“But where will we go?” said Nero quietly.
“To start, we can go to my estate off the road to Nomentum,” said Phaon. “It’s only a few miles past the Colline Gate.”
Nero brightened. “That will take us right by the Praetorian barracks! When the soldiers see me, we can gauge their reaction. Almost certainly-”
“But Caesar will be incognito,” Epaphroditus reminded him.
“Ah, yes.” Nero was crestfallen. Again, he seemed to hesitate.
Epaphroditus groaned. Phaon threw up his arms. Epictetus was still comforting Sporus.
“Pinarius!” cried Nero, startling them all. “It’s up to you now.”
Titus shook his head. “Caesar? I don’t understand.”
“You’ve taken the auspices for me on many occasions. You must take them once again. Shall I stay or shall I go? We must seek the judgement of the gods.”
Titus reached into his trabea and brought forth his lituus. He was afraid Nero would see that it was his second-best, but the emperor seemed not to notice. Within the vast courtyard, Titus had a great deal of open sky to choose from. He stepped a little away from the others, into the long shadow cast by the towering Colossus, and delineated a portion of the heavens with his lituus.
The simple dignity and the lifelong familiarity of the act calmed him and steadied his nerves. He remembered who and what he was: a citizen of Roma; a patrician; the descendant of one the city’s most ancient families, blood kin to the Divine Julius and the Divine Augustus; an augur trained to divine the will of the gods; the son of Lucius Pinarius and the father of Lucius Pinarius; the bearer, for most of his life, of the ancient fascinum; the friend and confidant of the emperor.
Titus watched the sky. He saw nothing: not a bird, not a cloud, not a leaf carried on the faint breeze. The gods were mute.
To Titus, it seemed that the silence of the heavens was itself a message. The gods had abandoned Nero.
Titus felt a chill, followed by a flush of anger, then a surge of pride. The gods in their fickleness might betray their favourite, but Titus never would!
He turned to Nero. “You must do as Epaphroditus and Phaon suggest. You must flee the city at once.”
Nero gazed at the terraces and rooftops of the Golden House, then looked up at the Colossus. He squinted. The light glinting off the radiant crown of gilded sunbeams was blinding.
“You’ll come with me, Pinarius?”
It was a question, not an order. Titus was touched. “Of course, Caesar.”
“And you, Epaphroditus? And you, Phaon? And of course you, Sabina. Dear Sabina!” Nero opened his arms wide.
Sporus hesitated for a moment, then extricated himself from the encircling arm of Epictetus. He walked to Nero with eyes downcast and allowed himself to be embraced. Nero tenderly touched his fingertips to the bruises on the eunuch’s face and stroked his golden hair.
Epictetus went to the slave quarters to fetch clothing. The others retired to a private chamber off the courtyard. Behind a screen, Nero stripped off his purple-and-gold robes and removed his jewel-encrusted slippers. Titus took off his trabea. Epaphroditus and Phaon shed the elegant robes that marked them as freedmen of the imperial household. Sporus, with a woman’s modesty, went to another room to remove his stola and make-up and to let down his hair.
Epictetus arrived with their clothing. Nero made a face at the sight of the patched tunic, the faded cloak, and the flimsy shoes he was expected to wear, and seemed about to change his mind. Then he laughed.
“I shall pretend we’re doing Plautus – The Pot of Gold, perhaps? – with myself as the downtrodden slave. Comedy is a stretch for me; tragedy is my strength. But an artist must be willing to expand his repertoire.”
The coarse woolen tunic felt scratchy against Titus’s skin. He shuddered at the thought that Nero was being subjected to the indignity of wearing such clothes, but took strength from the emperor’s indomitable sense of humour.
Sporus appeared. In a plain tunic and with the make-up scrubbed from his face and the pins removed from his hair, he looked as much like a boy as a girl, despite his long blonde tresses. Epictetus put a hooded cloak over the eunuch’s shoulders. Sporus pulled the hood over his head, concealing his hair and obscuring his face.
Epictetus brought horses from the stable. The best had been taken already, and others had wandered off. Titus’s heart sank at the sight of the nag he was expected to ride, but Nero laughed.
“Mounts to suit our disguises!” he said. “Who would recognize the world’s greatest charioteer sitting astride such a pathetic creature?”
“Still, Caesar, I think you should hide your face,” said Epaphroditus. Epictetus produced a cloth and tied it around Nero’s head, pulling it low over his forehead to shadow his eyes.
“You’ll have me wearing an eye patch next!” said Nero.
Epictetus had also brought daggers for each of them. When the slave handed one of the weapons to Nero, careful to select the best, the emperor stared at the dagger with a strange expression, then threw it to the ground and refused to look at it again.
Epaphroditus gave orders to Epictetus to stay behind and listen for news of Galba’s progress and the outcome of the Senate’s debate. “As soon as you know anything of importance, follow after us as quickly as you can. Come yourself. No one else can be trusted.”
The slave shambled off, limping badly. Nero barked out a laugh. “A lame messenger! Surely this is a comedy, for no tragic playwright would resort to such a stale device. Well, let us be off!”
They mounted their horses, such as they were, and set out with Phaon leading the way. Titus decided to bring up the rear. He had to wait for Sporus, who lingered behind, looking over his shoulder at Epictetus until the limping slave disappeared from sight.
The streets were deserted except for a few skulking loners and roving groups of drunkards whom they saw at a distance. Titus frequently looked over his shoulder but saw no sign that they were being followed. Behind them, the colossal statue of Nero dominated the skyline but grew smaller and smaller as they made their way to the Colline Gate. A few soldiers were manning the wall but paid no attention to the ragged group as they rode out of the city.
The route took them past the Praetorian garrison outside the walls. Discipline had vanished. Outside the garrison, soldiers sat on the ground in small groups, some in full armour and others stripped to their tunics, talking, drinking, and throwing dice. The men looked up as Nero’s little entourage passed by but took no notice.
Suddenly the earth beneath them shook. Titus’s mount shied and whinnied. The soldiers sitting on the ground felt the tremor more acutely than the party on horseback. Some of them scrambled to their feet, only to be thrown down again by the violent shaking.
As abruptly as it had begun, the earthquake ended. Titus regained control of his mount. He saw that Sporus was having trouble with his horse and rode alongside to help him.
One of the nearby soldiers cursed. “Numa’s balls! Look at the dice! I swear the ones I just threw were all different, but now they’re all ones!”
Another soldier laughed. “What a fool you are, Marcus! Do you think the gods sent an earthquake just to turn your Venus Throw to Dogs? That was a sign from the heavens, alright, but it wasn’t meant for you.”
“Who for, then?”
“For Nero, I reckon. They’ve had enough of that scoundrel. Maybe that tremor sent that huge statue of him tumbling to the ground, and the rest of the so-called Golden House with it!”
“Quiet, Gnaeus! You talking about the emperor.”
“Not emperor for much longer, I reckon.” The soldier drew the edge of his hand across his throat and made a slicing noise.
Titus looked at Nero, who was still struggling to calm his mount. The emperor’s face was obscured by the rag around his head, but for an instant Titus glimpsed Nero’s eyes, wide with alarm, and knew that he must have overheard.