Nest of Vipers

by Luke Devenish

  I smirked, amused at how easily Livia could always expose me. ‘I told her everything she needed to know about your crimes, domina – and of my own, and what came from them. But of the future, well … if I am Veiovis made mortal, then I would be remiss not to hold a few things back. It will make her stronger to discover them for herself.’

  Livia flashed with anger and I waited for her to strike me. But then she could only laugh. ‘The end, the end, your mother says – to deception now depend …’

  I was pleased. ‘You quote the prophecy at me, domina?’

  ‘I accept your judgement in these matters, knowing that I will continue to depend upon your wisdom when I am gone.’

  I was brought up short. ‘Gone, domina? Where are you going?’

  She was evasive. ‘The end is coming for my schemes. The second queen has been readied, although she will not embrace her destiny for some time, of course. While we wait, we must prepare for the crowning of the second king. A far lesser monarch, obviously, but still of my womb. And he is the means by which Nilla will attain everything.’ Livia chuckled. ‘If only he knew it.’

  ‘What should I do, domina?’

  Livia smiled sadly. ‘You should comfort me, slave. It will soon be time to farewell my son.’

  The physician Charicles had taken the precaution of filling his loincloth with sawdust before giving his report to Macro. He thanked Asclepius for this foresight as he helplessly pissed himself with nerves before the Prefect had even spoken a word to him.

  ‘The “herbs” the Emperor has been ingesting to hide his returned dependence upon the flower will reach a critical amount,’ the physician said.

  ‘About time,’ said Macro. He despised the Greek.

  ‘He will then begin his final decline.’

  ‘How long?’

  Charicles shifted uncomfortably and a little shower of sawdust fell to his feet. ‘I am reluctant to provide specifics of time, Prefect.’

  ‘How long?’ Macro repeated, slamming his fist on the table.

  Charicles cleared his throat. ‘A year. Perhaps a little more.’

  ‘The gods help me,’ Macro groaned. He hated the eternal waiting, but what choice did he have?

  Dismissing the physician, Macro strode out of the villa looking for Tiberius, seeking any sign that the old man might be showing of the herbs’ destruction. He spied the Emperor and Antonia seated together on a stone bench on the far terrace, looking out to sea.

  ‘For all the world a pair of decrepit, star-crossed lovers,’ Macro sneered to himself.

  As if Macro’s words were portentous, the Emperor leaned across and kissed the matron’s lips. Antonia looked as startled as Macro. Tiberius cringed with embarrassment at his spontaneous act, searching for words of apology just as Antonia recovered herself and kissed Tiberius of her own accord. The Emperor beamed.

  Shuddering, Macro left them to it.

  As he neared the villa again, Macro passed Little Boots and Aemilius, lounging in abject boredom upon the grass. He noted the Emperor’s grandson was sitting on the cushion as usual and bit back his fury. He knew Livia was right. Until the boy understood the true meaning of the present, its gains would be hopelessly lost on him.

  When Macro had gone, Little Boots got off the cushion. He stood staring at the embroidered words, reading them over in his head for the thousandth time. ‘I sit … I sit … I sit.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Aemilius.

  Little Boots picked up the cushion and moved across the lawns towards the terrace where Tiberius sat on the stone bench with Antonia.

  Aemilius felt inexplicably alarmed. ‘Wait. Little Boots –’

  Tiberius was startled to turn and see the young man standing behind him with the cushion held out. Little Boots smiled the smile of the perfect grandson. ‘That stone bench looks hard, Grandfather.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tiberius.

  ‘I thought you might like my cushion to sit on – it’s very comfortable.’

  There was a brief moment where the Emperor held the young man’s gaze. Then Tiberius accepted the gift. ‘Thank you, Grandson,’ he said, slipping the cushion beneath himself. He and Antonia continued to sit, now hand in hand.

  Little Boots returned to Aemilius and sat on the bare grass.

  ‘You gave it to him?’

  Little Boots nodded.

  ‘So what, then? You understand what it’s all about now?’

  Little Boots despaired. ‘I don’t know why I gave it to him, Aemilius. Macro walked past us and the idea just came in to my head.’

  ‘Now you’ve lost the stupid thing,’ Aemilius admonished him. ‘And don’t think you’ll ever get it back.’

