by Randy Singer
Mansuetus approached the imperial box and cast a not-too-subtle glance at Flavia. She gave him a sideways look, chastising him with her eyes. They took enough chances sneaking out late at night. He didn’t have to make it obvious to the entire watching world.
But the man was incorrigible. Flavia’s scolding look only made him smile more broadly, locking his eyes on hers. She would give him a piece of her mind later that night. Assuming, of course, that he prevailed.
Mansuetus bowed with his usual flair in front of Caligula. “We who are about to die salute you!” he said.
Flavia had never told Mansuetus about the night Caligula kissed her and tried to molest her. She knew if Mansuetus found out, he would take matters into his own hands. But even if he found a way to kill the emperor, he would never survive the fallout.
Flavia couldn’t imagine living without him. In eight more years, she would have completed her service to Rome. She dreamed of living with Mansuetus and withdrawing from public life. They could start a family. Raise children. Pursue a life of happiness.
Her thoughts snapped back to the present when Caligula stood. He turned and his eyes fell on Flavia. She pretended not to notice, staring ahead at the gladiators.
“Flavia, why don’t you come join me?” Caligula asked. He pointed to the seat next to his.
Even though the emperor had married a woman named Caesonia a year earlier in a lavish ceremony, she rarely attended the games with him. Instead, the seat on Caligula’s right was always occupied by Adrianna.
Flavia feigned surprise at the emperor’s request. “Your Excellency, I wouldn’t dream of taking Adrianna’s seat.”
But Caligula insisted. He humiliated Adrianna, sending her to the rear of the imperial box.
Reluctantly, Flavia moved next to the emperor. The gladiators were in position, waiting on a signal to begin.
“Whom are you picking in this one?” Caligula asked, leaning toward Flavia.
“Mansuetus.”
“Everybody loves Mansuetus. I wonder why that is.”
The comment chilled Flavia. The emperor knew something. This was his style—conniving, underhanded, playacting the fool.
“Perhaps people like those bulging biceps,” Caligula suggested.
Flavia didn’t respond.
“Perhaps it’s that nice scar on his left shoulder or perhaps those cute blond curls,” Caligula said.
Again Flavia ignored him. The best way to interact with Caligula was the same way one would treat a spoiled child. As if he didn’t exist.
“Or perhaps those beautiful, white, smiling teeth.”
Was it jealousy? It had to be more than that. This was the first time Caligula had paid attention to Flavia in the past two years.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t get distracted by his frequent glances in your direction,” Caligula said.
Her heart stopped.
The emperor raised his hand, and the fight was on.
The crowd started cheering immediately, many rising to their feet. Fights involving a retiarius were notoriously short-lived. Mansuetus danced around, looking for an opening. His opponent’s trident was eight feet long, and Mansuetus had to keep his distance. The retiarius thrust the trident a few times, but Mansuetus easily blocked it with his shield. Twice he sidestepped the retiarius’s cast net.
The entire time, Flavia’s heart was pounding with the fear that, like every other time he stepped into the arena, this fight could be his last. She had her hand to her mouth and could hardly force herself to watch.
“He’s so close,” Caligula said. “Wouldn’t you say?”
It seemed to Flavia that he was keeping a respectable distance. “No, Your Excellency.”
“Oh. You thought I meant to the retiarius’s net,” Caligula said.
“I’m sorry?” Flavia asked, keeping her eyes on the fight.
There was another toss of the net and another dodge by Mansuetus. This time he lunged at his foe, but the man stepped back and flipped the net a second time. It wrapped around Mansuetus’s knee, and the retiarius jerked on it, pulling the big man’s legs out from under him.
Flavia gasped.
“Yes!” Caligula yelled, jumping to his feet.
Mansuetus rolled as the retiarius lunged with the trident, spearing the ground inches from him. The gladiator sprang to his feet, and Flavia exhaled.
There had been close calls before. And every one of them took ten years from her life.
Mansuetus smiled and brushed his forehead with an arm as if the call had been a little close even for him. The crowd roared its approval, and Mansuetus stole a quick glance in Flavia’s direction.
