Flaming stanchions lined the temple’s stairway, and Praetorian Guards stood at attention. A guard saluted and said, “Good evening, Captain Gallus.”
“Evening.” Justinus saluted back.
“I’ve never had a chance to thank you, sir,” the guard said. “You saved my life in that wretched hole.”
Justinus had no recollection of the soldier, but he clapped him on the back. “You’re a brave man.”
They had all been brave. The Romans. The Britons. The dead.
Weighted by memories of war, Justinus trudged up the steps toward the massive Corinthian columns. Music spilled from the temple’s entryway, along with shrieks of laughter. The air stank of rich perfume and rotting fruit, reeked of decadence. Every sinew of Justinus’s body begged him to go home and make this an early night, but he steeled himself. Like Jesus and the moneylenders, he would confront Nero, steer Rome back to righteousness.
He walked briskly through the temple’s sanctuary trying to ignore the grunts and groans that emanated from darkened corners.
The sight of Tigellinus, sitting before the palace doors, strengthened his resolve. The prefect sat in a chair, feet propped on a table inlaid with semi-precious stones. He gnawed on a boar’s rib, cracked the bone and made sucking sounds as he extracted the marrow.
“Gallus Justinus,” he said.
“Good evening Ofonius.”
Tigellinus removed the bone from his mouth, frowned, and ran his fingers down a list of names. “You’re not on the list.”
“I’ll take the place of Flavia Rubria Honoria.”
Tigellinus swung his feet onto the ground and let out a protracted belch. “You’re not much of a substitute for a pretty girl.”
Justinus slammed his fist on the table, and said, “Don’t bother getting up.”
He entered a colonnaded courtyard. Exotic flowers perfumed the air—lilies, night jasmine and camellias raised in Nero’s steam-heated, sunken garden. Fueled by wine and opium, Nero’s guests didn’t seem to notice the evening’s dropping temperature. Scantily clad bodies lay entangled on carved benches; couples kissed beneath the portico, writhed against the walls, and slid to the mosaic floors.
Two pavilions stood at the garden’s center. Within one of the pavilions a flutist played, providing accompaniment for a dancing courtesan. She removed her remaining veil and threw the sash at Justinus. Cupping her ample breasts, she pinched her nipples till they blushed, and Justinus felt a twinge within his groin.
He hurried on, walking along the portico. Footsteps tapped behind him. He turned to see who followed, and a man drew behind a pillar.
Justinus felt every muscle in his body tighten, and instantly his mind grew lucid as if he’d been transported back to the battlefield.
The man leaned against the pillar, ignoring Justinus, and stared at the courtesan.
Justinus continued walking, weaving through small groups of people, nodding at the guests he knew without stopping to chat. At the courtyard’s far end, fountains splashed in Nero’s famed nymphaeum. Sheets of glistening water cascaded over walls of rose-veined marble and sea-green serpentine. A scalloped fountain stood between two stairways. In the center of the fountain Venus spouted crimson wine from milk-white marble breasts. Two boys, not much older than eleven, stood beneath the goddess, their mouths open as they guzzled her offering. A gray-bearded senator stood by the fountain admiring the boys.
The man from the pillar stood nearby.
Justinus headed toward the stairway on the right, then abruptly turned the other way and ducked into a chamber adjoining the nymphaeum. He slipped through the crowd, hoping to lose his pursuer. The room was one of Nero’s favorites—a vaulted ceiling and sky blue walls, bordered by glass tiles the color of indigo. On the far wall frescoed windows gave way to frescoed views, and painted porticos stretched endlessly through halcyon gardens. On the adjacent wall a mural depicted the adventures of Odysseus. Justinus hoped he might run into Nero, but the princeps was not to be found.
“Gallus Justinus,” a woman’s voice purred. “My, my, how you’ve grown up.”
Justinus recognized Vibia Petilia, a widow with an appetite for younger men. Lead powder caked the wrinkles of her face. The starkness of her complexion contrasted with the slash of her vermilion mouth and made her appear more gorgon than human. Talon-like fingernails dug into his arm.
“You look well,” Justinus said, attempting to be polite.
“Donkey piss!” Vibia chuckled. “I rival an Egyptian mummy.” Her kohl-rimmed eyes ran down his body, lingered at his crotch.
“Have you seen our host?” Justinus asked.
She nudged her sagging chin toward the ceiling. “Upstairs in the banquet hall.”
