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held that the Emperor was an unbalanced creature whose policy of favoring the nobles at the expense of the liberty of the people was held in check only by the activities of his advisers.
    He had three — the learned and wealthy writer Seneca, the Praetorian Prefect Burrus, and his mother Agrippina. Already, though, Nero was beginning to exert his authority. And why not, some asked, springing as he did from rotten stock?
    It was widely believed that his own mother had poisoned her husband the Emperor Claudius with a dish of mushrooms. She had obtained the poison from an equally beautiful and infamous noble’s widow named Locusta. That was three years ago. Since then, the boy and his mother had ruled as co-regents. During that time, Claudius’ own son Brittanicus — Nero was Agrippina’s boy by a previous marriage to one Ahenobarbus — had also fallen victim to poison. The Emperor then cast out his mother’s favorite official, the imperial financial secretary Pallus. The most recent to go was Agrippina herself. She had retired to her great private house, stripped of her guard of honor.
    The Emperor further scandalized the Senators by learning the harp and racing his chariot like a commoner. The mob loved him for the games he gave, though. So did the Praetorians. The Emperor was shrewd. The more circuses for the people, the less time they had to dwell on his countless infidelities to his wife Octavia and his liking for roaming the streets at night with noble friends, attacking helpless citizens for sport.
    Fragments and snatches of all this floated in my head as I lay in my cell after the whipping.
    Perhaps the winds of change that blew down the Tiber were not healthy, tainted as they were by the boy Emperor’s own mad breath, but they were strong enough to make me think dizzily that I must wake up and begin to move again or I would die no better than my father. I knew somehow that tonight I was a changed man, and would make my vow to become an eques come true or die doing it.
    Then I heard a voice.
    “Cassius? Here’s a sponge of wine and a handful of parched peas. Wake up!”
    I rolled over. I blinked. A wily young face, deeply olive, and a golden ear hoop blurred, then sharpened. He extended the dripping sponge. I knocked it aside.
    “Leave me alone, Syrax. I need no one’s help.”
    He chuckled. His small, dark eyes gleamed. He juggled the peas and from the folds of his sleeveless tunic produced a small bowl containing a messy yellow paste. He put the bowl on my Page 9

    couch.
    “I’m well aware you won’t ordinarily accept a hand when it’s offered. But never let it be said that a Syrian provincial doesn’t recognize his duty when he sees it. Smear some of that hideous stuff on your shoulders. It’s meant to soothe the pain and heal flesh. The school physician’s drunk somewhere. That’s why I brought it myself. They gave you quite a hiding, didn’t they? You bore it well, though. Stop scowling! I’m your friend. I was at some pains to steal that bowl from the physician’s rooms.”
    “How did you have time, talking so much?”
    “I’m glad to see you can smile, even though it’s a sour one. I came to ask — hold on!”
    Hastily he threw himself into the corner of the cell where the shadows were deep. I gave several loud snorts to show I was still breathing. The guard paused outside the curtain, then passed on.
    The corridors were patrolled at night to prevent men from killing themselves in despair over being sentenced to train for the arena.
    When quiet fell again, Syrax scuttled back to the couch. He stared down at me with interest. Was he one of those types enamored of Greek love? His interest had other motives, as it turned out.
    “When you killed the leopard with your hand, Cassius, I knew you were the sort I needed for a partner.”
    I raised myself on my elbows and gaped. “Partner? In what?”
    “Why, in the beast school you and I will found and operate once we’re granted wooden