In the years since, Lucius had not seen or communicated with his old friend and mentor. And now Epaphroditus was dead.
Hilarion, gleaning information in the Forum the preceding day, had brought Lucius the news. Hilarion had not been able to discover the cause or the exact circumstances of Epaphroditus’s death. Lucius hoped to learn more from the visitor he expected to arrive at any moment.
The cloudy morning sky turned as dark as night. A heavy rain began to fall. Shivering in his woolen cloak, Lucius retreated from the garden to his library, where Hilarion was stoking the fire in the brazier. Above the pelting of rain against the roof and the peals of thunder, Lucius did not hear the knock at the front door, but Hilarion did. The freedman showed the visitor to the library, then discreetly vanished.
Her long, voluminous cloak concealed her gender. The hood concealed her face. Did she wear the cloak to protect herself from the inclement weather, or because it allowed her to traverse the Palatine without being recognized? She stood before the brazier and warmed her hands for a moment, then pushed back the hood and shook her head, freeing tresses of lustrous black hair in which there were a few strands of grey.
Flavia Domitilla was the emperor’s niece, the daughter of his sister, Domitilla, but she did not share his typical Flavian features. Her cheekbones were high, her nose was small, her forehead broad. She had dark, flashing eyes and a sensual mouth. The outlines of her cloak hinted at a voluptuous figure giving way to stoutness. Though Flavia’s life scarcely resembled that of a Vestal – she had borne seven children – something about her reminded Lucius of Cornelia. Perhaps it was her willfulness and her spirit. Or perhaps it was simply that Flavia was the first woman since Cornelia who had inspired in Lucius a faint stirring of lust. But it was not to woo him, or even to seek his friendship, that she had come.
“Greetings, Flavia,” he said.
“Greetings, Lucius.”
“What can you tell me about the death of Epaphroditus?” he said.
She sighed. “I gather the two of you were close friends, back in the days of my grandfather?”
“Yes. I never ceased calling Epaphroditus my friend, though I hadn’t seen him in quite some time.”
“What have you heard?”
“Only what my freedman was able to pick up from the gossips in the Forum, which wasn’t much. It’s true that he’s dead, then?”
“Yes.”
“How did it happen?”
“Domitian condemned him. He took his own life.”
“But why? What was the charge?”
“The same charge my uncle always brings against his enemies, whether real or imagined. He was accused of conspiring against Caesar.”
“And was he?”
Flavia gazed at the fire. “You’re assuming that I would know such a thing – that I know who wants to see the emperor dead.”
“I should think that many men desire his death. But only a few would risk everything to make it happen. Was Epaphroditus one of them?”
Flavia pursed her lips. The firelight glinted in her eyes. Lucius found her beauty distracting. What would Apollonius say about her presence in Lucius’s house? Certainly, the Teacher would disdain the physical attraction Lucius felt towards her, but Flavia was not here because of that. She was here because they both desired the death of Domitian. What would Apollonius think of that? Would the Teacher ever approve of murder, even the murder of a tyrant?
Flavia shook her head. “I used to see Epaphroditus in the imperial court. His manner was so cowed and timid, I thought to myself: that fellow would make an ideal agent. Who would ever suspect him? So I approached Epaphroditus – cautiously, discreetly. And he rebuffed me. He told me he had seen enough chaos after the death of Nero, and could never be part of any plan that might lead to such chaos again, however well intentioned. His timidity was not an affectation, it was genuine. He wanted no more trouble in his life. Poor thing! Uncle should have left him where he was instead of dragging him out of retirement. His return to court was Epaphroditus’s undoing.”
“What made Domitian suspect him?”
She sighed. “The story is so pathetic, it pains me to tell it. Domitian heard a rumour that when Nero tried to kill himself, he failed, and it was Epaphroditus who finished the task for him. Out of loyalty and mercy, of course; nonetheless, it was the hand of Epaphroditus that dealt the final blow. Domitian called Epaphroditus before him and demanded that he tell him the truth. Epaphroditus was too frightened to lie. He admitted that he dealt the final blow to Nero. After that, Domitian became obsessed with the story. He made Epaphroditus tell it to him again and again, sometimes in the middle of the night, as if he were trying to trick the man into confessing a crime, letting slip some previously hidden detail. Eventually, Domitian got it into his head that Epaphroditus had murdered Nero. ‘And if so, was that such a bad thing?’ his courtiers would say. After all, without Nero dead, my grandfather would never have become emperor. But Uncle became convinced that Epaphroditus was a threat to him. ‘Once a man dares to kill an emperor, he’ll do it again,’ he said. Epaphroditus wasn’t involved in any conspiracy against Uncle. But he was the man who killed Nero, so he had to die.”
“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?