Empire (70 page)

“That was almost thirty years ago. It’s absurd.”

“It’s mad. Uncle is mad. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I need your help.”

Her first visit had been a month earlier, and she had come to him twice since then, approaching Lucius as cautiously as she had approached Epaphroditus. Unlike Epaphroditus, Lucius had been receptive to her subtle overtures. Now she was back.

“I can also tell you that Epaphroditus left a will,” she said. “It was fetched from the keeping of the Vestals and read this morning. You were named.”

“Was I?”

“Yes. Of course, Uncle will probably invalidate the will and claim the estate for himself, since Epaphroditus was condemned as an enemy of the state.”

Did she think to incite him against Domitian by telling him that the emperor meant to cheat him out of an inheritance? If so, Lucius was offended. Greed was not his motivation. But what she said next made him realize that he had misjudged her.

“The will didn’t leave you much. Almost everything was left to a freedman of his, a philosopher called Epictetus, who’s been banished from Italy, with the stipulation that the proceeds should be used to set up a school. ‘Let my fortune, such as it is, foster the learning of philosophy.’ But to you he left a statue.”

“A statue?”

“It’s in his garden, apparently. A statue of an athlete, if I recall correctly.”

“The boxer Melancomas,” whispered Lucius, remembering the first time he had seen the statue, on the day the ash of Vesuvius fell on Roma.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

Epaphroditus had once remarked, “Melancomas will be here long after the rest of us are gone.” The statue had survived its owner.

Lucius stood across the brazier from her, looking at her through the flames. He tried to see her not as a beautiful woman or a grieving widow, nor as the niece of the emperor, but as a potential partner in a very dangerous enterprise. Could she be trusted to keep silent when she needed to? Was she clever enough to hatch a successful plot against a man as suspicious as her uncle, and would she have the courage to see it through?

Her reasons for hating and fearing her uncle were obvious enough. Married to a Flavian cousin and the mother of seven children, she had long been a member of Domitian’s inner circle. After the death of the emperor’s son, and the subsequent failure of his wife to produce another heir, Domitian had placed two of Flavia’s young sons in the line of succession. Her future and that of her family had looked very bright.

Lucius recalled an ancient Etruscan proverb: “Sit too near the flame and your cloak will catch fire.” In one of his frequent fits of suspicion, Domitian had turned against Flavia. His pretext was that she and her husband had secretly converted to the religion of the Jews, or else had become Christians; it hardly mattered which, since both cults promoted atheism and a disrespect for the gods, which could not be tolerated within the imperial family. Were the charges true? Lucius had never asked Flavia, nor had she told him.

Whatever the truth, Flavia’s husband had been executed, and she and her children had been exiled to the island of Pandateria, off the western coast of Italy. Eventually, Domitian had allowed Flavia to return to Roma—indeed, had compelled her to do so—while her children remained on the island to ensure their mother’s loyalty.

Flavia was bitter and desperate. She was motivated by revenge, but also by the desire to see her progeny survive. Every day Domitian lived, she and her children were in danger. A botched attempt to kill him would certainly mean death for them all. Even a successful assassination might lead to their destruction, but it might also free them from fear and allow them to be reunited.

Looking at her across the flames, Lucius made up his mind to trust her.

“You know why I’m here,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Will you help us?”

He thought of Cornelia. He thought of Epaphroditus. He also thought of Apollonius, but in the present circumstance he could find no inspiration in the precepts of the Teacher. Lucius himself was not truly a philosopher, only a sincere but oft-thwarted seeker. Nor was he a man of action—but he might yet become one. “Yes. I’ll help you. But what can I do?”

She flashed a smile of triumph. It marred her beauty. He suddenly saw her as the niece of her uncle, more like him than not—rapacious, unstoppable, murderous. She had made no mention of the danger he would surely face. Probably she did not care whether Lucius survived or not; he was simply a tool to be used. Her questionable motives, the likelihood that he would be killed, the risk of failure—none of these mattered to Lucius. He was determined to cast his lot with hers.

“Uncle will send for you very soon,” she said. “Today, perhaps. Perhaps within the hour.”

His heart sank. “By all the gods, what have I done to attract his attention this time?”

“It’s not what you’ve done, but who you are. You’ll understand when he tells you. He will ask a favor of you.”

“What favor?”

She shook her head. “It’s better if you know as little as possible. Agree
to help him. Do as he asks. Observe and listen. Through you, an opportunity may arise that will lead us to success.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to, not yet. Just go to him when he summons you.”

“That’s all you can tell me?”

“One more thing. Within the House of the Flavians, there is one person whom you can trust absolutely. If he should tell you to say or do something, do as he says. I speak of an imperial steward named Stephanus. He’s a brave man, and not squeamish. When the moment finally comes, he’s the man we’re all counting on.”

Hilarion appeared in the doorway, looking shaken. “Forgive me for interrupting—”

“What is it, Hilarion?”

“There’s a visitor in the vestibule. A courtier from the palace. He says he’s come to take you there. Praetorians came with him. They’re waiting for him in the street.”

“Don’t look so glum, Hilarion. It’s only when the Praetorians come inside the house that we should worry. This visit was not unexpected.” Lucius looked at Flavia and raised an eyebrow.

“I should conceal myself,” she said.

Lucius nodded to Hilarion, who stepped to one of the bookcases that appeared to be built into the wall, took hold of a scroll that was not a scroll but a lever, and pulled it. The bookcase opened like a door. Hilarion ushered Flavia into the hidden compartment, then shut the bookcase behind her. Lucius sighed. In such a world, it was a foolish man who did not have at least one concealed room in his house.

For his visit to the palace, he dressed in his finest toga. The rain had abated for a while. A shaft of bright sunlight, unseen for days, broke through the clouds and caused the wet paving stones and puddles to glisten.

