A Song For Nero

by Tom Holt

  'Mmm?'

  He looked at me. 'I haven't got much time,' he said. 'They're harder to get rid of than a stone in your boot. Have you really lost your memory, or is this some scam you're working?'

  When I was a kid growing up in Attica, there was this old bloke who lived on the edge of our village, and I remember talking to him one time, during the olive harvest I think it was, and he told me, 'Son, nothing bad can ever happen to you in this life if you always do the right thing and tell the truth.' He died not long after that — I can't remember if he died of some horrible disease or got murdered by thieves, it was one or the other — and I've never forgotten that bit of advice. The crucial word, of course, is always. Doesn't work without the always. If you go through life cheating people and telling lies and then suddenly try and stop, you end up in the cowplop.

  So, yes, I really wanted to tell Lucius Domitius the truth, because it was the right thing to do, but it was too late for that; I'd missed out on that always part by thirty-odd years. Besides, if I'd told him that I was pretending I'd lost my memory so I could hang around some girl, when we were being chased by some nutcase who tracked us across the length and breadth of the empire to give us money in our sleep, he'd have done his block. And quite right too; if it'd been the other way round and he'd been lying to me and I'd found out, I'd have ripped his lungs out with a soupspoon.

  So I gave him my extra-special blank stare. 'What the hell are you talking about?' I said.

  'Oh God.' He rolled his eyes, not a pretty sight. 'Well,' he said, 'this is going to sound a bit weird. Are you ready?'

  'Depends,' I said.

  'Fine.' He took a deep breath 'It's like this,' he said. 'You know I told you that your name's Euthydemus, and you live in Corinth , and you and I are in the dry fish trade?'

  I nodded. 'That's right,' I said. 'Actually, I think bits of it are coming back to me.'

  'I doubt it,' he said, 'because it's all lies. It's not true, any of it.'

  I raised my eyebrows. 'Really?'

  'Really And my name isn't Pisistratus, and I'm not your second cousin by marriage.'

  Well, nobody had told me he was, so that was all right. 'So why did you say—?'

  'I was lying.'

  'Oh.'

  I wasn't making it easy for him, no. Don't know why, but he was stood there with this desperately serious expression on his face, and I was still buzzing after chatting up Myrrhine. No excuses. I was being a bastard. Comes of not knowing who my father was, I guess.

  'The truth is,' Lucius Domitius went on, 'you and I are a pair of confidence tricksters. We swindle people, that's how we earn our living. Only, we aren't trying to swindle Amyntas and his brother, and they really did save you from a collapsing building.'

  'I see,' I said. 'So why are we lying to them?'

  'Ah. Well, this is the bad bit. There are some men after us.'

  'What, chasing us, you mean? People we swindled?'

  'Could be,' Lucius Domitius said. 'The scary part of it is, we don't know who they are. But they followed us here from Sicily —that's where we were last — and they searched us out while we were asleep, and gave us some money 'I see,' I said. 'They gave us money, and you're saying we're running away from them. Why?' He pulled a face. 'It's complicated,' he said. 'But let's just get a few things straight. Your name,' he went on, 'is Galen.'

  'Galen, right.'

  'And my name — well, you call me Lucius Domitius...'

  'But that's not your real name?'

  'Well, yes,' he said, 'it is. At least, it's a bit of it. My real name is Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus—'

  'That's Roman, isn't it?'

  'Yes. I'm a Roman. I was saying, my real name is Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus Nero Claudius Germanicus Caesar Augustus.'

  I giggled. 'That's a very long name,' I said.

  'Isn't it? The point is, you're the only person in the world apart from me who knows that.'

  'Do I? Well, I guess I must do, if you say so. Only I can't remember, see.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. 'Look,' he said. 'Do you know about the emperor Nero?'

  I nodded. 'That bastard,' I said.

  'Quite. Well, the truth is, I'm him. That's me.'

  'Don't be silly,' I said. 'Nero's dead. Good riddance, too, by all accounts.'

  'No, he's not. I mean, I'm not. I'm very much alive. I faked my death, with your brother's help, and you and I have been going around together ever since. Ten years, in fact.'

  'Making a living by cheating people out of money?'

  'Yes.'

  'And you're really the emperor of the Romans, in disguise.'

  'That's right.'