Keep your eyes on your opponent.
“Back to my point,” Caligula said as the gladiators resumed their death dance. “I meant that Mansuetus is so close to buying his freedom. Three more matches, if my math is correct.”
Flavia shrugged as if it were news to her. “He seems like a noble fighter,” she offered.
“Not just noble—undefeated. It would be a shame if the man never had the opportunity to taste freedom and become a citizen.”
Flavia wanted to reach over and strangle the emperor. What in the world was he talking about?
“I don’t understand, Your Excellency,” she said. There was steel in her voice.
Mansuetus seemed as if he had grown bored with the fight. He stood at a safe distance from his opponent and lowered his sword and shield, practically begging the man to come and fight him toe-to-toe. But the retiarius was having none of it. He continued to circle with his net, poking here and there with the trident. The crowd began to get restless, and there were a few disgruntled yells from the fans.
“If he wins today, will you meet him at the Tiber tonight to celebrate?” Caligula asked.
He said it with a teasing tone, yet the comment stunned Flavia. She turned and looked at him, though the emperor kept his eyes on the fighters. She could hardly breathe, much less respond. Her thoughts whirled in her head. How did he know?
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Adrianna told me that you have been sneaking out. It’s my job to protect the dignity of the Vestals, so I had you followed.”
Caligula, like a master actor, let the accusation hang in the air for a few seconds. Flavia felt the bile rising in her throat as her mind raced with the implications. Vestals who violated their oath of virginity were buried alive. Their lovers were whipped to death in the Forum. And most disturbing of all, the judge of their guilt and innocence was the Pontifex Maximus, the man sitting to her immediate left.
“Mansuetus looks rather strong,” Caligula observed. “I wonder how many lashes it would take before he expired.”
The question almost became irrelevant. Mansuetus had become careless, taunting his adversary and smiling at the crowd. The retiarius had been biding his time, distracting Mansuetus with poorly executed casts of the net. Just when Mansuetus fully relaxed, the retiarius thrust the trident low and hard, like a spear. The middle point penetrated Mansuetus’s right foot. He cried out in pain and tried to pull back to avoid the swiftly cast net. But he stumbled, and the retiarius caught him in the net.
Flavia screamed as the retiarius retracted his trident and raised his arm to spear Mansuetus.
But Mansuetus grabbed the net that now covered his body and gave it a mighty pull, yanking his opponent off-balance. They became entangled together on the ground, engaged in hand-to-hand combat, their weapons of little use. Through his superior strength, Mansuetus torqued the body of his opponent into an unnatural position.
Flavia wanted to look away but couldn’t will herself to do so.
With all the spectators now on their feet, Mansuetus flexed his powerful muscles and with a loud grunt snapped his opponent’s neck.
The crowd roared, and Flavia sat down, feeling disoriented. The move had been a gruesome sight, but the battle in the arena was the least of her worries.
Mansuetus stood and shrugged o
ff the net. He drank in the cheers of the crowd and hobbled over to the emperor’s box. He dragged his right foot as he walked, leaving a trail of blood in the sand.
Caligula stepped down from the imperial box and joined Mansuetus on the floor of the arena. He placed the laurel wreath of victory on Mansuetus’s head. The crowd showered the gladiator with money and other objects of affection. Mansuetus limped around, stoically collecting as much of the booty as he could, but Flavia could see that her lover had turned pale. She worried about his loss of blood.
Somehow Mansuetus held it together until he exited the arena. Only then did Caligula sit down next to Flavia and lean toward her as he whispered his ultimatum.
“Come spend the night with me in the palace, and your indiscretions along the Tiber River will be forgiven,” Caligula said. “Find out what it’s like to make love to a god. Refuse me, and both you and Mansuetus will pay the price.”
CHAPTER 48
IN THE FOURTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF GAIUS JULIUS CAESAR AUGUSTUS GERMANICUS
It was October, the air chilly and wet, on the night I was summoned to the temple of Vesta. I was thirty years old, no longer a wide-eyed young idealist, but I still had the same swarm of butterflies in my stomach that I did the first time I met Flavia. Her messenger had provided very little information. “The Vestal would like to see you. She requests the honor of your presence at midnight at the temple. She will be tending the Vestal flame.”