Escaping Vibia, Justinus headed back to the nymphaeum. He climbed one of the double stairways, pausing at the second story to look down at the garden and didn’t see the man who had been following him.
He hurried along the vestibule, rehearsing what he planned to say to Nero. When he reached the banquet hall’s entrance, powerful fingers snagged his shoulder.
“Let me pass Ofonius,” Justinus said quietly.
“One move and I’ll have your cock.”
“In your dreams.”
Tigellinus barked out an order and guards appeared, their daggers drawn. Within the banquet hall, all heads turned and whispers stirred the crowd.
“Gallus Justinus!” Nero’s voice rang out above the others. “I see Tigellinus has found you. Welcome to my humble gathering. You’re just in time for my next song.”
The prefect’s paw remained clamped on Justinus’s shoulder.
Justinus wrenched himself away and entered the banquet hall.
Torches cast Nero’s guests in ever-changing light. Rome’s elite reclined on couches clustered around small tables littered with exotic foods: peacock tongues on a bed of asparagus, mint-fed snails, baby eels served in aspic with crushed pearls. More usual fare also graced the menu: eggs pickled with honey and liquamen, a pungent sauce devised from salted fish entrails. The delicacies were served in precious glassware from Nero’s extensive collection. Half-naked slaves wandered through the crowd serving wine and fruit, while in the corner of the banquet hall, elevated on a dais, a musician strummed a cithara.
Larger than a lyre, the instrument’s rich notes accompanied the tenor voice of Menecrates. Nero stood beside the master, draped in Tyrian purple silk spangled with glittering suns, a gilded laurel wreath crowning his curls.
Nearby, Poppaea Sabina, a deadly beauty who’d arranged to have her predecessor’s head served on a platter, languished on a rose-pink couch in the center of the room. She wore a stola, blue as lapis-lazuli, embroidered with silver stars. Amber tresses cascaded down her neck, flirting with lush breasts. She appeared youthful, Justinus observed, for a woman who’d discarded two husbands and now made Nero her third.
She smiled as Justinus approached, displaying sharp white teeth.
Poppaea might prove useful. Known to favor Jews, she had become an ear to Flavius Josephus, the Judean philosopher. She might provide the foothold Justinus required for the teachings of Jesus to scale the walls of the palace.
She extended a pampered hand for Justinus to kiss, her eyes thirsty.
Breaking off his song mid-verse, Nero leapt from the dais and stalked toward his wife and Justinus. “I thought you didn’t care for soldiers,” he said, glancing at Justinus and back at Poppaea.
“Brains combined with brawn are quite delicious,” she said.
“Then perhaps you should feast on Justinus tonight.”
Poppaea’s expression soured. “Meaning you have other plans?”
“Fill my friend’s cup.” Nero snapped his fingers, and a slave lifted a double-handled amphora. Nero smiled at Justinus. “My select vintage. Only the finest for an old friend.”
Justinus said. “I’d like to speak with you about Flavia.”
“Flavia who?” Poppaea asked.
“Just a girl I invited,” Nero said.
“A girl you plan to—”
“To Meditrinalia,” Nero said, cutting her off. He raised his cup. “To old friends and new wine.”
Justinus tried again, “About Flavia—”
“Drink up, while I down my tonic. It soothes the throat and opens up my pharynx, so important for a singer.” Nero gulped his drink and made a face. “And now I must see to my other guests, but Poppaea is certain to amuse you.”
Before Justinus could say more about Flavia, the princeps left.
He sipped his wine. Caecuban, the best as promised. And hardly watered. He surveyed the banquet hall, studying the guests—senators who favored Nero’s policies and could be bribed, senators’ wives (welcome if their appearance was pleasing), aspiring philosophers whose arguments Nero found amusing, a famous gladiator and an actress, an infamous prostitute and her benefactor. And, of course, Nero’s sycophants, including Elissa’s cousin, Egnatius Rubrius, a pimply youth of eighteen.
Egnatius basked in the glow of his father’s achievements. Neither athlete nor scholar, he was best known for liberal spending of his father’s assets. He reclined on a nearby couch; beside him lay a plumpish whore who’d passed into a stupor, and a young buck whose muscles attested to hours spent at the gymnasium.
Egnatius called out to Justinus, “Where’s Seneca’s nephew, the so-called poet?”
“If you mean, Lucan, he prefers intellectual pursuits.”
“Here’s a bit of poetry: scribblers who hold themselves above the state will fall.”
