“I can see why Ganymede is a smooth as a baby,” said Lucius, “but you’d think a brawny fellow like Jupiter would be shown with a bit more hair on his chest, wouldn’t you? Yet the painters never seem to show hair on a man’s chest, and neither do the sculptors. Is it true that Otho didn’t have a hair on his body?”
Sporus laughed. “True: Otho had not a hair on his body. Or on his head. When he took off that hairpiece-”
“Otho wore a hairpiece? You never told me that!”
“He made me take a vow to tell no one, even if he should die in battle. Well, he didn’t die in battle, did he? He chose to abandon me by his own hand! So I’ll tell you anyway. Yes, Otho wore a hairpiece. It was a very good one, I must admit. It fooled you, obviously!” Sporus laughed. “As for the rest of him, even I have more hair on my body than Otho did. He went to great lengths to remove every strand. He shaved here, plucked there, and in certain delicate areas he used a wax poultice to depilate himself. He was so vain about his physique, you see. When he was naked, he wanted nothing to obscure the sight of all those muscles. And of course he liked the touch of silk against his hairless flesh. What a wardrobe the man had! This robe I’m wearing belonged to Otho…” Sporus’s voice trailed off.
Lucius thought of another thing that Epaphroditus had said: “That is the look of Sporus remembering those who have died and left her behind.”
There was a quiet knock at the door. Epictetus entered.
For a long time, Lucius had been confused by the lame slave’s furtive, almost cringing demeanour whenever he was in Sporus’s presence. Epaphroditus treated Epictetus with respect, acknowledging and even deferring to his young slave’s immense erudition, and allowed Epictetus considerable freedom to do and say whatever he pleased. Epictetus was no cowed underling, yet around Sporus he behaved awkwardly and averted his eyes; even his limp became more pronounced. Eventually, Lucius realized that the slave was in love with Sporus and painfully aware that his love could never be requited. Sporus had been the consort of two of the most powerful men on earth; she could hardly be expected to take notice of a lame slave who hid his homely face behind a shaggy beard. To be sure, Epictetus was clever; Epaphroditus declared that he had never known any man who was better read or more thoroughly versed in philosophy, which was quite remarkable considering that Epictetus was the same age as Lucius. But what good was all his learning to Epictetus when the object of his affection was more interested in muscular legs and depilating poultices than in Stoic discourse?
“There’s a visitor in the vestibule,” said Epictetus, glancing at Sporus and then at the floor.
“Epaphroditus is out for the afternoon,” said Lucius. “The visitor will have to come back later.”
“I failed to make myself clear,” said Epictetus, daring to look up again. “The visitor is here to see Sporus.”
Sporus sat upright. “Me? No one ever comes to see me any more. A friend of Otho’s, perhaps?”
“No. He comes from the emperor Vitellius,” said Epictetus. “His calls himself Asiaticus.”
Sporus raised an eyebrow. “Not a big, muscular fellow, rakishly handsome? Struts like a gladiator but grins like a spintria?”
Epictetus frowned. “That might describe him.”
“Who is this Asiaticus?” asked Lucius. “How do you know him?”
“I don’t know him,” said Sporus, “but it looks as if I soon shall. Really, Lucius, you don’t know the stories about Vitellius and Asiaticus?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What a sheltered existence your father imposed on you, sparing your delicate ears from the gossip of the court. Nero loved telling tales about Vitellius and his stud horse. The relationship between those two made Nero’s bedroom antics seem quite tame.”
“My ears are open,” said Lucius, rolling onto his stomach and propping his chin on his fists.
“Quickly, then: Asiaticus was born a slave, no different from any other slave, until in adolescence a certain appendage became rather prominent. When Vitellius saw the boy standing naked on the auction block one day, he didn’t buy him for his brains. Like a racing master who’d acquired a new stud, Vitellius took him home and tried him out right away. Vitellius was happy with his purchase.
“But as you know, in these relationships it’s not always clear who is the master and who the slave, and desire isn’t always mutual. Asiaticus grew tired of Vitellius, and who could blame him? They say Vitellius is actually rather skilled at lovemaking, but really, can you imagine having that mass of quivering flesh on top of you? Or under you, I should imagine, since I suspect that to be his preferred position. Anyway, at some point, young Asiaticus had quite enough and ran off. Vitellius wept and tore out his hair! He was heartbroken. Then, one day, Vitellius was down in Puteoli and who should he come across at a little stand on the waterfront, flirting with the sailors and selling cheap wine hardly better than vinegar, but Asiaticus. Vitellius burst into tears and moved to embrace him, but Asiaticus was off like an arrow. Vitellius’s men gave chase, knocking down half the market stalls along the waterfront, and finally caught Asiaticus and brought him back in irons. A happy ending – the lovers were reunited!”
Lucius laughed. “Something tells me there’s more to this story.”
“Much more! So, it’s back to Roma, where all goes well – for a while. This time it’s Vitellius who decides he’s had enough of Asiaticus – the insolence, the lying, the thieving, the cavorting behind his master’s back. Vitellius stamps his feet and rants and pulls out his whip, but eventually he makes good on a longstanding threat and sells Asiaticus to a new master, a fellow who keeps a travelling band of gladiators. Again the lovers are separated. Vitellius thinks he’s seen the last of Asiaticus, who’s gone from spilling seed in his master’s bedroom to spilling blood in the arena.”
Standing in the doorway, Epictetus cleared his throat. “The man is just outside, still waiting-”
“Don’t worry, I won’t keep him much longer,” said Sporus. “Well, to make a long story short, one day Vitellius is invited to be the guest of honour at games being put on by a local magistrate in some country town. Who should be scheduled for the final match but Asiaticus! Vitellius goes pale when the love of his life enters the arena, but he puts on a brave face and tells himself he’s long since gotten over that scoundrel and would be happy to see him suffer an agonizing death. Then the match begins, and things go badly for Asiaticus from the start. He’s wounded once, twice, and ends up flat on his back with his opponent’s sword at his throat. The crowd screams for his death, and the magistrate is ready to give the signal, when Vitellius leaps to his feet and cries out, ‘Spare him! Spare my sweet Asiaticus!’ Vitellius buys him back on the spot, paying an outrageous sum, and down in the gladiators’ quarters the two are reunited. Imagine the tears and kisses and whispers of forgiveness! I know this sounds like a tawdry Greek novel, but I swear I didn’t make it up.”
Epictetus cleared his throat again.
“And the rest of the story?” said Lucius.
“Vitellius took Asiaticus with him when he went to govern Germania. He ruled there the way he’s ruled in Roma – wild banquets and gladiator shows to amuse the local chieftains while his soldiers raped and plundered the citizenry. To make amends for having made him a gladiator, Vitellius freed Asiaticus and gave him an official post. Asiaticus turned out to be rather useful, apparently; living by wits and brawn had trained him to be just the sort of factotum a governor like Vitellius needed. Few were the troublemakers Asiaticus couldn’t bully or seduce into submission. And now he’s here in Roma, helping his old master run the show. Not just a freedman any longer, but a respected member of the equestrian order.”