I shaved twice that day. Once, as customary, in the morning. A second time late in the evening. My toga was pressed and clean. Over it I wore a paenula, a sleeveless hooded cloak that added an extra layer of protection against the autumn chill.
When I told the temple guards my name, they allowed me to pass, saying that Flavia was expecting me. I climbed the steps of the temple nervously and entered the large circular atrium without knocking, removing my hood as I did so. The atrium was dominated by the sacred flame that burned in the hearth at the center. The flame was tended around the clock by one of the Virgins. If the fire went out on a Vestal’s watch, she could be sentenced to death. Once a year, every household in Rome would light a torch at the temple to kindle a fire in their own hearths. The Vestals were, therefore, in a symbolic sense, the mothers of all of Rome. There was no ritual more sacrosanct than tending the eternal flame.
Flavia sat on a step next to the fire, her face illuminated by the sacred glow. As I approached, she stood and thanked me for coming. Her eyes were sad, which merely accentuated their beauty. Her face was drawn and gaunt; the strain of Caligula’s reign was taking its toll. Like the rest of us, she had witnessed unrestrained evil.
“You look well, Theophilus,” Flavia said. It was only a polite greeting, but it made me feel like I could soar.
“As do you.”
Flavia smiled. “I’m fortunate it’s dark in here, or you would know that’s not true.”
She invited me to sit next to her, and I took off my paenula. I waited for her to explain the reason I’d been summoned. My mind raced with speculation.
She didn’t waste any time on formalities. “I don’t know how to say this,” she began, her voice hollow and uncertain, “but I’m fairly certain that I will be charged soon with violating the vows of a Vestal.”
She paused as I took in the news. Did she mean what I thought?
“Caligula is convinced that I’ve had sex with the gladiator Mansuetus,” Flavia continued. Her bluntness surprised me. So did her desire to speak with me, of all people. I suspected she might be blushing in the dark.
“I took note of the work you did at the trial of Apronius,” she continued. “He was a good man, a courageous man. That’s why I took it upon myself to set him free. But he was also well represented in the Senate.”
I swelled with pride at the assessment even as I tried not to react to the admission that she had acted intentionally to free Apronius. Others had said I had done a good job, but there was nobody I would rather have heard it from than Flavia. “Yet still we lost,” I said, attempting to sound appropriately self-effacing.
“Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe a certain Vestal was so inspired by your defense that it compelled her to act.”
“If that’s the case, both Apronius and I owe her our undying gratitude.”
“Good. Then perhaps you will be open to my request.”
Flavia turned and faced me, placing a hand on top of mine. I knew I would be powerless to turn her down.
“Will you take my case—plead my cause in front of the emperor? Will you advocate for both me and Mansuetus the way you did for Apronius?”
A clear-thinking man might have better appreciated what this woman was asking. Hadn’t she just said that Caligula was the one instigating the charges? And yet, as Pontifex Maximus, he would be the sole judge of whether the charges were true. And I already knew what happened when men crossed this tyrant.
But none of that mattered. I was not a clear-thinking man. Cleopatra had nothing on Flavia.
“It would be an honor.”
She squeezed my hand, leaned over, and gave me a light kiss on the cheek. “I was reluctant to ask,” she confessed. “I didn’t want to put your life in danger.”
Thanks for the reminder, I wanted to say. But this was no time for sarcasm. “I will do my best. I can promise you that.”
“I know you will. That’s why I asked. You’re the only advocate I felt I could trust.”
We spent the next several minutes discussing the case. How did she know that she was about to be charged? What were the specifics? Who would be the witnesses? What was her relationship like with the emperor?
The last question hit a nerve. She stiffened, and even in the shadows cast by the fire, I could see anger spark in her eyes. “I’ve rebuffed some of his advances. Even after his marriage to Caesonia, he still pursued me. Part of this is a lust for revenge.”
