“What’s this?” I demanded.
“They’re the freedmen of Sergius Paulus, sir,” Burrus said. “I practically had to hack my way through ‘em to get to your house this morning. They’re grateful to you, sir, and they damn well should be. If it wasn’t for you, every buggering one of ‘em might be hanging on a cross this morning. That fat eunuch surely would.”
A man I recognized as Paulus’s majordomo pushed his way up to me. “We heard you might need an escort, sir. We couldn’t let you leave Rome without a proper send-off.” He turned to a pair of husky youths. “Go inside and get the master’s luggage.” Cato, confused and muttering, led the two boys to my belongings.
The majordomo turned and shouted to the crowd: “To the Ostian gate!”
With a huge cheer, the mob surged around me and I was hoisted onto their shoulders, and in that fashion I was carried to the gate. Through streets and squares we went, and it seemed to me that half of Rome was out, laughing and pointing at this new prodigy. Even though it was not on the way, the mob of ecstatic freedmen made a detour to carry me through the Forum. In the shadows of an alleyway I saw the heavily bandaged face of Publius Claudius, eyes glaring hate from amid his gang of cut-throats. The Etruscan blood of the Claudian line had come to the fore, since he was reduced to making cursing gestures toward me. I replied with a popular Roman gesture, one which was not supernatural in intent. And so we went, all the way to the Ostian gate.
I have commanded troops, as every Roman in public office must, but I was never a great general and was never granted a triumph by the Senate. However, I do not believe that any triumphator who has ever paraded up the Via Sacra to the Capitol could have felt as I felt that morning, borne on the shoulders of freedmen.
At the gate they let me down so that I could continue the journey in a more dignified fashion. The greater part of them would accompany me all the way to Ostia and stay with me until I sailed. Titus Milo waved to me from the top of the gate as we passed through.
Beyond the gate the Via Ostiensis stretched, flanked by tombs and memorials. It was a gray, windy, blustery December morning and we would undoubtedly be rained on before long. But the landscape had never looked so beautiful to me. For once, there were no crosses flanking the road.
These events took place during fifteen days of the year 684 of the City of Rome, the year of the Consulship of Pom-pey and Crassus.