Egnatius was a viper, and vipers who’d not yet reached maturity were the most poisonous. Excusing himself from Poppaea, Justinus wandered to the far end of the banquet hall. A model of the new city Nero planned to build stood on a banquet board. He intended to rename Rome, Neropolis.
“Fantastic isn’t it?” Nero’s voice startled Justinus. “I call my new palace the Domus Aurea, my Golden House. When my building is complete, I shall finally live like a human being.”
What of the rest of us
? Justinus wondered.
Nero gazed lovingly at the model and pointed to a miniature replica of parkland. “My Golden House includes not only buildings, but woodland and fountains, even an artificial lake where naval battles can be staged.”
A gilded colossus of Nero towered over the complex.
“Impressive.”
“I’m glad you approve of my project. Friends must stick together, don’t you agree?”
“I have a friend that I’d like you to meet. A scholar—”
“I have no use for books these days.”
Nero steered Justinus back to the pink couch and Poppaea. He poked his wife, interrupting her conversation. “Take good care of him,” he said.
“Of course.” Poppaea smiled at Justinus, patted the couch.
He had no choice but to recline beside her.
“And now,” Nero clapped his hands, “a special treat—my pipe organ.” He nodded toward a contraption fitted with more than a dozen pipes, a board of ivory keys, and a bellows.
“He’s been practicing for weeks.” Poppaea yawned, revealing sharp white teeth again.
Nero went off to play with his new toy, leaving Justinus with Poppaea. A slave poured more wine, and Justinus settled on the couch, taking care that his thigh did not touch Poppaea’s. Her perfume assaulted him.
“Justinus,” Poppaea rested her hand on his arm, “what have you been doing with yourself?”
“Not too much,” he said. “Managing my land, straightening accounts. I get my greatest pleasure from my apple trees.”
“How exciting.” Poppaea stroked his arm. “Apples were Adam’s downfall, according to the Jews. Will apples be your downfall, Justinus?”
He saw his opening. “You favor Jewish teachings, don’t you?”
“You want to talk religion now?” Poppaea rolled her eyes. “I must be losing my touch.” She drew her hand away, her demeanor growing serious. “All right, let’s talk philosophy. It’s true I find the concept of one Almighty God fascinating. I’m interested in the mystical aspects of Judaism.”
“And have you delved into the teachings of God’s son?”
“Jesus?” Poppaea raised a lacquered eyebrow. “Josephus claims Jesus of Nazareth was a wise man, a great teacher and a performer of wonders—not the Messiah.”
“Perhaps Josephus is mistaken.”
Poppaea studied Justinus with calculating eyes. “Have you been listening to Paul of Tarsus?”
“I’ve met him, yes. Have you?”
“Not yet.” Poppaea plucked a morsel of spiced pork wrapped in grape-leaf from a platter and offered it to Justinus. When he refused, she popped it into her mouth.
“Paul speaks of the one true God, an almighty—’
“Relax,” Poppaea said. She refilled his cup, pouring from a small pitcher. “This wine is from my private stock.”
Justinus quickly downed his wine, and Poppaea poured again.
“I believe faith in that one God may save Rome from disaster. Faith in—”
“What disaster?” Poppaea let go of a slice of peppered melon to study Justinus. “No god is more powerful than Nero. Let’s drink to my husband.”
Justinus knocked back the wine, spiced with cinnamon and strangely sweet. He’d bungled everything. Even his stomach rebelled. Hoping to settle it, he reached for a bit of eel, chewed, and wondered if the eel had come alive inside his stomach.
He felt like he was swimming underwater.
What had he been saying?
He rubbed his brow. He’d been talking about Jesus, talking about Paul. He glanced at Poppaea, and she smiled at him, her teeth longer and more pointed.
Nero sat before the pipe organ, cracked his knuckles and pumped the bellows.
Justinus stood, unsteadily. He knew, from experience, once Nero began to play the audience would be held hostage, unable to escape even to relieve themselves.
He had to speak to Nero now.
His knees felt like jelly as he walked. That fool, Egnatius, had abandoned his whores and stood beside Nero, admiring the pipe organ, stroking the keyboard. They laughed as Justinus approached.
“Caesar,” Justinus said, attempting to show respect. His mouth formed the words carefully, but they came out slurred, “I mu-must speak to y-you about Fla-fla—”
Nero and Egnatius burst into another fit of laughter.
“I must—”
“Sit down before you fall.” Nero turned back to Egnatius. “He stutters like my Uncle Claudius.”
