The sun had disappeared by the time we reached the base of the hill and skirted the Forum Augusti and Forum of the Divine Julius. We took the road between the Basilica Aemilia-Paulli and the Curia Julia, the senate house the great Julius had begun.
Rain spattered down as we moved out of the Forum Romanum past the temple to Vesta and on to the road that climbed the Palatine. If the gates of Nero’s domus were closed to us, we’d have had a long walk in the wet for nothing.
The bag with the ring hung heavily from my belt, though I reasoned no one who hurried past us or ducked under the portico of the Basilica Julia to get out of the rain knew I had it. Of course, a man had broken into our rooms last night, searching for it, meaning someone sought it.
Again, I wondered if Vibius was as innocent as he seemed. Only he and Gallus had known I’d unearthed ring. Cassia had consulted Marcianus, but I knew Marcianus was canny enough not have mentioned it to anyone. That left Vibius and Gallus.
I also couldn’t know who’d observed me pick up a bit of gleaming gold at the building site. Anyone walking past the Emporium might have noticed. The way Vibius, Gallus, and I had gathered around it, any thief looking for an opportunity would assume we’d found something valuable.
I kept Cassia next to me and a sharp eye out as we trudged up the hill. At the top of the Palatine, we took the path to the gates of Nero’s domus.
The Domus Transitoria he was building had grown since our last visit. Gallus told me that the villa’s network of shaded walkways and porticos would extend from the Palatine to the Oppian Hill. The domus would cut through marshy ground in the valley between the two hills, and the valley would be drained and turned into a lush garden.
There were streets of houses in the way, but I had no doubt that once Nero’s chief architectus was ready to begin, Nero would rid himself of the obstructions somehow. The inhabitants of that area would simply have to go elsewhere.
* * *
“Leonidas the Gladiator.” A praetorian guard who leaned near the gate greeted me without inflection.
He was the man who’d steered the drunken Nero back to the Palatine on the night the princeps had slummed at the base of the Quirinal.
I nodded at him. “Can you take word to him that we are here?”
Leather armor creaked as the man straightened—the garish helmet and cloak the praetorians sometimes wore were nowhere in sight.
“He won’t give you back what he won.” The guard’s faint smile showed a gap between his front teeth.
Cassia, who usually faded behind me into nothing when we were in public, moved a fold of her cloak from her face. “He asked that we tell him anything important.”
The praetorian eyed her speculatively. This guard had witnessed me unmask a murderer and defend the princeps, after that murderer had severely endangered Cassia. He didn’t trust us exactly, but he knew we’d both nearly died to protect Nero.
I worried the guard would demand we tell him the news, but he left the wall and signaled for us to accompany him, barking a command that the gate be opened.
We followed the praetorian through a gallery paved with marble so fine it was a shame to walk on it. More marble lined the lower walls of the passageway, the stone cut into delicate patterns of flowers and vines. The frescoes painted on the main portion of the walls depicted men in togas lounging in a meadow, their horses held by waiting grooms. These pictures were outlined with intricate curlicues and airy flowers.
The pillars supporting the ceiling were of various colored marbles, imported from all sides of the Mare Nostrum, the sea that stretched from Hispania in the west to Pergamum and Smyrna in the east.
The guard took us from this elegance into a chamber decorated in an older style, with large blocks of red and black paint outlining scenes of a naval battle.
“Wait here,” he commanded in the tone of one used to being obeyed.
Cassia and I had little choice as he tramped away. I wandered about the small windowless room, studying the battle painting and trying to make out which war it depicted. Most of the intact ships were Roman, those foundering oddly square and full of men in pale tunics.
Cassia remained in the middle of the chamber, her body stiff with apprehension. On a previous visit we’d waited for Nero in such a room. A slave had brought us refreshment, with dire consequences.
“If we eat or drink nothing, we will be well,” I said to reassure her.
Cassia sent me a shaky smile. “As Persephone attempted to do in Hades.”
I vaguely knew the story of the maiden kidnapped by the god of the underworld, told she’d have to stay with him forever if she ate a morsel there.
“This isn’t Hades,” I pointed out. “It probably isn’t as well decorated.”
Cassia’s thin laugh held nervousness.
No one bothered to offer us wine today, in any case. We hadn’t been there long when a small man in a slave’s tunic entered and signaled that we were to follow him.
The slave, who held his head at a haughty pitch, said nothing as he led us through the house to yet another room I’d not entered before. This chamber was mostly white, with delicate painted flowers framing small scenes.
