Excerpt
PROLOGUE “QUALIS ARTIFEX PEREO.” What an artist dies in me. The words don’t belong to a madman. Not in his mind, anyway. As Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus sat in the dirt, surrounded by a shrinking circle of allies and enemies and no one in between, he wasn’t thinking like a fallen emperor. He was thinking like a star whose audience had abandoned the theater. He wasn’t a tyrant dying in shame. He was a performer dying without applause. And maybe that’s what makes Nero so dangerous — even now, almost two thousand years later. Because for all the blood on his hands, for all the fires and floggings and forced suicides, for all the betrayal and paranoia and madness, Nero never saw...