  ‘I thought it would reveal something to me,’ said Little Boots in frustration, ‘but it failed. I know nothing of what my great-grandmother meant by her accursed gift and I never will.’

  Terminalia

  February, AD 37

  Twenty months later: a fire devastates the

  Aventine Hill and adjacent parts of the

  Circus Maximus

  Antonia prayed fervently at the makeshift shrine. ‘Restore his health, Asclepius, I beg you. Keep him from death. Keep him from death.’

  Drusilla and Julilla went through the motions, repeating their grandmother’s words to please her. ‘Restore his health, Asclepius. Keep him from death. Keep him from death.’

  Antonia turned to them. ‘He ignores us. The god of medicine gives us nothing, girls.’ She began to cry.

  ‘No, no,’ said Drusilla, shuffling awkwardly on her knees towards her. She signalled Julilla to find a handkerchief. ‘We cannot read the god’s mind, Grandmother. Asclepius will listen to our prayers. Have faith.’

  ‘He won’t. He ignores us,’ said Antonia, bitterly. Julilla passed her a grubby rag. ‘And it is the Emperor’s own fault. His years of depravity have led him to this. Asclepius knows it’s deserved.’

  The sisters looked at each other. ‘Perhaps if we sacrifice again?’ Julilla suggested, uncomfortable with her grandmother’s tears.

  Drusilla seized on this. ‘Yes, another bull, a pure white one. We’ll get the ship to bring it from Rome.’

  Antonia looked up sharply. ‘No one in Rome must know of the Emperor’s illness.’

  ‘But isn’t it right they should know?’ said Drusilla. ‘Perhaps this is why the god doesn’t hear? Not enough prayers are being said for our grandfather.’

  Antonia was adamant. ‘No one. The secret stays here.’

  The sisters made to leave the shrine room. ‘I shall get another piglet from the pens, then,’ Drusilla said. ‘We can sacrifice that to Asclepius. It cannot hurt.’

  Antonia waved them away, returning to her prayers.

  Outside, Drusilla gave her own thoughts on why Rome was forbidden to know. ‘Everyone hates him,’ she whispered. ‘Our grandmother fears people would pray for his death, not his recovery.’

  Julilla had a wicked look in her eye. ‘That’s what I’ve been praying for!’

  ‘Julilla!’ said Drusilla, mortified. Then she took on a look to match her sister’s. ‘Me too.’ Giggling, they went off in search of a piglet, intending to take their time about it. But Drusilla couldn’t help a vague apprehension as she went. If their grandfather died, she wondered, wouldn’t the Eastern flower die with him? How would she obtain it by other means?

  Inside the shrine room Antonia abandoned formal prayers to appeal personally to the god. ‘I saved Rome from the threat of those who coveted the throne, Asclepius,’ she whispered, ‘and now it is threatened again. Please, god, save Tiberius for Rome. He has not named his heir. We will descend into civil war and anarchy again, just as Augustus always said we would without a succession in place.’

  The scented oil lamps burned around the god’s image. ‘I feel so helpless and alone,’ Antonia wept. ‘Send me a friend to guide me in what to do – send someone whose wisdom in these matters is far greater than my own.’

  She heard f
ootsteps at the door and presumed the sisters had returned. She tried to pull herself together. ‘The pig cannot help us, girls. I am sorry,’ she said. ‘Take the poor thing back to the pens.’

  ‘Asclepius is such a fickle god,’ said Livia from the door, ‘but over the years I’ve found he has a soft spot for me.’

  Antonia’s tears vanished in her astonishment. ‘Oh, my dear friend!’ She rushed to embrace her. ‘My prayers have been answered.’

  ‘It was well time I made a visit to Capri,’ said Livia.

  Antonia’s eyes opened over Livia’s shoulder and settled briefly on me.

  ‘But what are you praying for?’ asked Livia. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Oh, Livia, my friend, the most terrible thing,’ said Antonia, the tears returning again.

  As though she were innocent in the extreme, Livia settled down to be informed of Tiberius’s grave ill health, giving a masterful performance of a mother’s breaking heart.

  Shivering in his bed, Tiberius relived the only moment from his long life that Postverta, that capricious goddess of the past, would grant him. No other memories were permitted. It was this, the goddess told him, and this moment alone.

