“Galba’s emperor now, or as good as,” the soldier went on, addressing his comrades. “I say, screw the mother-killer, and screw that pretty boy whose balls he cut off.”
“Ha! You’d like to, I bet!” someone yelled, and the men all laughed.
Nero regained control of his mount. Phaon rode on, leading them at a quicker pace.
A little later they met a rough-looking group of twenty or so men on horseback heading towards the city. Nero’s party pulled to one side of the road to allow the larger group to pass. The horses were as gaunt as their own and the men were even more shabbily dressed. One of them, taking Phaon to be their leader, called to him, “What news from the city?”
Phaon did not answer.
“Well, stranger?” said the man. “Is Nero still alive?”
“The emperor lives,” Phaon said.
“Good! Then we’re still in time to join the hunt!” The man and his companions laughed. Some brandished daggers. Others held up clubs and lengths of rope. “They say there’ll be good sport when the Senate outlaws Nero and all his rotten crew. You fellows are riding the wrong way. You’ll miss the fun!”
Nero swayed on his horse, as if he might faint. Titus reached out to steady him with a hand on his shoulder. The group passed by. Phaon set out again, leading them onwards.
They came to the Anio River. Coming towards them across the bridge was a single Praetorian guard. From his sleek horse, the satchels he carried, and the fact that he rode alone, Titus took him to be a messenger. Just as the Praetorian cleared the bridge and passed them, Nero’s mount took fright at a dead body that lay by the road.
The corpse was fresh. Blood streamed from a wound on the head. “That gang heading into the city must have just killed him,” whispered Titus, appalled.
The emperor’s horse reared. Nero managed to control the beast, but the cloth around his head came undone and fell to the ground. The Praetorian, pausing to see what was the matter, took a look at him and went pale. The young soldier looked utterly confused for a moment, then stiffened, gave Nero a salute, and shouted, “Caesar!”
Nero gazed back at him, reflexively raising his arm to acknowledge the salute.
The Praetorian reined his horse. He stared at the body on the ground, then at Nero and his ragtag entourage, then again at the dead body.
“Ride on, Praetorian!” said Nero. His voice shook.
The man hesitated. “If Caesar needs assistance-”
“Ride on, I said!”
The Praetorian kicked his heels against his mount and departed.
“He’s headed towards the garrison,” said Epaphroditus. “We should have asked to see the messages he carries. He might have news about Galba-”
“He recognized me!” said Nero, his voice shrill. “We should have killed him.”
“There’s not a man among us capable of taking on an armed Praetorian,” said Sporus under his breath.
Nero looked down at the dead body. The man had been of middle age and was well dressed. “If that wretched gang murdered him, did they do it just to rob him… or did they kill him because he spoke up for me?”
“We’re not far from my estate, Caesar,” said Phaon. “We should ride on at once.”
They crossed the bridge. Phaon led them off the main road and onto a narrow, wooded path, saying he thought it best if they approached the estate from the back way and took shelter in one of the remote outbuildings, so that even his slaves wouldn’t know they were there.
Eventually they came to the door-less, window-less back wall of a building.
Turning around to take in the view, Titus saw why Phaon had chosen this property as one of his rewards from the emperor. The site was pleasant, secluded, and quiet, with a lovely view over the wooded plains of the Tiber. The skyline of the city could be seen in the distance. Despite the earthquake, the Colossus still stood, its radiant crown glinting in the afternoon sunlight, looking at this distance like a child’s toy.
Phaon told them to stay behind while he took a look around the corner of the building. After a moment he returned.
“It’s as I thought,” he said. “This is the old, disused slave quarters. It’s some distance from the rest of the estate up the hill, but the ground has been cleared from here on and the front of the building is completely exposed. There’s no way to enter through the front door without the risk of being seen by someone from the main house, higher up.”
“I need to rest!” cried Nero.
Phaon thought for a moment. “This is an old building. The walls are thin. We can break through the back wall. It may take a while, and we might make some noise. In case someone hears and comes to have a look, it’s best if they don’t see you, Caesar. There’s an old sandpit just over there, with shade. If Caesar would like to rest there-”
“No! Not a pit! I won’t be underground. Not yet…”
While the others found a loose plank and pulled at it, Nero wandered down the hill to a little pond. He knelt, scooped up some brackish water, and sipped it. Titus heard him cry out, “Is this my special water?” In the Golden House, the emperor was used to drinking only distilled water cooled in snow. Nero sat on the ground. From the expression on his face, Titus might have thought he was weeping, but no tears ran down the emperor’s ruddy cheeks. It was almost as if Nero were feigning despondency, like a mime practising a facial expression.
The plank came loose and without too much effort they managed to make a hole in the rear wall. Phaon went through to have a look, then gestured for the others to follow. Nero went first, getting on all fours to crawl through the passage.
They found themselves in a dusty little room with only a few stools for furniture and a sack stuffed with mouldering old straw for a bed. A short hallway led to a little vestibule. Not surprisingly for slave quarters, the door had no lock on the inside, not even a bar that could be dropped into place.
A small window, covered by a tattered cloth, provided light. Looking through a hole in the cloth, Titus saw a dirt courtyard, a grassy slope, and a bit of the main house, farther up the hill. How elegant the place looked, with its red-tile roof and its yellow-marble columns, surrounded by stately cypress trees and blooming rose bushes and hedges pruned in the shapes of obelisks, cubes, and spheres.
Nero sat on the bed with his back against the wall. He began to weep in earnest, sobbing until his face was wet with tears. “Weep with me, Sabina!” he cried. “Lament for me and tear out your hair, like a good wife!”
Sporus obligingly began to sweep the filthy floor with his unbound tresses and to make a keening noise.
“Caesar, there’s no need to give up hope,” said Epaphroditus quietly. “Not yet.”
“You think I weep for myself, but I don’t,” said Nero. “I weep for those who will never see me on the stage. What an artist the world is losing!”
Titus sat on one of the stools. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, exhausted. His consciousness came and went. The afternoon wore on, but time seemed to come to a stop. The whole world contracted to the dismal little room in which he found himself.
Phaon produced some bread and water. Nero sipped a bit of the water but did not eat. He told them that they should begin to dig a grave for him, so as to hide his body from his enemies. “Otherwise they’ll cut off my head and take it back to Roma to prove to everyone I’m dead. Don’t let them cut off my head, Epaphroditus!”
“That will not happen, Caesar. I swear to you, that will not happen.”
“Better yet, you must burn me. Bring water to wash my corpse. Gather firewood to make the pyre!”
“Not yet, Caesar,” whispered Epaphroditus, wearily closing his eyes. “Not yet. Rest. Sleep if you can. Night will come, and then another day…”
Titus dozed.
He was awakened by a stirring in the room. The others were crowded together at the window, gazing out in alarm.