He placed an aged and withered arm around her shoulder again, and it felt to Agrippina like his skin was alive with worms. Tiberius returned his lips to her hair, breathing in her perfume for a moment as he nibbled at her. She willed herself to swallow her rage again.
‘When Nero turns fourteen, I will commend him to the Senate,’ said Tiberius. ‘I will propose that he is given the privilege of seeking the quaestorship, too, five years before the legal age, and the priesthood of Jupiter. I will ask the Senate to mark these honours with generous donatives to the people, naturally. Rome will think quite well of Nero as a result â don’t you agree, Agrippina?’
She knew he was dangling her son’s future before her like a jewel. Any objections she held could only seem baseless now. ‘He will be popular,’ she said.
Agrippina heard her friends’ voices rise in some unseen commotion on the other side of the doors.
‘Yes, he will be,’ said Tiberius. He raised his lips from her hair and placed his hands at his side. He made no signal that Agrippina should go, but neither did he say another word. Agrippina just looked at him, boring deep into his eyes. She thought she saw the glow of triumph within them. She imagined braying, mocking laughter.
She turned on her heel and walked swiftly to the door. It was only as she was about to slap her palms on the bronze panels to summon the guards that Tiberius spoke again.
‘He’ll be betrothed as well. Nero, I mean. To my granddaughter Tiberia, Castor and Livilla’s girl. She’s very pretty. What do you think, Agrippina?’
‘I think we’ll be lucky if her mother allows her even to attend the wedding,’ said Agrippina. ‘What if there’s a mist she might catch cold from?’
Tiberius erupted in laughter, throwing his head back. When it ended, there were tears on his cheeks. ‘Livilla’s obsession with illness extends to poor Tiberia, it’s true,’ he said, wiping his face with his hands, ‘but like all good daughters-in-law, Livilla will see the sense in following a father’s advice. There will be a wedding day, mist or no mist. I’ll give thought to betrothing Drusus too.’
He paused again, looking at Agrippina with a paternal smile. Then his gaze lost focus. He saw her but no longer saw her, as if she had already left the room. ‘Charicles?’
The physician looked up from his scroll at the other side of the huge room.
‘Do I have unpleasant breath?’
‘It is possible, Caesar …’
‘What should I do about it?’
‘Chew ginger. And then drink perfume mixed with wine. I will arrange it for you.’
Agrippina slapped her hands against the heavy plated doors. The Praetorians pulled them open from outside and she stumbled into the corridor, unable to choke back her sobbing. Sosia and Claudia rushed to her, trying to tell her something as the doors closed again. But Agrippina didn’t hear them as she sank to the mosaic floor, her body wracked with grief for her murdered husband, her murdered mother, her murdered father, her murdered brothers and her tiny daughter too â all lost, all dead, all taken from her far too soon. She wept for her loved ones and she raged in her heart against Tiberius for what she believed was his part in so much misery.
When no more tears were left, Agrippina allowed herself some comfort in the cold floor tiles. They were sobering somehow. They brought her back to the present again, to what she must do in her husband’s name. She saw there was a pattern in the floor â one she had never noticed before.
‘Look,’ she whispered to her friends, ‘dancing skeletons. It’s a reminder to enjoy life, since death can come so easily.’
Sosia gently lifted Agrippina’s head from the floor. Agrippina looked up then and saw me waiting for her.
‘Lady,’ I said. ‘I have good news for you.’
‘Do you?’ she said. ‘It will have to be something very special for me to consider it good, Iphicles.’
I stood aside and let her see.
The tiny girl was clothed now, but she still held tightly to her boy-slave’s hand.
‘Mama,’ Nilla said. She let go of Burrus and ran forward to hug and kiss the woman she had believed she would never see again. The slave Nymphomidia, Burrus’s own mother, wept at her son’s side, as Sosia and Claudia now joined in too.
But Agrippina had no more tears left to give. She clung to the daughter she had long thought drowned, whispering her name. ‘Agrippinilla … my Agrippinilla,’ she said softly. ‘My little Nilla.’
