A Song For Nero

by Tom Holt

  It's important when you're doing what we were doing always to make sure you keep in character. Like, if you're being a cheese merchant and you blow into a new town, you've got to spend some time asking about the local cheeses, doing deals, whatever. Otherwise, two gets you one that someone'll tell someone else, We had two cheese buyers in our place the other day but they didn't seem to be very interested, and you can be sure that the bloke they say this to is a captain of guards or a market commissioner who's been after us for days, and he'll ask his mate: These two strangers, they wouldn't happen to be a rat-faced little Greek and an Italian with a neck like an ox, and next thing you know, we're getting our collars felt.

  So the very least I could do was start asking round the inn about cheese, and who had any for sale, and once I'd got the point across I was suddenly knee-deep in farmers again, not to mention the steward from a big estate, all trying to get me to go up their place next morning and try a slice or two. So I was saying yes, we'd really like to do that, only we're pressed for time a little bit, anxious to get to the coast as soon as possible to be sure of catching our boat home before it leaves without us, but we'd be back in a month or so, and maybe then'd be a good time to go round looking at stuff. They all seemed happy enough at that, kept promising me that it'd be worth my while, because each and every one of 'em just happened to produce the finest cheeses in Sicily for flavour and texture and God only knows what else. All in all, I did more work that evening than your genuine cheese merchant does in a week, and not a green copper to show for it at the end, of course. Strikes me, if I'd put half the time and effort into being an honest businessman that I've put into lying and swindling over the years, I'd be a rich man by now, with my own villa by the sea, drinking wine from my own vineyards. But there you go.

  Needless to say, Lucius Domitius wasn't pulling his weight in all this — fair play to him, it wasn't his job, since he was being the humble and self-effacing slave, sitting quiet in the corner with his jug of etching fluid and his half-loaf of barley bread. Credit where it's due, over the years he'd got it about perfect — not that there's a lot to it, sitting still and keeping your face shut — but he had talent, no doubt about it. Sometimes, when he was really putting his heart and soul into his performance, I'd look round for him and not even see him till he stood up, he was that good. No, his job (aside from just being, like slaves do) was keeping his ears open, picking up the little stray snatches of conversation that can make all the difference in our line of work.

  It could be anything: some clown shooting his mouth off, suggesting he'd be a good mark; something we could use in a scam, like there's these merchants expected in town with letters of credit, but they're strangers, so nobody knows what they look like; advance warning, like the prefect's cracking down on tall-story men, or someone we'd had dealings with before is arriving on the next boat.

  So, when I'd done my rounds and it was time to go to bed, we went out into the yard, like we had horses to see to or something, and I asked him if there was anything doing.

  'Too right,' he said, with a worried look on his face. 'There's a Roman senator on his way, visiting his estates or something. We'd better clear out first thing.'

  I could see his point, of course. A Roman senator would know the former emperor of the Romans by sight. Now I wasn't as bothered about that as he was. I know for a fact that most people only ever see what they expect to see, and none of your purple-stripe boys would ever expect to see a dead Caesar togged out like a garlic-nibbler in a country inn in the back end of Sicily Rich men don't see slaves, unless they want them for something, and even if this senator happened to notice Lucius Domitius and see the resemblance, he'd just think, Oh look, there's a slave who looks a bit like Nero. He might mention it to his chums or write a poem about it, but you'd never get him to believe. No way But yes, it wasn't worth the risk. After all, there wasn't anything we wanted to do there, it'd just mean hauling ourselves out of bed at first light instead of having a lie-in. No big deal. 'All right,' I said. 'Any idea where this character's coming in from? Syracuse, presumably'

  He jerked his head up, Greek style (nice touch). 'They didn't say,' he replied.

  'Oh well.' I shrugged. Like I said, I wasn't really worried. 'We'll keep going for Camarina. We'll just make sure we're on the road bright and early Don't suppose his lordship's going to shift his aristocratic bum while the dew's still on the grass.

