais against one wall. The dais’s sole decoration was a larger-than-life marble statue of Nero, who was depicted in Greek dress with a laurel crown on his head. It appeared that this dais was to serve as the stage for the play, since the dining couches where arrayed before it in a semicircle.

All the couches were empty except for two in center of the front row. Upon one reclined the emperor’s wife, Galeria, and their seven-year-old son, Germanicus. Upon the other couch, occupying the entire space, lay the emperor. A Molossian mastiff almost as big as a man lay curled before his couch. The dog sprang up and growled when Lucius and the others entered, then came to heel when its master made a shushing sound.

As Vitellius roused himself and stood, Lucius pondered the considerable energy required to set in motion such an imposing mass of flesh. The emperor was very tall, with big arms and a huge belly and the flushed face of a heavy drinker. As he took a few steps toward them, he limped slightly. Vitellius’s lameness was said to be the result of a long-ago chariot accident in the days of his debauched youth; Caligula had been driving.