According to Flavia, the night in question was the night after the gladiator games honoring Drusilla. A high-ranking captain of Caligula’s Praetorian Guard, a man named Lucian Aurelius—Caligula’s friend from our boyhood days—had been stationed outside the House of Vestal with instructions to follow Flavia if she tried to sneak out. Lucian was prepared to testify that he had followed her to the Tiber and witnessed her liaison with Mansuetus. I knew Lucian from my days as his classmate under Seneca’s tutelage.
“Is it true?” I asked. “Did you meet Mansuetus that night?”
She hesitated, and I thought I had my answer. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse and it sounded like she was choking back tears. “I’ve pursued Mansuetus. He’s a noble man and should not have to forfeit his life because of my need for affection.”
She had been looking down as she talked, but now she turned to me and I could see the tears wetting her eyes. “But is it true?” she asked, repeating my question. “Not on that night, Theophilus. And that’s all you really need to know.”
CHAPTER 49
The day after my meeting with Flavia, her predictions came true. She and Mansuetus were both arrested and charged with the capital offense of violating Flavia’s vows as a Vestal. If convicted, Flavia would be buried alive in an underground chamber in the Campus Sceleratus with a few days’ supply of food and water. Mansuetus would be flogged in the Forum until he died.
I heard from reliable sources that Mansuetus did not go down without a fight. It took six Praetorian Guards to arrest him. Two were seriously injured.
According to those same sources, Flavia was roused from her sleep by Lucian and a dozen other members of the Praetorian Guard. They read the charges against her, bound her hands, and led her away to the dungeon at the top of the Gemonian Stairs.
I was not allowed to see either of my clients, but I was told the guards had cut Flavia’s hair—butchered it, really—so that it was cropped close to her head and scissored off in uneven chunks. She was given a long black tunic and stripped of her jewelry. I would not be allowed to see her or Mansuetus until six days from now, on the eve of th
e trial.
Word traveled quickly about my role as advocate for both the gladiator and the Vestal, and I suddenly became an incredibly popular man. I went to the market to buy some produce and listen to the gossip. The shopkeepers wouldn’t let me pay. “Put up a good fight,” they said under their breath.
For the next few days, I ignored my other clients and devoted every minute of my waking hours to Flavia’s case. At night, I went to the baths so I could work out my frustrations in the gymnasium and then strategize with Seneca in a corner of the laconicum, discussing trial tactics while filling our lungs with steam.
Lucian Aurelius would be the main witness. He claimed he had followed Flavia the night in question and watched her and Mansuetus having sex on the banks of the Tiber. Caligula had assigned my old nemesis, Caepio Crispinus, to prosecute the case. Crispinus was bragging all over town that his case was unassailable.
Even if my clients denied the charges, which Seneca and I both presumed they would do, it would be their word against Lucian’s.
“Do you know how Caligula will determine who is telling the truth?” Seneca asked.
I shrugged. “He will obviously accept the word of Lucian. He’ll claim my clients are lying just to protect themselves.”
“No, he’s far too clever for that,” Seneca said. “There’s a legend about a Vestal named Tuccia who was also accused of violating her vows—must have been more than a hundred years ago. The testimony was unclear, and she was ordered to prove her virginity by carrying water to the Tiber in a sieve. The water didn’t spill, and Tuccia was found not guilty. My sources tell me that Caligula will follow that precedent and use the same test if the testimony is contradictory.”
“Thank you for the encouragement,” I said.
By the fourth day after my clients’ arrest, it became obvious that Caligula had miscalculated the popularity of Mansuetus. Though I was not in attendance myself, I heard that when Caligula and Caesonia were introduced at the Circus Maximus that day, there was a chorus of jeers and whistles from the crowd. The emperor looked angrily about and surely would have ordered the perpetrators killed, but he couldn’t pinpoint where the noises were coming from. Then, as if on cue, a low and rumbling chant of “Free Mansuetus!” erupted from all sections of the great stadium. Caligula shouted at the crowd, called off the games, turned on his heel, and stalked back to his palace.