Page 44 of Brother at Arms

The spare form of the man called Hesiodos stepped through the door I held open, the scowl on his thin face deeper than usual.

“You are summoned,” he snapped. “The trouble you have dug yourself into is deep on this occasion, Leonidas. We must go, now.”

Chapter 14

We followed Hesiodos, who would not wait for Cassia to put away her writing things or me to change into a dry tunic. The one I wore clung to the damp spots on my body I’d missed with the towel.

“I’m not sure what we’ve done to displease him,” Cassia said in bewilderment as we hastened down the Quirinal.

“It is not for me to instruct you,” Hesiodos said curtly.

He quickened his pace, making certain he stayed ahead of us as we made our way through the relatively empty Forum to the Palatine. We climbed the road to the top of the hill, the sound of builders’ hammers briskly tapping stone growing louder with our ascent. I heard the creak and groan of cranes and the shouts of workers who wedged blocks into place.

The Praetorian guards at the gate swiftly opened it as Hesiodos approached. One I knew, a man called Servius, regarded us in surprise as Hesiodos swept past him, but he asked no questions.

As we were raced through the long walkway into the domus and through corridors and across open gardens, I dimly wondered if the Domus Transitoria would ever be finished. Nero was combining the grand houses of Tiberius and Gaius with the smaller home of Augustus into the largest complex Rome had ever known.

At the moment, I didn’t have time to observe its progress so I could report to Gallus, who burned to work on such a monumental place.

Hesiodos left us in a small anteroom where we’d waited during another visit, with columns of porphyry, arch-framed wall paintings, a mosaic tiled floor, and gilded tables. No seats or benches existed for a visitor’s comfort.

Not long later, the majordomo, a thin man with a shaved head called Lucanus Faustinus, entered, sandals whispering on the tile. He said nothing at all, only fixed us with his disdainful gaze before leading us out again.

Cassia and I exchanged an uneasy glance. We knew who we were being taken to see, yet we’d been given no time to put on our best clothes or for Cassia to refresh her hair. She was neat, as always, but a few locks straggled from the knot she wore at the base of her neck.

Faustinus led us up a flight of stairs to a long gallery, one wall open to a view of the valley where the Circus Maximus lay. An arcade shaded this room from the glaring May sun, but a drop from the wall would be sharp.

Faustinus halted here without a word. No one appeared to be in this space, though I spied movement in the shadows and heard a faint clink of metal. Praetorian guards waited, whether to watch over us or kill us, I couldn’t guess.

Two slaves in thin linen tunics hurried in, placed cushions on a bench, and hurried out again. Another Praetorian guard marched through one of the arched openings, and the princeps of Rome followed him.

Today Nero wore a silk tunic of bright green, with fine-tooled leather boots on his wide feet. Leather gloves as supple as the boots covered his hands, and he carried a chariot racer’s whip.

Beneath a mop of reddish curling hair, Nero’s eyes were wide and filled with the most killing rage I’d ever seen.

I observed this in a flash before Cassia and I were on our knees, our faces pressed against the cool tile floor.

On the previous occasions we’d been summoned before him, Nero would let us abase ourselves for a few moments and then bid us rise while he condescendingly spoke to us.

Today, he stormed over to me and slashed the whip across my back.

“I made you,” he shouted at me. “Remember that, gladiator. I am why you are alive. I can throw you back into the arena at any time, or I can execute you instantly.”

The whip landed on my back once more, stinging hard.

Aemil had whipped me when I’d first come to the ludus, making me understand that he ruled. I’d endured it, knowing I had no choice, though I’d longed to leap up, snatch the stave he used, and break it in two. When it became clear that I could do such a thing but chose not to, Aemil had ceased.

If I tried that here, I’d die the moment I reached my feet. The Praetorian guards, elite fighting men, would surge upon me and stick me full of swords before I could draw another breath.

I folded my hands over my head to ward off the blows, praying to any god who’d listen that Nero would concentrate on me and not turn the whip on Cassia. I could withstand it. She could not.

“Did you think you’d plot against me, and I’d not know?” Nero raged. The whip snapped down, laying open my tunic and searing stripes into my back. “I lifted you up, spoke to you as a friend, played dice with you …”

“I would never,” I tried.

“Did I permit you to speak?” Slash, slash, slash.

Nero grunted as he struck, as though he’d become a machine, losing control of the arm that went up and down.