‘Obscene,’ Tiberius whispered under his breath. ‘This is obscene.’ His hands clapped in time with the humpbacked chorus member, who wielded the clapper board and looked at him with such fixed intensity. ‘This is obscene,’ he muttered again.
‘Uncle?’
He became aware of the shambling presence beside his curule chair. How long had it been there? He refused to acknowledge it, keeping his eyes glued to the beautiful pantomimus. ‘Filth,’ he said louder.
‘Uncle, please.’
Tiberius looked down with annoyance and saw that it was Claudius. ‘You’re pathetic,’ he told him. Claudius didn’t disagree. Tiberius found pleasure in this and was immediately glad that his crippled nephew had come to greet him. ‘Have you been standing there long?’
Claudius nodded. ‘About my request, Uncle?’ He peered uneasily at a filth-caked pile of rags slumped on the other side of Tiberius’s chair. The rags stirred a little.
‘Yes, yes â but what do you think of the musica muta?’
Claudius was stricken, unsure what response was required, until he took refuge in the place that usually served him best: the truth. ‘I adore them, Uncle.’
‘So do I!’ said Tiberius. ‘Do you find them obscene?’
‘I find them … erotic,’ said Claudius.
Tiberius digested that word and found that it didn’t sit well with him. He went back to clapping again. The filthy rags stirred once more.
‘Uncle?’
Tiberius seemed to notice him for the first time. ‘What is it?’
‘About my request … to the haruspex … regarding my situation?’
‘What of it?’
‘I wonder if I might hear his reply?’
‘How should I know?’
Claudius cleared his throat, aware of the eyes of the musica muta artists upon him. ‘He is sitting there beside you, Uncle.’
Tiberius looked down at the pile of rags with surprise. ‘Thrasyllus? Have you been here all along?’
The broken haruspex moaned where he lay, rank and foul in his rags, stinking like the worst of the sewers.
‘You were about to command him to tell it to me, Uncle.’
‘Why not command him yourself? He’s been very compliant since I initiated the beatings. He almost never gets things wrong anymore.’
Although he felt ill from the smell, Claudius went to address the shattered form of Thrasyllus. But something stopped him again. He looked at the two Praetorians slouching at the door with heavy pouches of gold hanging from their belts. ‘Caesar has forbidden anyone to hear the words of soothsayers directly,’ Claudius reminded Tiberius.
The look on Tiberius’s face suggested he had never heard of such a directive.
‘It is a capital crime. You banned all soothsayers from Italy. Only Caesar’s haruspex remains â at your personal service.’
Tiberius was confused for a moment. Then he fumbled on the low table in front of his chair until his hand connected with his goblet. He picked it up and took a sip of the rich, thick liquid it contained. The sickly sweetness of it reached Claudius’s nostrils, making him feel more nauseous still.
Claudius cleared his throat again. ‘My request to Thrasyllus … was actually your request, Uncle.’
‘Was it?’
‘You said I was pathetic â a disgrace to your house. You said my son Hector’s death was my own fault â that I had brought it on through being a cripple and a halfwit.’
‘I did say all that, didn’t I?’ Tiberius recalled.
Claudius had no argument with any of it. ‘You said you would ask your haruspex what the future held for me. You said it might provide me with clues as to how I might … not offend you any further.’
Tiberius stared imperiously at the pile of fetid rags beside his chair. ‘Speak, haruspex, and stop wasting our time.’
Thrasyllus’s voice was like a draught of stale air from a long-closed tomb. ‘New love awaits …’
Claudius’s heart leaped.
‘Love so great … your blinding love … the rarest of birds …’
Claudius’s eyes filled with tears and he stooped to kiss the hem of Tiberius’s robe. ‘Thank you, Uncle, thank you. I’ve been so lonely since my son died …’
‘Love brings the new son … the son of the isles …’
Claudius’s eyes boggled in astonishment and he fell into sobs of joy. Tiberius let him continue for several minutes, finding it gratifying for a time, before he grew tired of the display and pulled the fabric from his nephew’s lips. Claudius righted himself again. ‘Does the haruspex … Does he name this new love for me, Uncle? Does he say where I can find her?’
