Primo frowned when he saw a woman with them.
He knew what women thought when they looked at him—this ugly brute with too many battle scars on his face to have any saving grace. Only if he paid generous coinage would a woman allow him access to her body. He sometimes wondered if sworn celibacy, especially in the name of a god, was easier on a man's vanity than repeated rejections by women—and certainly easier on his purse!
As Primo stepped away from the gate to greet his master, soldiers appeared suddenly at the other end of the street, armor clanking, booted feet stamping on the paving stones. Primo's eyes widened. He saw by the scorpion insignia on their metal breastplates that they were Praetorians, an elite military cohort operating directly under the emperor. Primo was further shocked by their blatant carrying of weapons, defying the ancient tradition that soldiers were forbidden to be armed within the city walls.
This was not a good sign.
The captain of the guard, a short, wiry man with a narrow face, and wearing the red-plumed helmet of an officer, strode up and said, "Are you Sebastianus Gallus?"
Sebastianus maintained his composure as he strode up and said, "I am he."
"You are to come with us by order of the emperor."
Sebastianus nodded and turned to Primo. But as he gave orders to his chief steward to see to the rest of his party, the Praetorians began rounding everyone up, no questions asked, using their spears as goads.
Sebastianus protested. "Let them go. They have done nothing."
But his words fell on deaf ears. And so they were all taken: Sebastianus and Ulrika, Timonides and Nestor, as well as Primo who, as a veteran of the legions, instinctively fell into step with the guards upon the words: "by order of the emperor."
They were taken by wagon to the Palatine Hill where, according to legend, a she-wolf had suckled the babies Romulus and Remus, founders of Rome, thus imbuing the spot with great mystical power. Here, overlooking the Forum and the Circus Maximus, the Imperial Palace loomed majestically, its white marble walls, terraces, columns, and fountains glowing against the night sky with lamps and torches beyond counting, as if the new emperor were trying to command even the night to retreat.
As the wagon rumbled beneath massive arches and past colossal statues, Timonides silently blamed himself for the terrible fate they were about to suffer. All those falsified horoscopes! Had he really thought he could get away with it?
Primo, standing in the swaying wagon as if riding out a storm at sea, thought grimly of the battles he had survived, only to end up suffering a coward's death.
Sebastianus held onto Ulrika, his arm tight about her waist as he tried to think of what he could say, whom he could bribe to obtain his friends' release, for if Nero wanted to punish the friends of Claudius, then only he, Sebastianus Gallus, should be held accountable. Surely this girl, an elderly astrologer and his simpleton son, and the chief steward of his household had nothing to do with it.
But Sebastianus had heard what emperors did to ensure themselves of complete loyalty among their subjects—they left not a single friend of their predecessors alive. Would Nero be any different from Tiberius and Caligula and Claudius before him?
Down a narrow lane lit by torches in sconces, the wagon was brought to a halt and the detainees ordered down. Surrounded by the elite cohort, Sebastianus and his companions were hurried through an unmarked, unguarded door, down a long dim corridor, up steep stairs, and along yet more narrow halls, the sound of their footsteps whispering off marble walls, their shadows stretching and shrinking in flickering light. Sebastianus saw fear on his companions' faces and tried to think of words of assurance.
As they were taken into a wider corridor where servants now slipped past bearing platters and pitchers, they heard a dull roar of voices, and when the captain of the guard drew aside a heavy tapestry to reveal an audience chamber ablaze with light, Sebastianus and his companions blinked in surprise.
The imperial reception hall was vast, with a forest of columns, towering statues adorned in gold and precious stones, a marble floor that shone like glass, and it was crammed with people milling about in Roman togas, military uniforms, foreign dress. Sebastianus and his companions stared in amazement at the visitors awaiting audience: statesmen and senators, officials and foreign dignitaries, ambassadors and princes. There were couriers bearing the winged staffs of messengers as they hurried to and fro, secretaries recording in shorthand on wax tablets and papyrus, sycophantic courtiers bowing and scraping, slaves and servants—all creating a din that rose to the high ceiling, where dazzling gold and silver mosaics proclaimed the wealth and majesty of the Caesars.
When he realized where they were, that this was where Claudius had received visitors and foreign dignitaries, that in fact this was the imperial throne room (although the throne and the new Caesar could not be seen through the crowd) Sebastianus said to the Praetorian captain, "Why have we been brought before the emperor?" From what he had heard, enemies of Claudius had simply been arrested and taken straight to prison or execution. None had been granted an audience by the new Caesar.
The captain did not reply but kept his small eyes fixed across the immense hall, as if awaiting a signal.
Standing with his master, and momentarily forgetting his fear, Timonides eyed the platters of food passing by, his mouth watering as he wondered who it was all for and why it appeared that untouched platters were being returned to the kitchens. At his side, Nestor smiled and giggled at the colorful people, at the amusing sounds of different languages and dialects, the comical way men gestured as they argued, told tales, expressed opinions.
Primo, a veteran of foreign wars, observed the scene with a jaded eye. He knew that ambassadors were here to create or break treaties, that envoys had come to make or break promises, that men had come to beseech, cajole, praise, or kiss the imperial buttocks, and that nothing any of these self-important men accomplished here today was going to be worth a jot in a hundred years.
At Sebastianus's side, Ulrika watched and waited in apprehension. She, too, was wondering why they had been brought before the emperor.
And then she saw, standing between two dignitaries in the distinctive robes and headdresses of the Parthian Empire, a familiar woman. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, and her arms and hands were stained with blood. In shock, Ulrika realized it was the apparition she had seen in the countryside when she was twelve. Why are you here? she silently asked the ghost. Why do you haunt this place?
Realizing that her heart raced and that she was breathing rapidly, Ulrika placed a hand on her breast and tried to force herself to calm down. Her visions were no longer something to be afraid of, but to control. And so first she must overcome her fear—
The breath stopped in her chest.
Your lungs are in a hurry...