The steward had a smile to split his face in two as Castor returned home from a long morning at the magistrate’s courts, accompanied by his nephews Nero and Drusus. Agrippina’s reaction at the slave market still weighed heavily upon Castor as he lifted his feet before crouching Lygdus. The young eunuch began removing their leather street shoes, his every movement agony from where the nailed whip had scourged him. He was dressed in a fresh scarlet tunica, to better hide his new wounds.
‘What is it? You look odd,’ Castor said, conscious of the pain behind the eunuch’s movements.
Lygdus lingered over his master’s liberated feet and saw that the abscess on his master’s arch was no better. He cast a glance at the grinning steward, Pelops. There was an understanding in place among the slaves about all that had happened today. ‘My back is stiff, domine, that is all,’ Lygdus lied.
The steward grinned all the more as Lygdus began rubbing a salve on Castor’s sore foot. ‘There has been happy news while you were away, domine,’ Pelops said.
‘Happy?’
There was a scurry of movement in the atrium beyond the entrance hall, a flap of women’s gowns. Castor looked past Pelops and saw that most of the household slaves were assembled in the light-filled central room, kneeling on the floor and looking through to him expectantly.
‘What’s the matter with everyone?’
Tiberia popped her head into the hall. ‘Please come inside, Father â we’re all waiting for you.’ She cast a quick smile at Nero, but the smile he returned was for politeness only.
Lygdus gave a whimper at having to rush his one and only pleasure â sponging perfumed water over three pairs of bare feet. Castor didn’t wait for the slave to dry him. He walked into the atrium after Tiberia, leaving wet footprints behind him as all the servants bowed to the floor.
Castor laughed. ‘What a lot of silliness â what’s got into you all?’ Then he saw. The two midwives were among the servants. They rose before him, presenting a bundle in fresh, white linen. It was a baby.
‘Your son has been born, domine,’ the senior woman announced. She placed the boy upon the marble floor at Castor’s feet.
A rush of emotion overcame Castor in the surprise. ‘I have a son?’ He stooped to lift the child, formally accepting the boy, and all the household slaves burst into applause. Lygdus and Pelops joined the throng. The baby stirred and opened his eyes, grumbling a little at the noise. His eyes were perfectly formed, as were his ears, his mouth and his head.
‘The Lady Livilla’s labour came early â and very fast,’ said the senior midwife. ‘It lasted barely three hours. One of the easiest births we’ve attended, domine.’
The younger midwife kept her eyes hard on the floor. Antonia had commanded that no mention was to be made by anyone of what else had occurred. Not that the guilt-ridden midwife would have mentioned it anyway.
‘Where is Livilla?’ said Castor, transfixed by the baby.
‘With the Lady Antonia, resting,’ said the senior midwife, ‘but she waits for you, domine.’
Castor cradled his son. ‘You weren’t expected to come today,’ he whispered to the little bundle, ‘but I’m so glad you did.’
The young midwife risked raising her eyes in Lygdus’s direction, but the beaten eunuch didn’t notice her. Weakened by his ordeal, he pressed his back against the wall. The midwife saw that he left a smear of blood behind him.
‘I have a baby brother now,’ Tiberia whispered to Nero, whose feet were still wet too. ‘Aren’t you happy for me?’
‘His name will be Gemellus,’ Castor announced to his nephews. ‘He’ll be as a brother to you.’
The household slaves applauded again, repeating the name.
‘Welcome, Gemellus!’ Drusus shouted above the noise.
Castor moved into the middle of the room, with Tiberia and the boys behind him, while the servants surged around them to give praise.
On the periphery Lygdus echoed the cries of the others as he detached himself from the group, keeping one eye on the entrance and edging further along the wall. Only Pelops looked away from the baby for a moment when he thought he heard the sound of the front door pulling closed. But the hall was empty; he told himself he was hearing things. Why would anyone wish to depart the house on such a happy day for their master?
Tiberius strained to write by lamplight, but the glow was so poor that the letters ran together under his hand. He finished the pen stroke and then couldn’t even discern whose name he had added to the list. He knew the name in his head â of course he did â but did the scroll match? He held it closer to the flame, squinting to bring the letters into sharper focus as he took another sip of his draught. The effects of the Eastern flower let his mind knit together again, however briefly, and he saw that his writing was just legible.