Tiberius kicked Thrasyllus with his foot and the haruspex started to choke. ‘M … m … mes …’
‘Speak clearer!’ Tiberius kicked him again.
‘Mes … mess …’
‘It’s Misenum!’ Tiberius clapped his hands together excitedly. ‘That’s where she is, nephew, at the home of Rome’s fleet. I’d say she’s the daughter of an admiral.’
Claudius shone with amazement. ‘I will take myself to Misenum at once, Uncle.’
‘A fine idea.’
‘Unborn … the love is unborn …’
‘What does that mean, Uncle?’
Tiberius aimed his boot squarely at Thrasyllus’s chin, and then, when the broken haruspex’s head snapped sharply back at the neck, Tiberius bent down in his chair to slap hard at the man’s cheeks. ‘Speak clearer!’
‘Here … for Mercury …’ Thrasyllus slipped into unconsciousness.
Claudius looked bewildered, as did Tiberius for a moment. Then the Emperor saw that the pantomimus had paused in his dance. ‘Did I ask you to stop?’ he said to the musica muta artists. They resumed their performance with vigour.
‘Shall I leave, Uncle?
‘Unborn … for Mercury …’ Tiberius pondered. Then a smile split his face like a wound. ‘The girl isn’t born yet â she’s still in the womb! But Thrasyllus says she’ll be here for Mercury â don’t you see, halfwit? He’s named the very date of her birth! She’ll pop out on the next day of Mercury â and she’ll be born in Misenum!’
Things were moving all too fast for the bewildered Claudius, and he felt his weak left leg begin to shake.
‘Now get out,’ said Tiberius.
Claudius fell over and struck his chin on the marble as he leaned forward to bow. Tiberius roared with laughter and then abruptly stopped, glaring hatefully at him. Claudius scuttled to the door with the sniggers of the two Praetorians hissing in his ears. Tiberius forgot about his nephew immediately, his eyes wandering back to the dancing pantomimus.
The mound of rags stirred. ‘The third …’
Tiberius kicked him again.
‘The third …’
He stared at the moaning haruspex.
‘The third …’
Tiberius decided he’d been remiss in claiming to his nephew that Thrasyllus was never wrong anymore. Sometimes the fool soothsayer came out with things that couldn’t be more absurd.
Lygdus seized the moment as soon as he spotted the vacant fuller’s pot at the side of the road to the Palatine Hill. Breaking from Castor’s interminable procession, he dashed to the front of the reeking laundry premises, where the earthenware pot stood beneath the sign that said ‘Relieve yourself’. The fuller needed lakes of urine to bleach his clients’ togae white, and Lygdus was happy to provide â but only when he had the pot to himself. Burdened with the shame of castration, Lygdus hid his tiny eunuch’s penis behind his hand as he relieved himself. He was startled when another man joined him.
‘Good thinking,’ said Nero. ‘You’ve got to take advantage of any pot you can find on these stupid processions â right, Lygdus? They stretch on for hours.’
The slave forgot himself and laughed, before remembering who and where he was. Nero hoisted up his toga and began adding his urine to Lygdus’s in a strong, pungent jet.
‘The
fuller won’t like my piss very much,’ Nero said. ‘Too much wine inside me â they reckon it makes it useless for washing clothes. It doesn’t bleach. That’s why they never put these pots outside taverns.’
Lygdus tried to continue concealing himself behind his hands but it was impossible.
‘We won’t tell him though, will we?’ said Nero. ‘Poor old fuller.’
‘No, domine.’
‘Another secret we’ll keep to ourselves.’
Lygdus met his young master’s eye. There was no threat behind the statement, no kind of warning in his face â only trust and amusement. Lygdus had never betrayed what had taken place that night in the entrance hall, and Nero was very aware of it. To Lygdus’s mortification, Nero cast his eyes at Lygdus’s undeveloped penis.
‘It must have been painful, what they did to you.’
