CHAPTER 40

The day set for Apronius’s execution began with a pounding rain, accompanied by cold and biting winds. A few degrees colder, and Rome would have been covered by snow. Even after the rain stopped, the clouds hung low, blanketing the Seven Hills of Rome. In a desperate move the prior day, I had gone to a fortune-teller, and she had checked the entrails of a goat. It was not good news. There were dark clouds hanging over the entire empire, she had said, and the execution of Apronius was just the beginning.

She had spread the entrails on the table in front of her, squeezing the intestines, examining the liver, running her index finger along the stomach. She bent over to get a closer look, her nose a few inches from the putrid smell of the goat innards. She sat back and frowned.

“I see a noble prince on the horizon who will usurp the evil head of the empire,” she said.

I assumed she was referring to Caligula, who was now living with the emperor and being whispered about as the heir apparent, despite the fact that his mother had died in exile. I would hardly refer to him as a “noble prince.”

“But first there must be much shedding of blood.”

She said it with great drama, as if this would be something new and unprecedented in the empire. It occurred to me that nobody had to check the entrails of a goat to guess that there would be shedding of blood when a new emperor took his place.

The woman was unsure if some of the blood would be mine. Either way, I put little credence in what she said. When I left, I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to go to the woman in the first place. She was supposed to be one of the best, and I had paid a full day’s wages to buy her prophecy. But all I learned was that there would be no reprieve for Apronius.

I arrived at the Forum nearly an hour before the scheduled execution at the fourth hour of the day. The sun was starting to slice its way through the clouds, shards of sunlight casting shadows. The Praetorian Guard made their presence known, and the Roman police force showed up in great numbers as well. I found myself stuck in the middle of the crowd, being shoved around as people tried to get a better view of the proceedings.

In sixty minutes, Apronius would be led out of the Tullianum and paraded across the Forum to the temple of Augustus. There his sentence would be read. Then he would be marched back to the Gemonian Stairs, where he would be strangled. By decree, his body would be left where he died until the birds and dogs had picked it over. After a day or so, it would be dragged to the Tiber and tossed in.

When the prisoner finally emerged at the top of the Gemonian Stairs, a gasp went up from those around me. I had last seen Apronius in his regal toga, leaving the Senate, staring down those who had condemned him. Now, nine days later, he was hardly recognizable.

His gray hair was disheveled, and despite the cold, he wore nothing but a loincloth, exposing the bony body of an old man who probably hadn’t eaten since the day of his sentencing. I could count his ribs, and they expanded with every breath as he shivered and shuffled his way down the steps, led by members of the Praetorian Guard. He was unshaven, and his scruffy gray beard seemed to add ten years to his visage. Unlike the proud senator who had been led from the Senate chamber, Apronius kept his eyes glued to the ground in front of him.

The guards created a gauntlet to shield him as he passed through the Forum on his way to the temple of Augustus. Macro led the death march, his armor gleaming, muscles flexed, his sunken eyes darting around to pick out any sympathizers.

The temple of Augustus was built entirely of Carrara marble and had eight enormous columns supporting the portico and a similar number on each side. On the marble at the top of the elaborately decorated columns was a relief of Mars, the war god, leaning on his lance. There were numerous marble statues on pedestals around the outside of the building, including a statue of Augustus himself riding a triumphal chariot. Even though I had seen the place ten thousand times, its grandeur was still a little overwhelming.

Cato, in his role as consul, stood at the top of the steps and waited for the disgraced senator to join him so that he might pronounce the sentence.

Slowly Apronius climbed the stairs. When he reached the top, he turned to face the crowd, his body curled against the cold, a humiliating display for everyone in Rome to see.

Cato read the formal verdict —guilty of treason —and added that Caesar had seen fit not to commute the punishment.

I could sense the teeming restlessness of the crowd, a pot ready to boil, but the soldiers were everywhere. The men around me murmured curses against the Senate and a few women dabbed at tears.

Apronius was led down the steps and paraded the length of the Forum a second time, passing in front of the Basilica Aemilia, the Curia, and the Basilica Julia, where I spent most of my time trying civil cases. I was far enough back that I could no longer see him. The next time I would lay eyes on him would be when they led him up the Gemonian Stairs for his execution.

When he passed the temple of Vesta, a disturbance arose at the front of the crowd. Shouting ensued and guards rushed forward, surrounding Apronius, pushing the crowd away. I stood on my toes but couldn’t tell what was happening. I heard more arguing and shouting, and then we were all being pushed back. People around me asked each other if they had seen what had happened. Rumors started flying.

