Four of the emperor’s lictors burst into his room and dragged him from his bed. Rough hands pinned his arms behind him. One of the men threw a traveling cloak at him. “Put it on.” “My—my shoes,” he stammered. He could think of nothing else to say. Outside, in the atrium, Calpurnia had collapsed on a couch, sobbing. Amatia had her arms around her, stroking her hair. “It will be all right, darling,” she murmured, “Don’t be afraid.” “Some sort of mistake,” Pliny said, his voice like the croaking of a frog. He could hardly breathe. “I’ll be back soon, you’ll see.” Calpurnia gave him a desperate look. In the street a covered carriage waited. Two lictors mounted the driver’s box, the other two forced Pliny inside with a hand on the back of his head. They sat one on either side of him, crushing him between them. The clop of the horses’ hooves echoed in the empty streets.