Tiberius did not intend reading from the list himself tomorrow. That task was beneath him and he deemed it too painful. Instead, he would listen in silence, just as he had when all the earlier lists had been read out by whichever toady of the moment stepped up to serve his Emperor. Tiberius didn’t care which fawning senator claimed the task â all that mattered was that the names be read out loudly and correctly. Tiberius hated to be responsible for an innocent man being accused of treason. Or, more precisely, he hated to be responsible for a loyal man being accused.
The scroll was too close to the lamp and the papyrus caught alight. Tiberius clutched it in his hands, not comprehending what was happening. The names were illuminated beautifully. Then the flames met his fingers and still he didn’t drop the burning paper. He just read and reread his favourite’s name.
‘Gallus … dear Gallus,’ he whispered. Then he felt the pain of the fire and cried out.
Sejanus flung the study door open and a gust of air blew the oil lamp out. He planted his boot on the flaming papyrus scroll, extinguishing it. Tiberius was left staring and dazed.
‘Are you hurt, Father?’
Tiberius tried to focus on Sejanus’s face, confused at who this was. ‘Is that you, Castor?’
‘Are you hurt, Caesar?’ Sejanus said, with an edge.
‘No, boy,’ Tiberius said, realising it was Sejanus. Then he saw the lamp was out. ‘Look at that â the best omen I know.’
Sejanus regarded the old man with deep love and indulgence. Tiberius was sixty-one but seemed so much older. Years of consuming opiates had made him haggard. His health was still sound, but his mind drifted badly at night.
‘What is the omen, Caesar?’
‘The lamp going out like that â it’s happened to me before. And when it does it always means that my battle the next day will be won.’
‘What is your battle tomorrow?’
‘Perhaps it’s not a battle then, but it will be an effort for me. I have signed your new treason list â it’s bound to cause a fuss.’
Sejanus lifted his boot from the charred papyrus.
‘Oh,’ said Tiberius, realising.
Sejanus tried to pick up the papyrus but it fell to ashes in his fingers. ‘I’ll have the list drawn for you again, Caesar.’
‘Don’t bother.’
‘Caesar?’
‘It was Fate, an act of the gods. The men on the list must now be spared.’
‘They were guilty men â’
Tiberius waved his hands. ‘Perhaps they weren’t. The gods think otherwise. Let’s leave them be.’
Sejanus remained standing there in confusion.
‘What is it, boy?’
Sejanus suddenly gripped Tiberius by the hand, kissing it. ‘Everything I do, I do for you, Caesar.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘I have given my life to defending you â to saving you from enemies.’
‘I know how loyal you are to me.’
‘The city is full of traitors â jealous, evil men and women who want to harm you, who want Rome for themselves …’
‘And you root them out for me â I am very grateful.’ He placed his free hand on the young Prefect’s head, stroking his thick, black hair.
‘I am nothing without you,’ Sejanus whispered.
Tiberius nodded, accepting these words, even though they embarrassed him. Sejanus stood again at last. ‘There has been a death,’ he said. ‘Someone you know has opened a vein in their bath.’
‘Is it Gallus? It all got too much for him, did it?’
‘It’s Vipsania.’
Tiberius went white. Then he lurched forward in the semi-darkness, crashing his fists on his desk, trying to find his draught goblet. The drug eluded him until Sejanus slipped it into his hands. Tiberius gulped at the dregs.
When he’d drained the last, he found that the grief of his former wife’s suicide had ceased before he had even begun to feel it.
Sejanus left Tiberius alone again and took several moments to collect his thoughts on the other side of the doors. He felt some pity for Vipsania. She had been a noble woman and widely liked, but she had been wrong to remarry again when Tiberius divorced her. It had insulted Tiberius.
Sejanus saw that the Tribune Macro was signalling him. ‘What is it?’
There was a smirk on his second-in-command’s face. ‘A slave wishes to speak with the Emperor.’
