A Song For Nero

by Tom Holt

  Bugger, I thought, as I scrambled up and shot out of there like a rabbit with its scut on fire. I couldn't see Blandinia either — it was entirely possible that she'd been under that roof or wall or whatever it was, but somehow I doubted that, because her sort don't die unless they're specifically killed.

  Didn't matter. We'd tried to save Lucius Domitius, but it was all doomed to failure from the very start, and I really, really wished I hadn't made the effort to begin with. A good idea at the time's the best you can say for it, and I don't know to this day how many lives it cost. All my fault. Sorry.

  At any rate, that was palpably the end of that. Lucius Domitius, the two gladiator cooks, probably the bitch Blandinia, pretty well everybody I knew in the City of Rome was now dead, and there was me, on my own, at a loose end once more. I trudged across that courtyard, couldn't even be bothered to run. Where was the point? Wouldn't have bothered me unduly if a burning chunk of building had fallen smack on my stupid head and tidied me away out of the story.

  'Galen?' said a voice behind me. 'What the fuck are you doing here?'

  I spun round. Guess who. Not that anybody else but me would've recognised him, probably He was covered in blood, for one thing; also he was wringing wet, his hair plastered down onto his head, and he was filthy with ash and plaster and God knows what else. In his right hand he had a sword, a German pattern with a long blade, bent almost to right angles.

  'Galen?' he repeated. 'What're you staring at like that?'

  Oh, nothing, I thought. Just you, that's all, the dead bloke who keeps on coming back to life. 'Are you all right?' I said. 'You look bloody awful.'

  'So do you,' he replied. 'Look, is there any reason why you're standing there like the last leek in the patch? Waiting for someone, anything like that?'

  I shook my head.

  'Fine,' he said. 'Let's get out of here, shall we?'

  Well, why not? He made it sound like dodging out of some boring family gathering or harvest festival; let's you and me slip round the corner to this great little wine shop I know The others can sort out the fire and clear away the dead bodies, while we have a couple of quick ones. Absolutely, I thought, what a really good idea. Shame I didn't think of that.

  The street was crowded with people, all of them getting under each other's feet in their hurry to get out of the way We didn't rush (that's one of the good things about having a charmed life, you don't have to worry about getting accidentally killed — like having a wall fall on you, for instance, or being pinned down by a burning roof-beam. You just saunter past the scurrying little people, because everything's just fine, really). As we put the fire behind us, a large cart thundered past, with a gang of hefty-looking men crammed in the back, clutching long hooks and big hammers: the fire brigade, on its way to pull down enough houses to clear a firebreak. Lucius Domitius' idea originally, though it was Vespasian who put it through and took all the credit.

  'Right,' I said. 'So what the hell happened to you?'

  'What?' He'd been thinking of something else, by the look of it. 'Oh, not much to tell, really One moment I was stuck there being talked at by that Pollio man — was he for real, do you know? Only I can't believe anybody could be that obsessed with anything I ever wrote, not even me. Anyway, I remember this crashing noise and I looked round, and then wham! and everything went black on me. When I woke up I was in this barn or stable, just a wooden shed sort of place with straw on the deck and a powerful smell of live stock. Some bastard had tied me to a beam, so I woke up with the most appalling cramp in my legs and my back; and before I could open my eyes properly and say, Hello, where is this? some big bugger started hitting me round the face and saying, Well, where is it, where's it hidden? God knows what he was on about. I assumed either he was crazy as a magpie or he'd mistaken me for someone else. But every time I tried to say anything, he'd just whack me again. Anyhow, he'd been at this for what felt like a very long time when guess who showed up? You'll never guess— 'The Sicilian,' I said.

  'What? Oh, you knew.'

  'He's a gang boss,' I said. 'His name's Strymon.'

  'Strymon,' he repeated. 'Come to think of it, that does ring a bell, I think he was in business back in my time. Fancy that. But anyhow, he turns up and gives the bloke who'd been knocking me around a fearful telling-off for starting before he was ready Quite startled him; the bloke who'd been thumping me, I mean. I think he expected to be told well done for using his initiative. So he shrugs and pushes off, and this Strymon takes over, but all he does is ask me over and over again, Where is it, where's the secret hiding place, and every time I ask him what's he talking about, I don't understand, he bashes me. Better at it than the first bloke, too, though to do him credit he was taking care not to hit me where there was any danger of doing permanent damage. Like I was a valuable slave or something. Just when all this was starting to get on my nerves, there's this loud yell, Fire! and sure enough, we can all smell burning.

