The story required little in the way of background. Everyone in the audience would know the tale already. When a friend of the king’s son boasted of his wife’s virtue, the reckless Sextus Tarquinius felt obliged to take it from her; arriving while her husband was away, he took advantage of Lucretia’s hospitality and raped her. Unable to bear her shame, Lucretia used a dagger to kill herself. When her body was shown to an angry crowd in the Forum, King Tarquinius and his wicked son were driven from Roma and the Republic was founded.
Epictetus quickly scanned the text. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Hardly more than a vulgar mime show,” he declared. “According to the stage instructions, the rape takes place right on stage, and so does Lucre- tia’s suicide.”
“Seneca saw fit to include all sorts of shock effects in his plays,” noted Sporus. “Thyestes eats his roasted children right in front of the audience, and Oedipus gouges out his eyes. They use hidden bladders and pig’s blood.”
“If Vitellius thinks he’s another Seneca, he’s completely deluded,” said Lucius, taking his turn at scanning the text. “This dialogue is utter drivel.”
Sporus shrugged. “Still, if this is the sort of thing Vitellius likes, it’s a chance for me to please him.”
Lucius shook his head. “I didn’t like Asiaticus’s manner. What an oily fellow!”
“Yes, he wasn’t quite what I expected, either,” said Sporus. “Men seldom are. Still, he has a certain beast-like appeal. If you imagine him outfitted as a gladiator-”
“I’ll let you get on with it, then,” said Lucius, glad that Sporus had chosen Epictetus to practise with her and not him. Asiaticus’s visit had put him in a foul mood. He needed to take a walk. Epaphroditus’s apartments were off the long portico that fronted the meadows and the man-made lake at the heart of the Golden House. Perhaps he would walk all the way around the lake.
He fetched a cloak, though for such a mild winter day he probably wouldn’t need it. As he made ready to leave, he heard Sporus and Epictetus declaiming their lines.
“Who is at the door?”
“It is I, Sextus Tarquinius, your husband’s friend and the son of the king.”
“But my husband is not home tonight.”
“I know. But would you deny me your hospitality? Open your door to me, Lucretia. Let me in!”
Lucius smiled. Epictetus seemed to be getting into the spirit of the thing, despite his avowed disdain for the material. It occurred to Lucius that the slave might be taking a certain vicarious pleasure in playing such a role opposite the unobtainable object of his affection.
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.