Lygdus flushed red and hurriedly tucked himself away, still dripping inside his loincloth, pulling down his tunica to cover himself.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Nero, and Lygdus saw that he was. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I think it’s disgusting what they did to you â it’s degenerate. That sort of thing belongs in the East, not here in Rome. It’s an insult to the Fathers. And when I get a say in these matters I’m going to ban it. What do you think of that?’
‘It … it was the domina Livilla’s doing,’ Lygdus whispered.
Nero frowned. ‘Well, it wasn’t your dominus Castor’s orders â did you know that? Bitch Aunt Livilla did it to you without my uncle Castor even knowing about it.’
Lygdus just stared at this candid revelation.
‘He was livid when he found out,’ said Nero. ‘Hit the roof about it. I shouldn’t tell you this, but he’s never stopped feeling guilty about it either. It’s why he gave you such a cushy job washing all our feet.’
Lygdus felt like he was living in a dream. A young dominus was willingly sharing a confidence with him. This was something he had never even known was possible between a master and slave.
‘I shouldn’t tell you this either,’ said Nero, lowering his voice even further as he shook himself off at the pot, ‘but you could milk that guilt for all it’s worth with my uncle. He likes you an awful lot, Lygdus.’
The eunuch’s face was a picture of amazement and Nero laughed. ‘Don’t look so surprised! I like you too â why wouldn’t I? Stick with my uncle and me and you won’t go wrong. Think about it. Castor’s going to be Emperor one day. One day soon, I’d say.’
Lygdus looked strange as he rejoined me on the procession route. I asked him what was wrong.
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Just …’
I swished a long fan across my resplendent domina’s face as she swayed high above us in her throne. ‘Just what?’
‘Just that … Sometimes they’re capable of being kind, aren’t they? The masters …’
‘Sometimes, yes â but not very often, in my experience.’ I swished the fan again and saw that Livia’s eyes were upon us. It seemed like a good moment to boost Lygdus’s resolve. ‘When the second king is on the throne,’ I whispered, ‘you and I will know more kindness than we can imagine, Lygdus. Just you wait and see.’
Lygdus tried to imagine how much kindness that could possibly be, given that the kindness he just experienced â mixing his piss with a master’s in the fuller’s pot â was already more kindness than he thought had existed on this earth.
‘Just wait,’ I whispered. ‘The second king will see us living like gods.’
‘You told me you’re a god already, Iphicles.’
‘Well, yes,’ I said. ‘A god who serves his goddess closely. But you must admit I don’t live like one.’
Lygdus conceded this was true.
‘These things will change. Just keep it up with the footbaths,’ I whispered. ‘Everything is going exactly to plan.’
Lygdus nodded obediently. Yet his eyes, as he did so, were not on me but on Nero, far ahead at the front of the procession with Castor, the Emperor’s chosen heir.
The Nones of March
AD 22
One week later: Lucius Ennius, a wealthy
equestrian, is charged with treason
for melting down a silver statue of the
Emperor to use as plate
The bewildered steward stared open-mouthed at the gesturing, jabbering man who clung to the doorway for support, raving like a madman trying to make a fantastical story seem real.
‘He is patrician,’ the nomenclator slave at the steward’s shoulder whispered as they both stared at the man. ‘The accent suggests it â and it suggests that he’s from Rome, as well.’
Claudius pointed wildly into the sumptuous rooms behind them, stammering on.
‘You’ve never seen this man before?’ the steward whispered back to his colleague.
The nomenclator shook his head. ‘It’s my job to remember names for the dominus â and I’ve never seen this poor bastard in my life.’
Claudius’s stammer intensified, the desperation stark in his face.
‘Give him some watered wine,’ ordered the steward.
The nomenclator thrust a cup into Claudius’s hand, but he shook so much that it slipped from his grip and clattered to the tiles.
‘He’s having a fit,’ said the steward. ‘I saw things like this in the wars.’
‘Will it kill him?’ said the nomenclator in alarm.
The steward stepped forward and punched Claudius squarely in the eye. ‘Not now it won’t.’
