“You sound wistful,” said Lucius.

“I’m thinking of the old days. What might Nero have achieved if he’d built this amphitheatre instead of the Golden House, and if he’d known how to please the people? They don’t want to see an emperor play Oedipus on the stage. They want to see a bull fly through the air!”

“Speaking of the bull… where did it go?” said Martial.

Lucius looked up, squinting at the sunlight. The bull and its rider were nowhere to be seen. Nor was the contraption that had hoisted them into the air. Bull, rider, and rigging had all vanished somehow while everyone were distracted by the shower of tokens, creating the illusion that the bull had carried Hercules to Olympus, melting into the ether. As others in the audience began to realize what had happened, another tumultuous round of acclamations rang through the amphitheatre.

Amid the jubilation, a second intermission was announced.

While Lucius and his friends stood and stretched themselves, a well-dressed messenger appeared and spoke in Martial’s ear.

Martial’s eyes grew wide. “All three of us?” he said.

The man nodded.

Martial turned to his friends. “A humble poet’s dream come true! Follow me, both of you.” Without waiting, he hurried off.

“Where is he taking us?” said Lucius to Epaphroditus.

“I imagine one of his patrons is hosting a private party during the intermission,” said Epaphroditus. “More food, more wine.”

Lucius glanced over his shoulder. Cornelia was standing and conversing with one of her fellow Vestals. She turned her face in his direction. He tried to hang back, hoping to exchange parting glances, but Epaphroditus grabbed his arm and pulled him along.

They followed Martial and the courier through the vestibule, then past a cordon of Praetorians and down a splendidly decorated hallway that terminated in a flight of porphyry steps. The purple marble shone with veins of crimson under the filtered sunlight.

Martial skipped up the steps, following the courier. He looked back and saw that his friends were hesitating. “Don’t just stand there, you two. Come along!”

Lucius ascended the marble steps into the imperial box, his heart racing. He looked at Epaphroditus for reassurance, but the older man, normally so calm and self-possessed, appeared to be as flustered as Lucius himself.

What was Epaphroditus feeling? Once he had lived at the very centre of power, but for more than ten years he had been retired from imperial service, living a modest, quiet existence, occasionally waxing nostalgic for his glory days under Nero but more often content to sit in his garden and talk about philosophy and literature with Epictetus and Dio. Nero was long gone. The Golden House had been demolished and dismantled. Epaphroditus had survived, but in the new world of the Flavians, he was a forgotten man.

They were led before the emperor, who remained seated, with his sister on one side and his daughter on the other. His brother stood nearby. The courier presented Martial and Epaphroditus, and then Lucius heard his own name spoken aloud and had the presence of mind to step forward. The emperor gave each of them a gracious nod.

Titus’s cheeks and forehead were flushed. His eyes glittered with excitement. “So, Martial, these fellows are members of your little circle, the friendly critics who have the privilege of hearing your poems even before I do.”

“Yes, Caesar. And a good thing that is, or else Caesar’s ears would be subjected to some very bad poems.”

“That other writer fellow you consort with, the one who wrote that lovely elegy for Melancomas-”

“Dio of Prusa?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Is Dio not with you?”

“Alas, Caesar, Dio is indisposed.”

“What a liar you are, Martial! I know Dio’s philosophical bent. Admit that the man is not here today because he objects to such games on principle.”

“I may have heard him utter some such nonsense.”

Titus nodded. “Well, the world shall be deprived of Dio’s impressions of the day’s spectacles, but I do look forward to reading yours. Have the proceedings inspired you?”

“Exceedingly, Caesar. To enter the Amphitheatre of the Flavians is to be transported into a world where perfect justice reigns and the gods walk among us. I wish I never had to leave.”

Titus laughed. “See if you feel the same after sitting through the next few hours. I have the best seat in the house, and my backside is already numb. Oh, I’m not complaining. The animal hunts were splendid, truly first-rate. Though on such a fine day I’d rather be out hunting, myself. Hadn’t you, Lucius Pinarius? I’m told you’re a hunter.”

Lucius was taken aback, surprised that the emperor knew anything at all about him, much less such a personal detail. Had Titus gleaned the information from one of Vespasian’s old dossiers? “Yes, Caesar, I do enjoy hunting. But there are no cameleopards or aurochs on my estate.”

“No? You really should get some. The thing with the bull – that was really quite something, wasn’t it? The engineers assured me they could pull it off, but I was biting my lip there for a while, let me tell you. What a mess if the rope had broken! But I should never have doubted my trusty engineers. Just give those fellows a winch and some rope and then get out of their way, as my father used to say. If they can hurl a missile over the walls of Jerusalem and hit the forehead of a Jewish priest on the dome of the temple, why shouldn’t they be able to make a bull fly?

“But I fear the best of the day is over, at least for me. I’d go home right now if I had the option. Nothing left but the bestiarii and the gladiators. Carpophorus is on the bill – the best bestiarius in the world, able to kill any animal he’s matched against with his bare hands if he has to. Fun to watch, but expect no surprises. And then the gladiators. Who wants to see a lot of fat, sweaty men spill each other’s blood? I saw enough gore in Jerusalem to last a lifetime, but I suppose it’s a novelty to these layabouts in Roma who never venture farther than the Appian Gate. Of course my brother loves that sort of thing, don’t you, Domitian? He could watch gladiators strut and stab each other all day long. He gets quite excited by a good match. Nero was bored by gladiator shows, wasn’t he, Epaphroditus?”

Epaphroditus blinked. “I suppose he was, Caesar.”

Domitian stepped forward with his arms crossed and an unpleasant expression on his face. His young son, watching him intently, likewise crossed his arms and glowered.

“You only suppose?” said Domitian. “I thought you knew Nero quite well. With him to the bitter end, weren’t you?”

Titus had been making conversation with his guests, playing the role of the congenial emperor, which his father had perfected; his brother’s aggressive tone made everyone uncomfortable, including his family members.

“Epaphroditus is not here to be questioned,” said Domitilla. Like her brothers, she had the broad face and prominent nose typical of the Flavians; her temperament seemed closer to that of the affable Titus than to the dour Domitian.

Epaphroditus cleared his throat. “I suppose I knew Nero as well as anyone, especially in his last days. Caesar is quite correct: Nero was not much interested in blood sports.”

“Preferred plays and poetry and that sort of thing, didn’t he?” said Titus helpfully. “My versatile brother likes both gladiators and poetry, don’t you, Domitian? Quite a poet himself. Wrote a rather good one about the battle on the Capitoline Hill, when that fiend Vitellius set the Temple of Jupiter on fire. Domitian saw it all with his own eyes; came up with some verses so vivid I feel I was there myself – I smell the smoke and hear the screams. Just the sort of thing I want you to do, Martial, for the games today.”

“No one who sees these games will have need of my verses, Caesar, for they shall never forget them,” said Martial. “But to the unfortunate few who miss this occasion, I will strive to convey some small hint of the glorious sights and sounds I’ve witnessed, however inadequate my words maybe.”