He was conducted to a part of the palace he had never seen before. The narrowness of the passages, the small size of the rooms, and the less formal demeanor of the courtiers seemed to indicate that this was a more
private, less public area of the imperial complex. At various points he was searched for weapons, not once but three times. At last, after waiting alone for an hour in a small chamber off a small garden, he was joined by Catullus.

“Greetings, Pinarius,” said Catullus, in a flat tone of voice that acknowledged nothing of the history between them.

“Greetings, Catullus.” Lucius strove to keep his voice steady, though the very sight of the man made his heart beat faster. His palms began to sweat, so profusely that he had to wipe them on his toga. Fortunately, the blind courtier could not see his distress.

“For a man who professes to have no interest in public affairs, your visits to these premises are surprisingly frequent,” remarked Catullus. He smiled. Perhaps he was making a joke to set Lucius at ease. Or was he toying with him?

“I came because I was summoned. What is it you want from me?”

Catullus began to pace. He knew the room well. Without hesitation, and apparently without thinking, he could pace from end to end, turning just before he reached a wall.

“What I’m about to tell you, you must never reveal to anyone. Do you understand, Pinarius?”

“Yes.”

“On penalty of death.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? In the past, Caesar has been extraordinarily merciful to you; unduly so, in my opinion. But if you should ever reveal what I’m about to tell you, I shall see to it myself that you’re put to death.”

“You make yourself clear, Catullus.”

“Good. Foul weather we’ve been having, don’t you think?”

“Surely you didn’t summon me here to discuss the weather.”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Catullus ceased pacing. “You are aware that there have been a great many lightning strikes in the city during recent months?”

“I’m aware of this, yes.”

“Regarding these numerous lightning strikes, Caesar is not happy. To be candid, Caesar is in some distress.”

“Every man fears lightning.”

“It’s not the lightning itself that Caesar fears, but what it may portend.
I will explain. Many years ago, when Caesar was only a boy, an astrologer predicted the day of his death—indeed, the very hour. The astrologer also predicted the manner of Caesar’s death: by a blade. At the time, the date foretold must have seemed very distant. But time passes. The day is swiftly approaching. And for a boy, ‘death by blade’ meant death in battle, as a brave warrior; but now when he imagines death by a blade, Caesar thinks of treachery and assassination.”

“Does Caesar believe this prediction made so long ago?”

“Whether he takes it seriously or not, a man never forgets such a prediction. Once, Caesar’s father made a joke of it. The Divine Vespasian was dining with his two sons; the young Domitian was suspicious of a mushroom he had been served and refused to eat it. The Divine Vespasian laughed. ‘Even if that mushroom is of a poisonous variety, you must be immune to it, my son, for we know the day of your death is a long way off, and it isn’t mushrooms that will do you in!’ ”

Lucius shrugged. “Perhaps, if the day predicted draws close, Caesar should summon this astrologer and order him to cast his horoscope again.”

“The astrologer is long dead.”

“So the man can neither be punished if his prediction proves false, nor rewarded if his prediction proves correct.”

Catullus grunted. “You twist words like Apollonius of Tyana!”

“You flatter me, Catullus. But surely there are other astrologers whom Caesar can consult.”

“He did so. Ascletarion, whom Caesar had never consulted before, cast Caesar’s horoscope afresh. The astrologer made no specific predictions, but what he had to say was unsettling nonetheless. Because of a conjunction of the stars, the beneficent influence of Minerva, the goddess whom Caesar most venerates, is waning. According to Ascletarion, Minerva’s protection will be weakest on the very day that was predicted for his death. Naturally, Caesar was alarmed. To relieve his anxiety, he decided to test the man’s skill. He asked if Ascletarion could predict the manner of his own end, to which the astrologer replied, ‘Yes, Dominus; I will be torn apart by dogs.’ ”

Lucius almost laughed aloud. “Could it be that Ascletarion feared the ill-tempered emperor was inclined to throw him to the dogs in the arena, and thought to save himself by predicting that very thing, knowing Caesar would then not dare to do so?”

Catullus grimaced. “If the astrologer outwitted anyone, it was himself. Caesar ordered the astrologer to be strangled to death, then and there. I watched him die a most unpleasant death, and thought:
so much for his powers of prediction.
Caesar ordered me to arrange the man’s funeral rites that very afternoon, so that his body might be disposed of quickly. But, though the day had been clear, a storm blew up. A deluge extinguished the flames before the body was consumed. A pack of wild dogs appeared. Before anyone could stop them, they bolted onto the pyre and tore the corpse to pieces.”

Lucius shook his head. “So Ascletarion’s prediction was correct. For their sake, I hope Caesar has sought the advice of no more astrologers.”

“His attention is currently fixed upon a soothsayer from one of the Germanic tribes, a man named Eberwig. Caesar summoned him all the way from Colonia Agrippina on the strength of the man’s reputed knowledge of lightning. As the art of lightning reading has declined among the Romans, it seems to have been taken up by the Germans. Even now the man is making a thorough study of all the lightning strikes that have taken place in recent months, charting their location and frequency. Eberwig will deliver his report to Caesar today.”

“This is all very fascinating,” said Lucius. “But what has any of this to do with me? Why am I here?”

“When he cannot sleep at night, Caesar reads; and of late, Caesar hardly sleeps at all, which means he reads a great deal. His current fascination is the reign of Tiberius, whose career he finds of great interest. Far into the night Caesar pores over documents from the reign of his predecessor. Secretaries are sent to fetch this document or that. Among Tiberius’s private journals, Caesar has come across a mention of your grandfather, who was also named Lucius Pinarius. You are aware that he was an augur?”