Claudius screamed and threw his hands up to protect himself, before falling into an abrupt and fearful silence.
The two slaves raised their eyebrows at one another and then addressed Claudius slowly and deliberately, as they would a child. ‘The admiral, our master, is not home, domine.’
‘Not him I want to see …’ Claudius managed to gasp, his breath jagged in his chest as he tried to pull himself together.
‘Who, then?’
‘The blinding love … the rarest of birds …’
The slaves cast shocked looks at each other.
‘Must meet her … it’s why I’ve come … it’s been foretold.’
‘But how do you even know about her …?’ asked the steward in astonishment.
‘Thrasyllus foretold … and today is Mercury …’
Looks of fear came to the servants’ faces. ‘Our master is not home,’ the nomenclator said hurriedly again. ‘He is out at sea. Please go now, domine.’
‘No,’ stammered Claudius. ‘I must meet her … It’s why I’ve come … for the rarest of birds …’
‘Who are you?’ demanded the steward.
‘Tiberius Claudius Nero Germanicus,’ Claudius spat out in a rush. ‘Nephew of the Emperor.’
The two slaves went white. Then they threw themselves onto the floor of the entrance hall. ‘Spare us, domine!’
Claudius broke wind in his hurry, staggering past the prostrate servants into the middle of the admiral’s exquisite atrium. ‘Where is she?’ he shouted into the void. ‘Let me see my precious child!’
The servants scrambled to their feet to pursue him. ‘We’ll have to show her to him.’
‘We’ve got no choice in it!’
‘Where is she?’ Claudius wailed.
‘The tablinum, domine â she’s in the master’s study!’
They reached him just as he flung back the embroidered curtain that divided the atrium from the admiral’s private room. The curtain ripped from its rings, spilling at their feet in a billowing bundle.
Claudius stared into the lavishly decorated study. It was empty. ‘Where is she?’
‘You are looking at her, domine.’
An outraged shriek pitched Claudius to the floor and he threw his hands to his mouth in horror. A ghost-grey Fury bestrode the admiral’s desk, filling the room with a volcanic anger that burned in her face as she fixed him with her pus-coloured eyes. Claudius tried to flee on his knees but she leaped to the floor a
nd advanced upon him, flinging her feathered arms high in the air.
Claudius’s screams of terror proved even louder than her cries of abject disgust.
In Rome a Palatine father was presented with his firstborn child. He looked at the tiny thing swaddled in linen at his feet, while the midwives waited with bated breath, praying to Diana that he’d pick the baby up.
‘Is it a girl then?’ he asked them flatly.
The midwives nodded, keenly aware that a son had been hoped for. ‘And the domina is doing well â very little blood lost in the labour,’ the older of them added.
But the father made no move to embrace the child. He tapped the baby lightly with his foot. The baby squirmed a little but didn’t stir. ‘Is it healthy?’
‘Very healthy. She will be a beautiful child, you can see it in her tiny face â an asset to you, domine.’
The father stood up, stepping over the baby. The midwives looked at each other in confusion â then looked to the wet nurse.
‘Domine?’ the wet nurse asked.
The father stopped.
‘Are you … rejecting this child?’
‘Don’t be a fool.’
Relief flooded the servants. ‘You have a name for her, then, domine?’
‘Her name will honour mine, not her mother’s,’ was all he said over his shoulder before leaving the room.
The servants looked at each other again for a moment, and the wet nurse took up a clean wax tablet from her master’s desk. ‘The family name is Messala,’ she told the midwives. ‘We will find a name for her from that.’ She scratched down a few letters, disliked what they made, and scratched them out before trying another derivative. ‘There,’ she said.
The oldest midwife cradled the tiny girl again. ‘What is she called then?’
The wet nurse showed her the name: Messalina. They all agreed that it was as pretty a name as any inauspicious daughter could ask for.
‘You’ll find a husband one day who loves you more than Daddy does,’ the old midwife whispered reassuringly to the baby.
‘That won’t be hard,’ the wet nurse muttered.
Nest of Vipers Page 17