  So, come cock-crow, we were up and washed and ready to go. Paid the landlord, slipped out before the stable-boys started work, no fuss. Just to be on the safe side, I'd given in to Lucius Domitius whining and splashed out on a couple of mules. We'd cover half as much ground again riding as walking, and a man I'd got talking to the night before had offered me a pretty good deal on them. It was a pleasant enough morning, the road was good and flat for a change, and I was explaining to Lucius Domitius why Mauretania was such a good idea. A couple of hours down the road and I'd forgotten all about the Roman senator.

  Well, you couldn't fault my logic, could you? I'd done my best: figured it all out, weighed up the odds, chosen what seemed like the sensible way of handling the situation. Short of having Pallas Athene come to me in a dream and tell me my fortune, I don't see how I could've been expected to see what was going to happen. That's what's so unfair about life. You follow the proper drill, do it all right, you ought to be able to expect that things'll go your way and you won't end up knee deep in the shit.

  No warning, of course. One minute we were walking our mules up a gentle little hill; the next, over the brow comes this bloody great procession, coming straight at us. Nowhere to hide, we were right out in the open, nothing else on the road for a mile behind us.

  Your Roman senators, being the richest men the world has ever seen, they've got to find stuff to spend all that money on. You and me, we reckon we're ahead of the game if we've got enough to eat for today and tomorrow, and a change of clothes if we're really lucky. For your Roman senator, life's never that simple.

  If he stays at home, he's got to have a villa the size of Troy , with enough footmen and houseboys to man a full-strength legion. If he goes anywhere, it's either a coach with six milk-white horses, or a sedan chair carried by eight identical Germans, with the labours of Hercules in full relief on the doors, picked out in gold leaf. Nor is there any risk of his lordship getting lonely as he travels from A to B. Aside from his four coachmen or his eight bearers, there's his valets and his secretaries and the two Syrians who wipe the snot off his chin when he sneezes, and a half battalion of bodyguards with great big clubs just m case the King of Persia decided to sneak up behind him with his entire army and try to steal his ivory pedicure set.

  So there we were, the two of us, and bearing down on us like Hannibal and all his elephants was this column: footsloggers at the front, then two blokes with the bundles of rods and axes (showing that this one was some kind of high-up government official as well as a rich bastard), then a dozen cavalry outriders, then the coach, and another wagon behind that, presumably to carry his worship's clean underwear.

  Now what you do in a situation like that is you get off the road as quick as you can, doffing your hat and looking down hard at your feet, to show you know your place. This is no bother to me, I don't mind it in the least, and I'd have been happy as a pig in shit to do the usual thing and carry on my way a few moments later. Unfortunately, it was taken out of my hands, so to speak, by my goddamned contrary mule.

  I knew, as soon as I tugged on the useless creature's bridle and my arm nearly came out of its socket, I knew I should never have let myself get talked into breaking my number-one rule of survival in the cold, cruel world: no fucking mules. Needless to say, as soon as mine dropped anchor, Lucius Domitius' did the same. So there we were, obstructing the highway, and the Roman getting closer to us every moment.

  The front man was yelling at us, 'Get those bloody animals off the road.' Well, that was helpful. I was hauling away with every last bit of strength I had (but that wasn'
t worth much, a skinny little runt like me) and so was Lucius Domitius; and if he couldn't shift his mule, what chance did I have?

  Well, the procession came to a dead stop about a foot from my big toe, and it was pretty obvious that they weren't pleased. The footsloggers grabbed us and shoved us out of the way I landed on my bum; Lucius Domitius banged his head on the paved road. Then they tried to shift the mules, but they didn't have any luck either. One of the cavalrymen rode up, but my mule must've said something nasty in Horse, because his fine white mare suddenly got all skittish and tried to buck him off over her head. Then the carriage door opened and this perfectly round head appeared, shouting, 'What's the hold-up? What's going on?' Wonderful, we'd met the senator.

  The lead thug shouted back, trying to explain. 'It's these mules, sir, they won't budge.'

  The senator frowned and thought for a moment. 'Kill them,' he said. 'I haven't got all day'

  So the cavalryman hops off his horse, gives the reins to a thug to hold, strides up drawing his sword, and slices it across my mule's neck, just like that.

