CHAPTER 67

I was on the ragged emotional edge for weeks after Caligula died. I couldn’t sleep at night. I kept glancing over my shoulder during the day. I replayed the assassination in my mind a thousand times.

At first I was sure the Praetorian Guard would be coming for me. I worried that either Chaerea or Sabinus had said something before being executed. Or perhaps one of the Greek choirboys or their leaders could describe me.

I fretted about Flavia, too. Not only had we been coconspirators in the assassination, but we had both taken risky public stands immediately after Caligula’s death —she in the theater and me at the Rostra.

Yet Claudius seemed to be an emperor of his word, and I began to think that perhaps there really wouldn’t be more prosecutions for conspiracy or other acts of alleged treason. I began to wonder if I had totally misjudged Claudius. He was ungainly and had a trick knee that sometimes went out on him. His head shook when he got angry, and his voice wailed when he was excited. Yet there was something authentic about the man, and he slowly began winning over the senators. He sat among them when they debated legislation, waiting his turn to speak. He chided them occasionally about their reluctance to debate bills he had introduced. He didn’t ridicule or abuse them. He didn’t love the privileges of his position the way Caligula had.

Days turned into weeks and eventually into months. I kept my head low and focused on my clients, trying hard to avoid any political controversies. When Flavia and I had put together the plan to assassinate Caligula and restore the Republic, I had reconciled myself to the fact that either our plan would succeed or I would be a dead man. Instead, I was living in an outcome I had never envisioned. The Republic was still dead, but I was alive.

Even though I was barely in my thirties, I decided that my days attempting to influence Roman politics were over.

As time moved on, my thoughts turned more and more to Flavia. I would rearrange my schedule to attend the same public ceremonies I knew she would attend. We would catch each other’s gaze, but we were both careful not to linger too long for fear that others might notice. I suspected she had the same concerns I did. If we were seen with each other too soon after the death of Caligula, people might put the pieces together and figure out our conspiracy.

I wondered if I would spend the rest of my life this paranoid, jumping at every knock at the door, fearing the men behind me on the street were there to arrest me. I started to understand how emperors could go insane.

It was in the springtime when I heard the shocking news. Seneca had been banished by Claudius. He had been accused of committing adultery with Caligula’s sister, Julia Livilla. The word on the street was that Claudius’s wife had insisted that Seneca be sent away from Rome.

The news saddened me, both because it demonstrated that Claudius was open to manipulation and because I had never reconciled with Seneca. I decided to show up on the day of his departure for Corsica. Perhaps I could restore our relationship before he set sail.

When the day arrived, I was surprised that only a handful of Seneca’s clients had made the trip to the harbor to see him off. I thought about the early morning salutationes at his house when dozens of clients had waited each day for his patronage. He was a popular man then. He was learning now who his true friends were.

I took a seat on a stone wall and waited patiently as he shared private moments with the others. At last, he walked toward me and I stood to greet him. We grasped forearms, and I was struck by the sadness in his droopy eyes. Behind him, his servants were loading crates of his possessions onto a boat. Nobody would ever accuse Seneca of traveling lightly.

“It was good of you to come,” he said. There was none of the normal mirth in his voice. Of all men, Seneca would miss Rome the most. He thrived on the intrigue, the intellectual debate, and the raw power that settled like fog around the capital. Corsica was no-man’s-land. A true Stoic would love it. Seneca would wither there.

“I’m sorry, Seneca,” I said. “You deserve better than this.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to write. Every great philosopher needs time to write.”

“I wish I could help in some way.” I looked down and kicked a small pebble, wondering whether any of this had to do with the fact that I had named him as a witness in my case against Caligula.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Seneca said. “But it’s not your fault, Theophilus. I brought this on myself.”

There were always rumors about Seneca and the ladies. I never knew what to believe and what to ignore. It was one of the many contradictions in my friend’s life. A man who preached morality yet evidently violated the marriage contract.

We talked for a few minutes before some men called out from the shore. It was time to set sail.

“Watch your back,” Seneca said. He grabbed my shoulders the way a father would his son’s. “And don’t give up on Rome. Don’t give up on the Republic.”

I nodded. In truth, I had already raised my shield in surrender, but my mentor didn’t need to know that.

He embraced me and whispered something in my ear that left my jaw hanging open. “I’ve talked to Flavia. She asked me if you were going to propose a marriage to begin after she finishes her duties as a Vestal.”

I leaned back, my eyes wide. “What did you tell her?”

“I told her I didn’t know. But if you did, I told her she would never find a better husband.”

“You told her that?” In my excitement, I raised my voice, and it drew a few stares.

Seneca kept his voice low, conspiratorial. “Bold times call for bold action,” he said. He slapped me on the arm and turned to leave.

“Did she say what she would do if I asked?”

Seneca stopped, pivoting slowly. “She didn’t say, Theophilus. But if you want my advice, you ought to find out.”

I thanked him for everything. As he walked away, I thought about how much I would miss him.

He stopped before boarding the ship. He turned and looked at his assembled friends.

“I’ll be back,” Seneca promised. “Take care of the place while I’m gone.”

I didn’t waste any time before writing a letter asking Flavia to meet. I sealed it and found a way to slip it to Rubria. She promised she would give it to Flavia.

A day later, a courier came back with the reply, sealed with Flavia’s own ring. It contained only directions to a place by the Tiber River along with a date and time. We were to meet in two days at the eighth hour of the night.

I knew immediately that I wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep for the next forty-eight hours.