Flavia shook her head. “I used to see Epaphroditus in the imperial court. His manner was so cowed and timid, I thought to myself: that fellow would make an ideal agent. Who would ever suspect him? So I approached Epaphroditus – cautiously, discreetly. And he rebuffed me. He told me he had seen enough chaos after the death of Nero, and could never be part of any plan that might lead to such chaos again, however well intentioned. His timidity was not an affectation, it was genuine. He wanted no more trouble in his life. Poor thing! Uncle should have left him where he was instead of dragging him out of retirement. His return to court was Epaphroditus’s undoing.”

“What made Domitian suspect him?”

She sighed. “The story is so pathetic, it pains me to tell it. Domitian heard a rumour that when Nero tried to kill himself, he failed, and it was Epaphroditus who finished the task for him. Out of loyalty and mercy, of course; nonetheless, it was the hand of Epaphroditus that dealt the final blow. Domitian called Epaphroditus before him and demanded that he tell him the truth. Epaphroditus was too frightened to lie. He admitted that he dealt the final blow to Nero. After that, Domitian became obsessed with the story. He made Epaphroditus tell it to him again and again, sometimes in the middle of the night, as if he were trying to trick the man into confessing a crime, letting slip some previously hidden detail. Eventually, Domitian got it into his head that Epaphroditus had murdered Nero. ‘And if so, was that such a bad thing?’ his courtiers would say. After all, without Nero dead, my grandfather would never have become emperor. But Uncle became convinced that Epaphroditus was a threat to him. ‘Once a man dares to kill an emperor, he’ll do it again,’ he said. Epaphroditus wasn’t involved in any conspiracy against Uncle. But he was the man who killed Nero, so he had to die.”

“That was almost thirty years ago. It’s absurd.”

“It’s mad. Uncle is mad. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I need your help.”

Her first visit had been a month earlier, and she had come to him twice since then, approaching Lucius as cautiously as she had approached Epaphroditus. Unlike Epaphroditus, Lucius had been receptive to her subtle overtures. Now she was back.

“I can also tell you that Epaphroditus left a will,” she said. “It was fetched from the keeping of the Vestals and read this morning. You were named.”

“Was I?”

“Yes. Of course, Uncle will probably invalidate the will and claim the estate for himself, since Epaphroditus was condemned as an enemy of the state.”

Did she think to incite him against Domitian by telling him that the emperor meant to cheat him out of an inheritance? If so, Lucius was offended. Greed was not his motivation. But what she said next made him realize that he had misjudged her.

“The will didn’t leave you much. Almost everything was left to a freedman of his, a philosopher called Epictetus, who’s been banished from Italy, with the stipulation that the proceeds should be used to set up a school. ‘Let my fortune, such as it is, foster the learning of philosophy.’ But to you he left a statue.”

“A statue?”

“It’s in his garden, apparently. A statue of an athlete, if I recall correctly.”

“The boxer Melancomas,” whispered Lucius, remembering the first time he had seen the statue, on the day the ash of Vesuvius fell on Roma.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

Epaphroditus had once remarked, “Melancomas will be here long after the rest of us are gone.” The statue had survived its owner.

Lucius stood across the brazier from her, looking at her through the flames. He tried to see her not as a beautiful woman or a grieving widow, nor as the niece of the emperor, but as a potential partner in a very dangerous enterprise. Could she be trusted to keep silent when she needed to? Was she clever enough to hatch a successful plot against a man as suspicious as her uncle, and would she have the courage to see it through?

Her reasons for hating and fearing her uncle were obvious enough. Married to a Flavian cousin and the mother of seven children, she had long been a member of Domitian’s inner circle. After the death of the emperor’s son, and the subsequent failure of his wife to produce another heir, Domitian had placed two of Flavia’s young sons in the line of succession. Her future and that of her family had looked very bright.

Lucius recalled an ancient Etruscan proverb: “Sit too near the flame and your cloak will catch fire.” In one of his frequent fits of suspicion, Domitian had turned against Flavia. His pretext was that she and her husband had secretly converted to the religion of the Jews, or else had become Christians; it hardly mattered which, since both cults promoted atheism and a disrespect for the gods, which could not be tolerated within the imperial family. Were the charges true? Lucius had never asked Flavia, nor had she told him.

Whatever the truth, Flavia’s husband had been executed, and she and her children had been exiled to the island of Pandateria, off the western coast of Italy. Eventually, Domitian had allowed Flavia to return to Roma – indeed, had compelled her to do so – while her children remained on the island to ensure their mother’s loyalty.

Flavia was bitter and desperate. She was motivated by revenge, but also by the desire to see her progeny survive. Every day Domitian lived, she and her children were in danger. A botched attempt to kill him would certainly mean death for them all. Even a successful assassination might lead to their destruction, but it might also free them from fear and allow them to be reunited.

Looking at her across the flames, Lucius made up his mind to trust her.

“You know why I’m here,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Will you help us?”

He thought of Cornelia. He thought of Epaphroditus. He also thought of Apollonius, but in the present circumstance he could find no inspiration in the precepts of the Teacher. Lucius himself was not truly a philosopher, only a sincere but oft-thwarted seeker. Nor was he a man of action – but he might yet become one. “Yes. I’ll help you. But what can I do?”

She flashed a smile of triumph. It marred her beauty. He suddenly saw her as the niece of her uncle, more like him than not – rapacious, unstoppable, murderous. She had made no mention of the danger he would surely face. Probably she did not care whether Lucius survived or not; he was simply a tool to be used. Her questionable motives, the likelihood that he would be killed, the risk of failure – none of these mattered to Lucius. He was determined to cast his lot with hers.

“Uncle will send for you very soon,” she said. “Today, perhaps. Perhaps within the hour.”

His heart sank. “By all the gods, what have I done to attract his attention this time?”

“It’s not what you’ve done, but who you are. You’ll understand when he tells you. He will ask a favor of you.”

“What favour?”

She shook her head. “It’s better if you know as little as possible. Agree to help him. Do as he asks. Observe and listen. Through you, an opportunity may arise that will lead us to success.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to, not yet. Just go to him when he summons you.”

“That’s all you can tell me?”

“One more thing. Within the House of the Flavians, there is one person whom you can trust absolutely. If he should tell you to say or do something, do as he says. I speak of an imperial steward named Stephanus. He’s a brave man, and not squeamish. When the moment finally comes, he’s the man we’re all counting on.”

Hilarion appeared in the doorway, looking shaken. “Forgive me for interrupting-”

“What is it, Hilarion?”

“There’s a visitor in the vestibule. A courtier from the palace. He says he’s come to take you there. Praetorians came with him. They’re waiting for him in the street.”