I didn’t notice the Vestal until someone pointed to the top steps of the round temple of Vesta. I caught only a glimpse of her back as she entered the temple. Several bare-chested lictors formed a semicircle around the door, guarding against anyone who might try to make a run at her.

I would not learn until later that it was Flavia.

Confusion bordered on chaos as the Praetorian Guards began clearing out the Forum. Using their shields and occasionally their whips, they chased the crowds down the narrow streets that led away from Rome’s capital square. I tried to go against the flow of people, but the guards weren’t letting anyone past.

“Is it true?” people asked. “Did the shadow of a Vestal free Apronius?”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

The guards held their tongues, but it became obvious there would be no execution that day. The news rippled through the streets of Rome, a wave of excitement bringing smiles and embraces and shouts of relief.

And so it was that on the last day of February in the twenty-third year of the reign of Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus, the shadow of a Vestal Virgin set a condemned prisoner free. Of course, the law required that the event be accidental on the part of the virgin. But who would challenge the word of a high priestess of Rome?

That night, I celebrated by going to the public baths. The talk was all about the events of that day. Flavia’s name was on the tip of every Roman tongue. Some of my friends suggested that she had been moved when she heard about my stirring speech in the Senate chamber. I smiled at the thought, though I didn’t believe it.

I exercised hard in the gymnasium and made my way to the calidarium. The massive room, with its high-vaulted ceiling covered with colored stucco and paintings of mythological scenes, was filled with steam, making the atmosphere surreal. Under the floor of the calidarium were huge furnaces, fed by the efforts of hundreds of slaves, generating the hot air and steam that filtered up through vents. The furnaces also heated the water that filled the massive tubs of the calidarium, water that hovered around 120 degrees.

The torches that provided lighting were muted with glass that was colored red, blue, yellow, and green. It was impossible not to relax here. I found a solitary place in a hot tub where I could lean back and allow myself to unwind from the events of the last ten days.

Because the room was built of marble, voices echoed and reverberated here. But the voices blended in with the constant sound of running water from the dozens of fountains that adorned the place. All of that background noise, combined with the steam and the relaxing feel of the hot water, nearly put me to sleep. I closed my eyes and savored the moment.

“Enjoy it while you can,” a voice said, rousing me from my half slumber.

I looked up to see that I had been joined by the last person in Rome I wanted to lay eyes on. I was struck by how unimpressive he looked without his toga. He had pale skin, an almost-sunken chest, thin arms, and a small paunch of a stomach. The man obviously didn’t make his living from physical labor.

“Today was a good day for Rome,” I said, closing my eyes again.

“There will be other defendants,” Crispinus said casually. “The virgins won’t be able to save them all. We’ve taken precautions so that these accidental crossings won’t occur in the future.”

“I’m sure you have.”

Crispinus sat down next to me in the hot bath. I opened my eyes, sighed, and resisted the urge to move away in order to keep my distance.

“Normally a man of your slight reputation and low economic standing would not be a target for a maiestas proceeding,” Crispinus said, his voice hoarse and threatening. He moved a little closer to my ear. “But for you, Cato might make an exception. You remember Cato? Fat, fat Cato? A man who does not like to be mocked.”

I used every ounce of self-discipline to keep from showing a reaction. It might have been 120 degrees in the calidarium, but the remarks sent a chill down my spine. Crispinus knew about my tirade on the Rostra. This was a man who would stop at nothing to get revenge.

“Most of us are not really interested in you,” Crispinus continued, pulling away from my ear. “We know Seneca is the one pulling the strings. You are just the puppet. Testify against Seneca, and we’ll cut you in on a fourth of his wealth.”

I sat there motionless for a second, letting the audacity of what he had just said sink in. Without warning, in a flurry of water and motion, I turned on him, grabbing his throat with my left hand and squeezing his neck back against the edge of the bath. His eyes bugged out in terror.

“Make a move against Seneca and I’ll personally hunt you down and make sure it’s the last thing you ever do,” I said. I held him there for a moment, pinned against the bath, and then released my grip.

He sniffed, touched his neck, and twisted it from side to side as if making sure he was uninjured.

“You had your chance,” he said pleasantly. He stood so he could loom over me again. “Just remember: you never see the knife that lands between your shoulder blades.”

Crispinus walked away, and I let him go. The man had powerful friends in the Senate, and I would probably regret this encounter for the rest of my life. But at that moment, I was proud of what I had done.

Apronius had been set free. I wouldn’t let his tormentor ruin this night. The Roman system of justice had worked. Perhaps I had declared its death prematurely.