  All around him were flames. The long dry grasses, the olive trees, the Grecian villa – all were on fire, and Tiberius, his mother and his father fled in an ox-drawn carruca from the blaze. Cinders from the villa’s roof landed on the loaded carriage and it burned too, becoming a roaring siege tower. Baby Tiberius screamed in his mother’s arms.

  ‘Throw me little Tiberius!’ the slave-girl Hebe shouted from the ground. ‘I can save him!’

  Seeing no other rescue, his mother pitched him from the carruca high into the smoke. Hebe snatched him from the sky just as his mother threw herself from the carriage.

  ‘Tiberius Nero!’ his mother cried blindly, desperately scanning the inferno for his father. There was no sign. She ran through the blaze, the little slave-girl beside her and Tiberius clutched tight in her arms. They reached a little brook and she saw that his flesh was steaming. His mother plunged him into the water. ‘This is not how you end, my son,’ she vowed. ‘I won’t let it be like this.’

  The baby Tiberius gasped with shock, springing from his death sleep. His mother sang with relief. He looked into her eyes and saw an extraordinary sight. She was smiling at him with love while her hair was alive with flames.

  The past became the present. Tiberius opened his eyes to see an identical image: Livia smiling above him, her hair ablaze like the sun.

  ‘You saved me, Mother,’ he whispered.

  ‘I did,’ said Livia. ‘And now you must save Rome.’

  ‘Save Rome? Is it in peril?’

  Livia nodded, slipping a pen into his hand. ‘Rome needs you, my son.’

  ‘How?’ Tiberius rasped. ‘What must I do?’

  My domina guided his wrist towards a sheet of papyrus. ‘You must name your successor.’

  The words the papyrus contained were a blur to Tiberius. ‘Castor?’ he asked. ‘Has my son come back to me again?’

  Livia shook her head.

  ‘It is Nero, then? Or is it Drusus, Mother?’

  Livia looked away wistfully.

  ‘Who, then?’ croaked Tiberius. ‘Tell me whose name it should be …’

  She bent to where he lay and kissed his cheek. Then she whispered the name in his ear. Tiberius stared at her and Livia nodded reassuringly, giving him the strength to scrawl the unlikely name upon the papyrus sheet. As she helped him press his seal into the warm wax, his ring slipped from his finger to the floor. She let it stay there. Tiberius tried to cover his eyes against the glow of her flames. ‘It burns,’ he whispered. ‘It’s burning, Mother.’

  ‘Here, son,’ she said, soothingly. She handed him a cushion from his bed. ‘Place this across your eyes to shade them.’

  Tiberius covered his face with the cushion. ‘Thank you, Mother.’

  As my domina crept from Tiberius’s room, she saw her great-grandson hovering in the shadows.

  ‘Ah, Little Boots,’ she murmured. ‘The Emperor has called for you. There is something he wishes to tell you.’

  Little Boots was fearful. ‘What is it?’

  Livia slipped away into the gloom without answering him.

  He stood outside the sleeping chamber for a long time. No sound came from within. Steeling himself, Little Boots pushed open the door. The air that emerged was foul with sickness, and Little Boots gagged. In the shadows cast by a single oil lamp, he could see no sign of his grandfather. The bed appeared empty.

  Little Boots’s bare foot stepped on something sharp. He looked down to see the glint of the Imperial ring. Amazed, Little Boots stooped to pick it up. Then the magnitude of what it was struck him. This seal held life and death. A man could be saved by its imprint, or condemned. The Divine Augustus had worn the ring, and before him the Divine Julius Caesar. The ring conferred the powers of a god.

  Staring at the hallowed eagle seal, Little Boots felt a compulsion seize him. He knew it was wrong – that to give in to it would be an offence to Fate – but the pull was too great. Little Boots slipped the ring of the Caesars upon the third finger of his right hand – the finger that led to his heart. A white-hot surge of divine supremacy flushed through his veins. His limb began to swell. The dulled, scratched gold bit into his flesh. The fit was ideal. It pleasured his hand. The ring belonged there.

  Little Boots saw the sheet of papyrus on the table where the oil lamp burned. He saw the words. The power of the ring made them fly out at him. It was Tiberius’s will, and he, Little Boots, was named as successor.