  'Sorry,' I said, 'I don't believe a word of it.'

  Broke my heart to do it, mind. The expression on his face was so tragic it'd have made a bailiff weep. But it was much, much too late by that stage to own up, so I was more or less stuck, and if I had to play the part, I had to do it convincingly It's not easy, lying to someone you've known ten years (unless, of course, she's your wife).

  'I'm sorry,' he said, 'but I can't prove it. I mean, I can't show you a sworn statement countersealed by the praetor's office, or anything like that.' He laughed, rather grimly 'Dammit, I've spent so long not being Nero as hard as I possibly can, I guess I've lost the knack of being me. All I can say is, if I'm not Nero, why in hell's name would I pretend to be him? Can you think of a single good reason why someone should want to pass himself off as the most hated man in history?'

  He had a point there, of course. 'It's all very well you saying that,'

  I said, 'but it could be an elaborate counter-bluff. Like,' I went on, 'maybe you really are a con merchant and maybe I'm a rich mark you're trying to swindle. Pretty far fetched, maybe, but a damn sight more likely than you being a dead emperor.'

  Well, it was good enough to shut him up for a moment or so. Actually it was pretty neat, because it was just the sort of thing that'd make a reasonable scam: you get chatting in a tavern with some bloke, make it look like you've had a skinful, blurt out that really you're some desperate wanted criminal and you've got a huge stash buried somewhere, only it's no use to you because you daren't go back and get it, so you offer to sell the mark your map of where it's hidden for a few lousy gold coins. I filed that one away for future use. Waste not, want not, as we used to say back home.

  He was getting really uptight, poor bastard. 'Look, you stupid Greek gallows-bait,' he said, 'if you think you're a wealthy man, just take a look at the palms of your hands, tell me if they belong on a rich man. You've just spent a couple of months bashing dirt with a mattock, because it was either that or starve.'

  I looked down at my hands, just to show willing. 'Doesn't prove anything,' I said. 'For all I know, I could be a hard-working yeoman farmer, with a nice little nest egg salted away for my daughter's dowry.'

  He made a rude noise. 'I promise you,' he said, 'as soon as you get your memory back, I'm going to kick your arse from here to Praeneste for that. You a hard—working farmer.'

  Now that was unfair, because, if it hadn't been for the unfairness of Fate, that's precisely what I could have been. 'No more unlikely than you being the emperor of the Romans,' I said. 'All it needs is one look at you. No, I'd say you're either a retired gladiator or fresh off the galleys.'

  I thought he was going to lose his temper, but he managed not to. 'Listen,' he said, 'with any luck and the god's blessing, you'll get your head unscrambled in a day or so and then you'll remember, so I'm not going to waste time and breath trying to convince you. I'm just telling you this so when you do remember, it won't come as too much of a shock. Also, if you could possibly avoid saying anything that'll get us both crucified, I'd be much obliged. All right?'

  I looked him in the eye. I'm a professional, but even so it wasn't easy 'You're weird,' I said. 'If you ask me, you're the one who needs a doctor. Still, if anybody asks, I'll tell them you aren't the emperor Nero. After all, it's the plain truth.'

  He was about to
say something, then he didn't, and I thought I saw a little gleam in his eye. It was only some time later that I figured out what it could be — namely, I was the only person in the world, except maybe Phaon, if the worthless little shit was still alive, who knew for sure that he was the emperor Nero. If I'd forgotten that, it couldn't exactly hurt, could it? If I genuinely didn't remember, they could put me on the rack and stick thorns under my fingernails, and I wouldn't say a thing.

  'Fine,' he said. 'Just bear that in mind, and everything'll be all right.'

  He left the room, and I turned over and tried to get some sleep. Fat chance. I lay there, feeling horribly guilty. Not on, I said to myself. Lucius Domitius and me, we'd been through a lot together, and hadn't I promised Callistus I'd look after the stupid idiot? All it takes is a pretty face — a pretty face with a gigantic nose, yet — and all that was going out of the window Marvellous. And leaving that on one side for a moment, what about this mysterious threat hanging over us? When that wall fell on me, we'd been on the point of skipping Rome , jumping on board the first ship we came to, and getting as far away from the city as we could get. What was I planning on doing when the bad guys turned up — telling them they couldn't touch me because I'd just fallen in love? Yeah, right.