  The Sicilian, Strymon, if that's who he was, first thing he says is, Cut him down quick, get him out of here; then he pushes off to see what's going on. His two heavies cut me down, but while they're doing that, the fire's taken hold bloody quick in our stable, the roof's starting to burn through and there's bits of glowing cinder dropping down, setting light to the straw; also, the smoke's getting a bit much. One of the heavies says something like, Screw this, leave him, let's get out of here. The other one says, No, master wants this one safe, it's important, you come back here. But it's too late, his mate's slung his hook, so he's left to finish cutting me down. Serves them right for making such a thorough job of it, I guess. Anyway, as luck would have it, just when I'm about loose, a chunk of timber falls down and nuts the bloke, he falls over and just lies there. I get myself free, and so help me, I did my best to drag him out of there, but after all that getting knocked around I just wasn't up to it.

  And he's all-over blood from a nasty scalp wound, poor bugger, which makes him horribly slippery so I keep losing my grip, and the smoke's got so thick I'm choking my lungs up, so in the end I give it up and — well, I'm ashamed to say I just left him there and hopped it. And a few moments later, I saw you, and here we are.

  (And I thought to myself, Curious, isn't it, the number of people who die saving Lucius Domitius' life? All the way from Callistus, right down to Alexander and Pony-tail, and some nameless thug trying to cut him loose from a beam in a burning barn. Death must love him, I thought. The Black King's heart must leap up at the sight of him, like a shepherd's dog in the early morning, when he hears the door scrape.)

  I nodded. 'You had it easy, then,' I said, and I told him what'd happened to me, including Dido's treasure and all about — well, most about — the unspeakable Blandinia, and how all the time we thought we were free and clear (except when we were m condemned cells, or the guards were after us) and nobody had a clue who we really were, in fact we were being carefully tracked by the government and at least two teams of private enterprise snoopers. He didn't like that one bit. Oddly enough, I left out what happened to Alexander and Pony-tail; and I didn't say anything about why Blandinia hated him so much, just made it sound like she was a greedy vicious bitch — which she was, of course, so no harm done.

  I guess.

  'Well,' he said, as we carried on sauntering through the streets of Rome like two gentlemen, 'the way things have turned out, it's not so bad, after all. I mean, who's to know I got out of there alive? Nobody, except you and me. They'll assume I died in the fire, and they won't be looking for me any more. But honestly, do you really believe they were only after me because of Dido's treasure? Well, not after me, even; after Callistus. That's weird.'

  'Cuts both ways,' I reasoned. 'If Callistus looked just like you, stands to reason you look just like Callistus. Only you're the one still walking and talking, if there's any sense in that.'

  He pulled a face. 'Not really,' he said. 'But it's crazy, all the same. Here's me, the most hated emperor of the Romans there's ever been, and all these people
are trying to catch me because they think I'm a Greek tall-tale merchant who never did any real harm in his life. Just goes to show, it's not what you are or what you do that matters, it's what people believe about you.

  Well, I wasn't going to argue with that. It wasn't clever or profound enough to be worth arguing with, and besides, he was trampling on a great big bundle of raw nerve-ends in that area (though I don't suppose he realised that) and I just wanted to change the subject.

  'So,' I said, 'here we are, genuinely free and clear for a change. What now?'

  He shrugged. 'Well,' he said, 'if we weren't broke and destitute, we could do any damn thing we liked — go lion-hunting in Mesopotamia, or tour the Aegean looking at the cities, or retire to our country villa and spend the rest of our lives translating the Odyssey into Latin iambics. Trouble is, with no money and no way of getting any, we're still pretty well anchored in the shit. The only difference is, we're no worse off than the fifty thousand other broke, helpless buggers in this city. When you look at it like that, free and clear's not necessarily the be-all and end-all.'

  It looked like it was his big day for stating the screamingly obvious. 'What now?' I repeated. 'Do we stick around here, or do we go somewhere else? If you want to know what I think, I've had enough of the big city for a while. Too many undesirable elements, in my opinion.'

  He sighed. 'If we go anywhere else, we're going to have to walk,' he said.

  'Which rules out most of the more attractive options, such as ranching in Bithynia or a pilgrimage to Athens to study moral philosophy'

  'I don't know,' I said. 'There's always ships.'

  He lifted his head. 'I've had it with stowing away,' he replied. 'Asking for trouble.'

  'Ah, but we don't have to stow away We could work our passage, like normal people. Both of us know the ropes, after that grain freighter.'

  'True,' he admitted. 'But why bother? If we're officially dead, there's nothing to keep us from stopping in Italy We've done farm work as well as crewing a ship. If you recall, we only cleared off out of that because Strymon was after us.'

  'Come off it,' I said. 'You couldn't stand field work. I was there, remember?'

  'Only because of that clown of a landowner, him and his ponderous hoes. On a normal farm—'

  I stopped him. 'On a normal farm,' I said, 'there'd be a normal bailiff. You wouldn't like him, I promise you. He'd work you to death and feed you pigs' scraps while he pocketed the hired help's food allowance. The trouble with farms large enough to hire casual labour,' I went on, 'is that they're owned by rich Roman bastards who think they're the lords of all creation. Probably,' I added fair-mindedly, 'because they are. Take it from me, you'd hate it.'

