It also occurred to Lucius that Sporus might be imagining yet another return to imperial favour. Why not? Nero had married her. Otho had made her his mistress. Vitellius might be oblivious to her charms, preferring a more “beast-like” partner (to use Sporus’s word), but Asiaticus had blatantly displayed his attraction, and Asiaticus was a powerful man.
Lucius sighed. As he left the apartments he heard a last exchange of dialogue.
“No! Unhand me, brute! I am faithful to my husband!”
“Yield to me, Lucretia! I will have my way with you!” Epictetus declaimed with such vigour that his voice broke. He cleared his throat, then spoke again, sounding rather chagrined. “And then the stage directions say that we struggle a bit, and then I tear your gown
…”
At sundown, a group of Praetorians arrived to escort them to the emperor’s private quarters. Sporus walked ahead of the others, conscious of her special status. Lucius and Epaphroditus followed. Epictetus came along as well, ostensibly to attend to his master.
They were shown to a large, octagonal banquet room. The walls were of dazzling multicoloured marble and there was a splashing fountain at the entrance. Lucius had never seen the room, but it was obviously quite familiar to Sporus, who must have spent many happy hours in this room, first with Nero, then with Otho. Lucius heard her sigh as she gazed about, assessing the changes wrought by Vitellius and his wife, Galeria, who was said to find Nero’s taste too understated. A great many statues, decorative lamps, bronze vases, ivory screens, and woven hangings had been crowded into the room, filling the spaces against the walls and between the dining couches.
The only part of the room not cluttered with precious objects was a raised dais against one wall. The dais’s sole decoration was a larger-than-life marble statue of Nero, who was depicted in Greek dress with a laurel crown on his head. It appeared that this dais was to serve as the stage for the play, since the dining couches where arrayed before it in a semicircle.
All the couches were empty except for two in centre of the front row. Upon one reclined the emperor’s wife, Galeria, and their seven-year-old son, Germanicus. Upon the other couch, occupying the entire space, lay the emperor. A Molossian mastiff almost as big as a man lay curled before his couch. The dog sprang up and growled when Lucius and the others entered, then came to heel when its master made a shushing sound.
As Vitellius roused himself and stood, Lucius pondered the considerable energy required to set in motion such an imposing mass of flesh. The emperor was very tall, with big arms and a huge belly and the flushed face of a heavy drinker. As he took a few steps towards them, he limped slightly. Vitellius’s lameness was said to be the result of a long-ago chariot accident in the days of his debauched youth; Caligula had been driving.
Vitellius held a sword, clutching the handle in his right fist and fondling the blade with the fingertips of his left hand. The pommel was ornately decorated and the blade was covered with gold. Lucius let out a little gasp when he realized what he was seeing: the sword of the Divine Julius. One of Vitellius’s followers had stolen Caesar’s sword from its sacred place in the Shrine of Mars and presented to Vitellius when he was first proclaimed emperor. Vitellius carried it in place of the traditional dagger that his predecessors kept on their person as a symbol of the power of life and death they wielded over their subjects. He kept it always at his side like a lucky talisman. He even slept with it.
Beneath the folds of his toga, Lucius touched his own talisman, the fascinum he had been given on the last day of his father’s life. Like his father, he wore it for special occasions and in times of danger.
Vitellius stared openly at Sporus. Unlike Asiaticus, he did not leer. His gaze was curious, but not lustful. If anything, to judge by the way he curled his upper lip, he was disgusted by what he saw.
“So you’re the one who gave up his balls to please Nero, eh? Ah well, plenty of boys have lost their balls for less reason than that.” Vitellius slowly circled Sporus, fondling the sword in his hands. “Then along came Otho. He took a fancy to you, as well. I suppose he looked at you and thought: there’s a bargain, the work’s already been done! Rather like a quality piece of real estate already refurbished by the previous owner.”
The emperor completed his circuit and stood before Sporus, looming over her. She stared up at him for a moment, then lowered her eyes.
“That Otho!” Vitellius clucked his tongue. “Never knew what to make of the fellow. So amenable! Avoided confrontation at all costs. Supposedly he was Nero’s best friend, but when Nero wanted his Poppaea, Otho gave her up without a fight. I certainly wouldn’t give up my wife, just because a friend asked for her. Would I, my sweet?”
The empress Galeria, reclining next to her son, smiled sweetly. She was Vitellius’s second wife and considerably younger than her husband. She was wearing one of Poppaea’s gowns, a magnificent confection of redand-purple silk to which she had added a great deal of silver embroidery and strings of pearls. Her son reclined beside her, staring vacantly at Sporus. Germanicus was large for his age. Lucius could see that the boy resembled his father, with his chubby cheeks and fleshy limbs, and realized with a shiver that Germanicus was probably the age his father had been when Tiberius inducted him into the debaucheries at Capri. The boy was said to have a stutter so severe that he could hardly speak at all.
“As long as Nero reigned, Otho seemed quite content to live in exile,” continued Vitellius, fondling the sword and gazing at Sporus. “Never joined in any of the plots against the man who stole his wife, not even after Nero kicked poor Poppaea to death.” He glanced over his shoulder at Galeria. “If anyone kicked you to death, my dear, I would certainly take steps to avenge you.”
Galeria laughed quietly. Germanicus made a braying noise.
“Perhaps Otho was just biding his time,” said Vitellius, “waiting for his chance. It did seem that he was going to have the last laugh, at least for a while; he ended up living here in Nero’s Golden House, having his way with Nero’s new version of Poppaea. Poppaea with a penis, if you like!” He stepped closer to Sporus, towering over her. “But along I came, and poof! Otho vanished like a candle in the wind. In the taverns, they sing a song about him: ‘Gave up his wife, gave up his life, all without strife.’ I can’t have any respect for a fellow like that. I wonder what sort of lover he made. How did he compare to Nero? Poppaea could have told us, but Poppaea is dead. Perhaps you can enlighten us, eunuch. But not yet. We have a play to rehearse!”
The emperor clapped his hands. Lucius and Epaphroditus were shown to couches and offered food and wine. Epictetus stood behind his master. The fare was exquisite, but with Praetorians stationed against each wall, Lucius did not find the atmosphere relaxing. Little Germanicus made a great deal of noise when he ate, snorting and drooling and chewing with his mouth open.
Vitellius took Sporus’s hand and escorted her onto the dais. With his sword, he gestured to the statue of Nero. “This is one of the statues that was pulled down after Nero’s death, then restored by Otho. If you look closely, you can see where the head was reattached to the neck. It’s fitting the statue should be here, because tomorrow’s banquet will be in honour of Nero. First, there will be a sacrifice at his tomb on the Hill of Gardens, followed by gladiator games and then a feast for everyone in the city. Only very special guests will be invited to the banquet in this room.”
Vespasian’s supporters were marching on the city, Lucius thought, and the response of Vitellius was to invoke the spirit of Nero and to treat the people of Roma to yet another feast. The man knew only one way to rule, by throwing parties; the graver the crisis, the grander the party.