‘He doesn’t speak with slaves.’
‘The eunuch says he’s from Castor’s household and has news of great importance for Tiberius.’
Sejanus considered this for only a second before rejecting it. ‘It’s a kitchen squabble. Throw him out.’
As huge as a bull, Macro saluted Sejanus and pulled open a door. Sejanus caught only a glimpse of Lygdus cowering behind it before turning to depart.
‘Won’t he see me?’ Lygdus asked the Tribune as he watched Sejanus walking away.
‘Why would he, turd? You’re offensive.’
Lygdus was immune to abuse. He stared at Macro’s large, square feet encased in their woollen house-shoes. ‘But the news I have is important â my domina has delivered her child.’
‘That news is his son’s to break, then, not yours.’
‘But there’s more.’
‘Spit it.’
Lygdus lowered his voice. ‘It’s a secret … too important … I would never have told it, but she’s pushed me to it, you see … and she lied when she called me her little lamb.’
Macro struck him with the back of his hand.
The new blood from Lygdus’s day of wounds dried brittle on his skin as he fled.
The young eunuch couldn’t risk knocking at the bronze front door. He couldn’t risk approaching the side entrances along the alleys that would take him into the kitchens, or the gardens or the lavatories either. He couldn’t risk taking any of the labyrinthine tunnels that connected his master’s house and the houses of the other family members with the Emperor’s home, the house he’d just fled. He couldn’t risk anything. He had been missing for hours. He was trapped.
Lygdus tried to melt into the twilight shadows as he waited under the ancient yew tree. In his blood-sodden scarlet tunica and knee-high woollen boots, he stood out like the gaudy Saturnalian novelty Livilla intended him to resemble. He was a pet to her; loved, she claimed, but really loathed, he now knew. He was her little joke.
The edifice of his master’s house loomed high above him. The shops on either side of the front door were shuttered and closed. The street was nearly deserted, save a few shuffling beggars and prostitutes, who were darting towards the Forum to begin their night’s work. In t
he distance, towards the bottom of the hill, the sounds of flutes and cymbals could be heard â and laughter. Musicians were entertaining revellers at a tavern. Lygdus had never been permitted to visit such an establishment. He had never been permitted to leave his master’s house without purpose. If they found him out here, Lygdus would never be permitted to do anything again.
He wept miserably, wondering how his wretched life could grow any worse. Yet he knew that it could. Only the appeals of the Lady Antonia had saved him from crucifixion today. The injustice of being accused of planting the curse tablet chewed at his heart. He had no idea how the filthy thing had found its way under his domina’s bed. In a way, he almost understood why Livilla had blamed him for it. Who else in the house was so low and abused as he was? Who else harboured so much hatred?
A hooded figure appeared in the twilight, lurching up the cobbled road towards the house. Lygdus tried to press himself into the bark of the yew tree, painfully aware of his scarlet bulk. But the figure didn’t see him. It was a young man, tall and slim under the hood. The sound of his step was odd, as if he walked on one foot not two. Yet he wasn’t a cripple. Lygdus listened to determine it. The tread was hard then soft, hard then soft. He saw why. The young man was missing a shoe â one foot was bare. He lurched within a few steps of where Lygdus cowered. Lygdus smelled the wine on the young man’s breath. The hood slipped from his head as he raised his hand to thump at the door to Castor’s house.
The door was opened by one of the kitchen slaves, a boy scarred from the spits. ‘Good evening, young Master Nero,’ the boy simpered.
Nero ignored him and went to move inside as Lygdus saw his chance. Nero was drunk. The steward Pelops was no doubt in a similar state, given that he’d left a kitchen slave on door duty. The newborn baby was being celebrated. No better hope would present itself for gaining entrance to the house undetected. Lygdus leaped to his feet and took his place in Nero’s wake, just as the kitchen slave was closing the door. The boy recognised him and gave him a startled look, but Lygdus stared him down, willing the boy to believe he’d been in the young master’s company all evening. The boy nodded and bolted the door behind them. Only then did Nero seem aware of Lygdus for the first time.
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