  Before the poor thing hit the deck he'd done the same to the other one, and a moment later the footmen had got both carcasses dragged onto the side of the road out of the way Problem solved.

  Well, I'd have been quite happy to leave it at that. But your Roman senator's a devil for fair play when you don't want him to be. He had his people bring us over, and there we were, looking up at him, hemmed in on all sides by his flunkeys so we couldn't make a run for it.

  'Sorry about that,' said the senator, staring over the tops of our heads as if looking straight at us would've made his eyes dirty. 'But I'm in a hurry, official business. Give these men a fair price for their animals.'

  Some Greek in a flashy green tunic hops down out of the coach and sticks money in our hands. I didn't even bother to look. I was keeping my eyes on the toes of my sandals, and praying Lucius Domitius had the good sense to do the same. I was waiting to hear the click of the carriage door shutting, maybe someone shoving us out of the way, but nothing happened. Finally, I looked up.

  The senator was looking me over like he was out fishing and he'd found me in his net. 'Don't I know you from somewhere?' he said.

  Shit, I thought. 'I don't think so, sir,' I said. 'I'm sure I haven't had the honour.'

  He wasn't buying it. 'I'm sure I know you,' he said. 'Have you been to Rome?'

  I shook my head. 'Never, sir.'

  'You're sure about that?'

  Bloody silly question, like it's something that'd slip your mind. 'Positive, sir. My name.. ., Screw me, I couldn't remember what my name was supposed to be.

  'Pittacus,' I remembered, just in time before it looked funny 'I'm a cheesemonger, sir, from Mauretania.'

  The senator clapped his hands together. 'That must be it, then,' he said. 'I served there on my last posting. Whereabouts in Mauretania do you come from?'

  I didn't look round, but I could feel great waves of hate crashing into me from Lucius Domitius' direction. 'Icosium, sir,' I answered, mostly because it was the only place in Mauretania I could think of.

  'Really' The senator was beaming. 'I know it well. And you're a cheesemonger, you say So what are you doing in Sicily?'

  Given the choice, I'd rather have been eaten alive by beetles than carry on this conversation. Sadly, nobody gave me the option.

  'Buying, sir,' I said. 'Stock.'

  'Oh.' The senator frowned. 'How odd. Is there a market for Sicilian cheese in Iconium?'

  I nodded. 'Oh yes, sir, they can't get enough of it. Goes like shit off a shovel, sir, pardon the expression.'

  'Really' He shook his head. 'How peculiar, when the local variety is such a delicacy I don't remember ever seeing Sicilian cheese for sale when I was there.'

  Bastard, I thought. 'It's a new thing, sir,' I said, 'very new Fashion, you know'

  'Oh well.' He thought for a moment, then rubbed his nose on the back of his hand. 'Well, anyway, that explains that. I knew I'd seen you before, you know Never forget a face.'

  Then, mercifully, the carriage door slammed and the procession moved on. I was still clutching the coin I'd been given. Don't suppose two strong men with crowbars could've prised my fingers apart, I was that tense. I stayed there without moving till the last man had disappeared over the brow of the hill.

  'Do you know who that was?'

  I'd clean forgotten about Lucius Domitius. 'Stinking fucking bastard Roman,' I replied, 'that's who that was.' I opened my fist and saw what I'd been give: a whacking great gold piece, enough to buy a whole string of mules. 'Bastard,' I repeated.

  Then Lucius Domitius was grabbing me by my shirt, twisting the collar so I could hardly breathe. 'Do you know who that was?' he hissed.

  'Let go of me, you lunatic,' I said. 'What the hell are you throttling me for?'

  He let go, but he was bright red in the face. 'That,' he said, 'was him. The senator.'

  'Yes, I'd gathered that.'

  'No, you clown. The senator. Him. The one I sent to the slate quarries.'