  But it was like arguing with a little kid. You point out all the facts, make a really good case, and the little bastard just looks at you and carries on eating the worms or drinking out of the puddle. I knew I was acting crazy and dumb, but I couldn't stop myself. That's when it hit me, like a tile off a roof. I was in love. Shit.

  Well, quite. It's all very well for your young sprigs of the nobility to go swanning round the place sighing and soppily grinning because some girl's just smiled at them. They've got nothing better to do with their time. They've got money dangling off their belts, and sure as hell they haven't got merciless killers or the praetor's guards trailing round after them. Love is strictly for the idle and the honest; for the likes of me, it's just not an option. Pity it doesn't know that, really, it could save a lot of unpleasantness.

  I'll say this for being dead stupid, though, it means you can put deep thoughts right out of your mind pretty much at will. Useful survival trait, actually, given the number of condemned cells I've been in.

  So I stopped thinking about that, and tried to figure out what I could say to Myrrhine next time I saw her, and while I was doing that, I must've fallen asleep, because the next thing I saw, apart from the insides of my eyelids, was Myrrhine herself, poised over me like a crow on roadkill with a bit of wet rag in her hand.

  'Oh, I'm so sorry,' she said. 'Did I wake you up?'

  'That's fine, really,' I replied. 'What time is it?'

  'Oh, just after dinnertime. My brothers and your friend are finishing off the wine, so I thought I'd come and see how you're getting on. Are you feeling any better?'

  Well, my headache had gone, for a start. On the other hand, since it seemed likely that me being ill was the main reason for her being nice to me, I wasn't in a hurry to admit it. 'A bit,' I said. 'My head's still very sore, of course.'

  'Oh dear. Does this help?' she said, splodging me with the rag again. Actually, it was bloody annoying.

  'Wonderfully,' I replied. 'If you don't mind, that is.'

  'Oh no, it's no trouble.' And she stuck a corner of the rag in my eye. 'I've got some good news for you,' she said.

  'Really? What?'

  She smiled at me. 'Some friends of yours have turned up,' she said.

  I sat bolt upright, which meant I got her little finger up my nose. 'Friends of mine?' I asked.

  'There, I thought you'd be pleased,' she said. 'Who knows, as soon as you see them, maybe your memory will come back, it's often the way in these cases, according to my brother Amyntas. He was telling me, one patient he had—'

  'What sort of friends?' I interrupted. 'I mean, what were they like? What did they say?'

  'Well.' She put down the damp rag, not a moment too soon. 'I went down to the front room to get some more water—'

  'When was this?'

  'Oh, about an hour ago, while you were still asleep. Anyway, I went down to the front room, and there were these two men, a Greek with a lovely red cloak, frightfully expensive I'd say, and a little man, probably an Italian, with a bald head and a little scrubby beard. And they were asking the innkeeper, had he seen two men: a big Italian with a thick neck — that's what they said —and a Greek with a pointed face and small eyes.' She paused, looking sheepish. 'Well, what they actually said was, a Greek with a face like a polecat. I don't think you look a bit like a polecat, but—'

  'That's what they said, was it? Their exact words?'

  She nodded. 'So of course I said yes, they're here in the inn, only the Greek gentleman's had a terrible accident, a wall fell on him, he's upstairs in bed.

  And I was about to tell them about how Amyntas saved your life and wasn't it lucky, him being a doctor, when the men said thanks and they'd be back later.

  They didn't say how long—'

  I jumped out of bed and started looking for my boots. Myrrhine gave a little squeal and spun round, probably because I wasn't wearing any clothes. 'Have you seen my boots?' I said.

  'Under the bed,' she replied, without looking round. 'Really, you shouldn't be getting up, Amyntas said—'

  I buggered Amyntas under my breath. 'It's all right,' I said, 'I'm feeling much better now. Have you told Lu— Have you told my friend?'

  I saw the back of her head lift. 'No, he's in having dinner with my brothers, I thought I'd tell him when they've finished.'

  'Wonderful,' I muttered. 'Hang on, you said this all happened an hour ago? Why didn't you tell me before?'

  'You were asleep,' she said, 'I didn't want to disturb you.'

