CHAPTER 54

The rest of that day was a blur. The three of us left the Imperial Palace to a thunderous roar. We walked the gauntlet of well-wishers, Mansuetus limping and wincing with each step.

Word of our victory arrived at the Forum before our little entourage got there, and the place exploded in celebration. Flavia seemed self-conscious and, along with her lictors, worked her way through the crowd toward the House of Vestal at her first opportunity. Mansuetus was carried away by his fellow gladiators to the cheers of his adoring fans. That left me to mount the steps of the Rostra and give a speech to the assembled crowd.

I swallowed hard and praised Caligula for his great discernment. I talked about the critical role of the Vestals in Roman society and how seriously Flavia took her duties. But it was my segment about the gladiators that produced the greatest ovation. They taught us valor and courage, I said. Determination and persistence. And Mansuetus, the greatest gladiator of all, taught us that we could smile in the face of life’s greatest difficulties and attack the deadliest dangers with joy in our step.

The crowd loved it, but the irony was not lost on me. Several years earlier, I had been trying to shut down the games. Now I was praising the heroes those games had produced, heroes who rose from the bloodlust.

That night, I lay awake in bed with the same foreboding thoughts I had nurtured sixteen years earlier, contemplating the consequences of what I had done. I was drained from the day’s proceedings and mellowed by the wine we had consumed in celebration. But I had no illusions about my own safety. The crowds might have hailed our victory, but I had enraged the emperor, not to mention Caepio Crispinus and other powerful men. Sixteen years ago, Caligula had wasted no time before striking back. Would it be any different now?

There were a thousand ways he could mete out revenge. A charge of maiestas. A random mugging by his hirelings on the streets of Rome. An assignment to a far-flung province. Or perhaps it would be something more spectacular, something that would humiliate me so he could watch me suffer. If that was the case, it would at least buy me a little time while he planned it.

I kept a dagger next to my bed that night. Not because I thought I could fight off a band of soldiers dispatched by Caligula to arrest me. But so that I might use it to slit my own wrists before they got the chance.

The next morning, I was summoned to Seneca’s house for the salutatio, the formal morning reception. I skipped both breakfast and my morning shave and joined Seneca’s other clients in his spacious front hall.

Unlike on prior visits, his head servant did not bump me to the front of the line. Instead, I watched as one client after another was ushered back for a meeting with the great philosopher while I waited my turn.

Unlike the freedmen who had greeted me in the Forum yesterday as a hero, the aristocrats in Seneca’s hall averted eye contact. A few offered a forced word of congratulations, but the mood was generally sour.

Even before yesterday’s trial, Seneca’s star had started to decline. It was rumored that Agrippina the Younger had taken up her mother’s feud with Seneca and was influencing Caligula. As a result, Seneca had stopped receiving invitations to the emperor’s lavish banquets, and his counsel was no longer welcome in Caligula’s inner circle. I noticed that the men who were here this morning were fewer in number and lower in stature than the men I had seen on previous occasions.

When the hall was empty, Seneca came out to meet me. He dismissed his slaves and waited until they had left before saying what was on his mind.

“I suppose congratulations are in order for your magnificent performance yesterday,” he said.

“I had a good teacher,” I said.

“Then perhaps you should have listened to him,” Seneca said dourly. His eyelids looked heavy, his expression pained. “I taught you to follow the truth. Yesterday, you built your case on a lie.”

“You taught me to fight for justice. When the judge is a tyrant, I’ll do whatever is necessary to save my client.”

“Including risking the life of your mentor?”

“Is that what this is about?”

“Don’t play the fool,” Seneca said sharply. He lowered his eyebrows in anger. “You listed me as a witness without talking to me about it first. After everything I’ve done for you, you brought the wrath of Caesar on me and my household. Who gave you authority to use my name as a bargaining chip?”

His resentment caught me off guard. But I wasn’t about to apologize for defending my clients. “What happened to you?” I asked. “What happened to the man who stood up for me sixteen years ago against this same family?”

Seneca scoffed at the question. “Rome is what happened to me. Do you have any idea what I’ve had to do just to survive? You think you can reap the largesse of everything I’ve earned and never make any compromises? If you loved Rome as much as I do, you would understand that the only way to save her is to navigate her treachery and outlive madmen like Caligula. I will decide when to sacrifice my life for the principles I believe in! I will choose the manner of my death! I don’t need people who call themselves my friends doing that for me!”

I had realized Seneca might be upset, but I wasn’t prepared for the sharpness and intensity of his rebuke. I stood there speechless. I had so much respect for this man. Perhaps he was right. What basis did I have to enlist him in my deadly cause without his permission?

“We spent nights together strategizing,” Seneca continued. “Just by being seen with you in the baths I was endangering my life. Yet never once did you tell me that you intended to sacrifice my good name in support of your cause.”

“That’s because I didn’t know myself until —”

“Spare me,” Seneca said. “I don’t want your rationalizations or excuses. What’s done is done.”

We both took a breath, and I lowered my voice. “I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever I can to make it right.”

“There’s nothing you can do to ‘make it right.’ I’ve had plans in place, Theophilus.” He shook his head, and his look went from frustration to disappointment. “Plans to install the right man in the palace. At the right time, in the right way. I was willing to put my life on the line for Rome when it would make a difference. Thanks to you, those plans are over.”

I didn’t say anything; there was nothing left to say. I had hurt the man most responsible for every good thing that had ever happened to me. My feelings for Flavia had blinded me. I had used Seneca, and I had been wrong to do it.

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

He stared at me for a moment as if trying to determine whether my apology was sincere. “What happened yesterday was not the end of the matter,” Seneca said. “All you did was poke the lion. Watch your back, Theophilus. We are both in mortal danger now.”