  Tiberius stirred beneath the linens and Little Boots dropped the papyrus in fright. The cushion slid from the old man’s face and he saw the ring on Little Boots’s finger. He felt for his own hands beneath the sheets and knew what was missing.

  ‘Take it off.’

  ‘Grandfather –’

  ‘Take it off. That’s mine.’

  Little Boots tried to loosen it but the band bit deeper into his flesh. ‘It’s stuck.’

  ‘Take it off, I said – give it to me!’

  Little Boots tugged at the ring, sticking his finger into his mouth to grip it with his teeth. ‘It’s stuck, Grandfather – I can’t budge it,’ he said, white-faced.

  Tiberius saw the papyrus on the floor and remembered. ‘You little turd, you think you’re Emperor already!’

  ‘No – I only put the ring on by accident.’

  ‘You saw my will – you saw what was there. You want me dead!’

  ‘No! That’s not how it was.’

  Enraged, Tiberius tried to sit up. ‘I’ll change it – I’ll strike off your name. You’re a thief!’ Tiberius screamed. ‘Antonia! Antonia!’ he called to the rooms outside. ‘Come in here now and see your grandson, the thief!’

  Panicking, Little Boots snatched up the cushion that had covered Tiberius’s face and tried to replace it there. ‘Be quiet!’ he hissed, terrified of what Antonia would do if she heard him. ‘Just be quiet and go back to sleep.’

  ‘Thief!’ Tiberius slapped and struggled against him. ‘My ring!’

  Little Boots saw with shock that the cushion was his own. Sedeo. Suddenly, the word seemed both a command and a premonition. Little Boots pressed it harder on Tiberius’s face. ‘Shut up,’ he hissed. ‘Shut up and stay in your bed!’

  The old man squirmed and raged beneath the bed clothes.

  Little Boots climbed onto the bed and placed his whole body upon the cushion, straddling the Emperor’s covered head between his knees. ‘Just stop it, will you! Stop it! Stop it! Go to fucking sleep!’

  Tiberius fell still.

  I let myself into the room as Little Boots lifted the cushion again. The Emperor’s eyes were open, staring unblinking at the smoke-stained ceiling. A string of spittle dripped from his mouth.

  The lovely voice of the goddess whispered in our ears: ‘When tiny shoes a cushion brings, the cuckoo’s
king rewarded.’

  I chuckled. ‘Tiberius was well rewarded indeed by your cushion, Little Boots.’

  He stared in awe. ‘Is this what will make me a god?’ he whispered.

  ‘One step at a time,’ I smiled.

  Matronalia

  March, AD 37

  One week later: the new Emperor, Gaius

  Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus,

  known to all as Caligula, escorts his

  grandfather’s corpse to Rome

  Borrowing from his late mother’s theatrics, Little Boots, dressed in mourning garb, accompanied Tiberius’s body on its journey from Capri to Rome. Aemilius was by his side, and Little Boots played the occasion as a triumph more than a funeral procession. Crowds thronged to cheer along the Via Appia, holding blazing torches before him and making sacrifices. They called out pet names like ‘star’ and ‘chick’ and ‘baby’, and it was much remarked that crowds of such a size hadn’t been seen since Little Boots’s father’s triumph upon his return from Germany. To the people Little Boots was almost an unknown, but as Germanicus’s son he was invested with all his father’s qualities. He wore his father’s crown.

  At Oxheads the remaining members of the Imperial family prepared to journey to the Capena Gate to greet Little Boots’s procession as it arrived in Rome. Claudius was among them, as were dead Livilla’s children, Tiberia and Gemellus. Nilla made her way towards them through the throng, looking for the Imperial litter that would let her see her brother again after so many years.

  ‘What pride I feel at the day’s events,’ my domina purred behind her.

  Nilla turned sharply and stiffened. ‘My brother’s ascension must be a special day for you indeed, Great-grandmother,’ she said flatly.

  ‘What? Oh, that,’ said Livia.

  Standing behind her, I had to smile.

  ‘Well, I suppose it is, for now,’ said Livia, ‘but that’s not what I meant.’

  Nilla turned away, unwilling to play her great-grandmother’s games. But Livia leaned into her ear. ‘Little Boots’s rule will bring shame upon Rome, and far worse.’

  Nilla refused to look at her.