  Stupid bitch, I thought, and then I thought, No, she was being considerate, she wasn't to know. 'Would you do something for me?' I asked, dragging my tunic on over my head. 'Could you nip down and tell my friend? I'm sure he'll be interested.'

  'All right,' she said. 'They'll have finished their wine soon, I'll tell him then.'

  'Now!' I shouted. 'I mean, I think it'd be better if you told him now, if it's all the same to you. I'm sure he'll want to be told as soon as possible.'

  'Oh,' she said, 'very well. Only Amyntas gets quite annoyed if he's interrupted before he's finished his wine.'

  'He won't mind,' I said, 'just this once. Please?' I added, just managing not to yell at her.

  She left the room, and I looked round, trying to figure out the best way to get out of there. The window was easily big enough to get through, but there was an awful lot of empty air between the window ledge and the street below, so I didn't fancy that. The only alternative was the stairs, leading down (presumably) into the front room. Well, I thought, if I get out now, maybe it'll be all right, or I could wait for Lucius Domitius, because he'd be sure to wait for me if he was in my shoes.

  The point is, some of us are naturally good people, and some of us are no good.

  I know I'm one of the second lot; people have been telling me this for many years, and they needn't have bothered, because something like that, you can feel it in your water. It's sad as hell and I'd far rather be good and brave and noble, but after all this time I'm resigned to it. I'm not good or brave or noble, and I never will be, and that's that. Just got to face facts and make the best I can of a bad job, namely me.

  But it's not all guilt and wretchedness A good bloke — Lucius Domitius, say, and deep down he was all right, as I may have told you before — a good bloke would worry about ditching his best mate at a time like that; he'd have real trouble doing something so mean and nasty. But when you're no good, like me, you don't have to beat yourself up over stuff like that. It's my nature, you say, and you just get on with it. I remember talking about it with a philosopher back in the old days — not Seneca, one of the other philosophers, but Seneca'd have said exactly the same thing, I'm sure — and he said I was bang on the nail, because the glorious Aristotle had
said pretty much the same thing, like everything's got its own nature and it can't help doing what its nature tells it to. Well, my nature was telling me to get the hell out of there, and if Aristotle says it's all right, it's all right. Right?

  So there I am, scuttling down the narrow stairs like a very fast-moving crab, and I come out into what was obviously the front room. They're all the same, city inns, you can walk round them blindfold and not bump into a pillar.

  Unfortunately, I'd got the timing a bit wrong (probably a judgement on me for not waiting for Lucius Domitius), because standing in the middle of the room was the Sicilian bloke, the one who'd had all those soldiers killed. He had a lot of men with him, a dozen at least, and they made your champion gladiators look like flower girls.

  I stopped dead, like I'd just walked into an invisible tree. The Sicilian looked at me and grinned.

  'Hello, Galen,' he said.

  NINE

  There's a lot of people in this world who aren't particularly bothered about having their names known by strangers. Emperors, for instance, and kings, and provincial governors. Poets and singers. Artists. Gladiators. People who do running and jumping in the Olympic Games. You see one of them in the street and you call out, 'Hello there, Mylon,' or whatever his name happens to be, he doesn't swing round and say, 'How the hell do you know my name?' because he expects it, it's part of being who he is.

  But when you're someone like me, hearing your name spoken by someone you don't know is generally bad news. Granted, the Sicilian wasn't exactly a stranger. I'd seen him twice before, but I hadn't precisely introduced myself either time, so if he knew my name, it was because he'd taken the trouble to find it out, and it couldn't have been easy, at that. People don't tend to waste that much effort on yours truly unless they want to do something horrible to me.

  Well, I could've spun round and bolted for the stairs, I suppose, but there didn't seem to be much point. At best, we'd have met up again on the flat roof, and that'd have been wonderfully convenient for chucking me off. Also, I couldn't see me outrunning the Sicilian's men, they all looked horribly fit and agile. The idea of putting up any sort of a fight was just plain silly Face it, I told myself, this time you're in the shit, right up to the ankles. Actually, that's not a very clever expression. I know people use it all the time, but it's not that smart. I mean, I've been up to my ankles in shit many a time, back home on the farm or walking down the street in a big city on a rainy day, and all right, it's not exactly my idea of fun, but there's worse things in life, such as having a large number of unfriendly people getting ready to grab you.