  FOUR

  Once, a long time ago now, I was in Egypt or one of those places, broke as a tinker's fiddle, to the point where I was hanging round the market looking for actual work, and this fat bloke wearing what looked like a carpet came up to me and asked me did I fancy being a beater in a lion hunt? And the answer was, obviously, no, but if the job paid money, count me in; and next thing I knew, I was standing in this long line of people, all deadbeats and losers like me, and we were walking across this slice of desert rattling sticks and bashing old copper pans and making a hell of a racket. When we'd been doing this for a very long time, out of a little clump of scraggy bushes jumps this lion. Well, he takes one look at us and bolts off the other way, which is exactly what I'd have done in his place, and he's running flat out, thinking, well, that was easy, when suddenly the ground gave way under his feet and there he was at the bottom of this deep pit, which the hunt people had dug the previous day and covered over with dry grass and bits of twig.

  I'm only telling you this because I knew exactly how that poor bugger felt. One moment he's doing fine, showing the bad guys a clean pair of heels; the next, everything's turned to horseshit and he's comprehensively stuffed. Just like that time with Lucius Domitius and me in Sicily 'You're kidding,' I said.

  Lucius Domitius looked at me. 'Yes,' he said, 'I'm pulling your leg. That's my idea of a funny joke. Pull yourself together, will you? That was him. Gnaeus Sulpicius Asper, the poor sod I sent to the slate quarries.' He waved his hands like he was trying to shake them off his arms. 'We've had it,' he said. 'This time, we've finally run out of fools' luck. We're dead.'

  I could see where he was coming from, but even so. 'Don't talk soft,' I told him. 'Sure, it got a bit warm back there, but we got away with it. Take a couple of deep breaths, and everything'll be fine.'

  He just looked at me.

  'Oh for God's sake,' I said. 'Look, he thinks I'm an African cheese dealer, this time tomorrow he'll have forgotten the whole thing. All we've got to do is keep out of his way, and that's the end of it.'

  He didn't say anything, which was a really bad sign. Well, I wasn't putting up with that. 'It's all your fault, anyhow,' I told him. 'You were the one who insisted on bloody mules. Haven't I always told you, no mules, not ever? And did you listen?'

  He didn't look like he was in the mood to talk about mules. He stood there for a moment or so, making an effort to stop quivering. Then he said, 'All right, which way?'

  “What?'

  'Which way do we go now? Straight on, or back the way we came?'

  'Talk sense,' I told him. 'Obviously, we keep heading for Camarina. Seaport, boat out of here, simple as that. Why, what did you have in mind?'

  He shook his head. 'Sorry,' he said, 'my brain's stopped working. Yes, let's do that. You never know, we might still get away with it.'

  We didn't talk much the rest of the day, which was probably just as well. He was just plain miserable. I was trying
to think ahead, figure out the sort of unforeseen shitmines we might stroll into, but for the life of me I couldn't think of any, apart from a company of cavalry thundering down the road after us because his lordship had just remembered where he'd seen Lucius Domitius before.

  Nothing we could do about that if it happened. The trouble with Sicily is it's all open country. You can't just duck off the highway and hide out in the bush when you catch sight of a nasty-looking dust-cloud coming up the road behind you. It's all just fields full of dirt-scratchers just waiting to say, 'They went that way,' to any passing cavalryman. But that was all right, because it wasn't going to happen, for the reasons I just explained. His lordship wasn't going to turn round suddenly and say, Bugger me, that slave we just passed in the road was Nero in disguise. Things don't happen like that. Looked at calmly, there was nothing to worry about.

  So we kept on down the road, walking as fast as we could go, and come evening we crawled into yet another poxy little Sicilian town and parked ourselves in yet another poxy little Sicilian inn. This time, I didn't do the cheesemonger bit; in fact, we kept our faces resolutely shut on the whole subject of cheese, and you don't need to be told why We found a quiet corner, tried to make ourselves look as unfriendly as possible, and rested our feet.

  There were a couple of carters behind us, talking to someone I couldn't see.

  Naturally I started earwigging, because it's second nature.

  'Just arrived,' one of the carters was saying. 'Don't know what to make of the bastard yet, but chances are he'll be no better and no worse than the other bastard. They're all pretty much alike, anyhow'

  His mate laughed. 'Not so sure about that,' he said. 'Reckon this one might have a bit of an attitude, at least to start off with. You heard about his son?'

  The other carter and the bloke we couldn't see hadn't heard, so he told them.