  He raised an eyebrow. 'You're basing this on all the years you spent day-labouring in Italy ' he said, 'presumably while I was asleep or looking the other way. But I guess you're right,' he sighed. 'Pastoral idylls are strictly for the poets, like Virgilius Maro; and we both know how much harm that stuff does, if you take it seriously Shame I'm a poet, really'

  'Agreed,' I said. 'Hang on, though, I've just thought of something.'

  'Oh dear. Well?'

  I thought for a moment. 'You're dead, right?'

  'You could say that, I suppose.

  'As far as everybody else is concerned, I mean you're officially dead, you and Callistus. Nobody's going to be looking for us any more. Right?'

  'Let's hope so, anyway'

  'Fine. So, what's there to stop you earning us a living by doing the one thing you're sort of half-way competent at?'

  He frowned. 'Making trouble for people? Don't think that's a sound commercial proposition.'

  'Singing,' I said irritably 'Playing the harp, all that shit. You always said the only reason you wouldn't do that was because you were afraid someone'd recognise you. Well, that's not a problem now, is it? Like, just suppose somebody does think you sound strangely familiar — I don't reckon there's any risk at all, but just for argument's sake. Somebody hears you and starts thinking, God, that sounds just like Nero Caesar, I wonder if it could actually be him. So he trots off to the prefect's office and says, Guess what, Nero Caesar didn't die after all, he's alive and playing the harp in a roadside wine shop in Calabria . Now, let's suppose, also for argument's sake, that the prefect doesn't have this clown slung in the cells till he sobers up; suppose he takes it seriously He sends off to headquarters, and they send back saying, Don't be ridiculous, it's here on file, Nero Caesar's dead, and so's the Greek look-alike we were keeping an eye on for ten years. Prefect's happy, tells busybody to fuck off. Like I said, free and clear. And we can go around earning an honest living for a change, instead of being chased down alleys by the market patrol.'

  He lifted his head. 'I'm not doing it,' he said. 'Too dangerous. I mean, you heard that Pollio bloke; and the gladiators, Alexander and Julianus — I wish I'd had time to say goodbye and thank them, by the way Seems like I owe them a hell of a debt.'

  'Don't change the subject,' I said quickly 'All right. Like I was saying, you heard them. Mad keen fans, they were. Suppose they'd heard me playing in some tavern courtyard or in someone's house, at a party. They'd have recognised me, you can bet; and they wouldn't have been put off by some blather from the prefect's office, they'd have known.'

  'All right,' I said. 'But they wouldn't have done us any harm, either. Bought us a drink, probably That sort of risk I could live with.'

  'You're missing the point,' he growled. 'They'd go around telling people, guess who I saw at Pellegrinus' bar the other day—'

  'And whoever they told would tell them to wear a hat next time they went out in hot sunlight. Even if these mythical fans of yours believed, nobody else would.

  Come on,' I said. 'Look at it sensibly, for God's sake. Which do you reckon is the bigger risk: the outside chance of tripping over some loon who really liked your music, or doing the hundred-yard dash against twenty soldiers next time we bugger up a scam and have to run for it? Oh, we've been lucky so far, but as far as luck' s concerned, we're about due to start seeing the bottom of the jar. And apart from scamming, and you singing and harp-playing, what the fuck else is there we can do? Nothing.'

  He was quiet for a very long time. Then he looked past me, sort of over my shoulder. 'I suppose,' he said, 'if I stick to just harp-playing, and don't play any of my own compositions — now that I'm quite definitely dead, as you say — it might not be such a terrible risk, at that.'

  I sighed with relief 'Well done,' I said. 'I was sure we'd get there in the end.'

  'And it is what I'm good at,' he went on, starting to sound more than a little bit keen. 'And it's got to be better than swindling and cheating for a livelihood.'

  I smiled. 'Safer, too.'

  'Yes, all right, safer. And better than farm work, as you pointed out.'

  'Most things are,' I said. 'After all, a job in the dry; board and lodging thrown in free, like as not. Beats all sorts of trades, if you ask me: house-building and making barrels and shoeing horses and fishing—'

  'Not to mention giving pleasure to people,' he said enthusiastically 'Bringing a little happiness into their dull and wretched lives.'

  I wasn't so sure about that, but I wasn't going to spoil the mood. 'It's like we've said over and over again,' I told him, 'it's what you were born for, and now at last you've got the chance. You should be thrilled,' I said persuasively 'You know what? It means you're freer now than you've ever been. Like, when you were emperor of the Romans, you still weren't really allowed to play music, so much so that it got you slung out on your ear, nearly killed. I'm telling you, this is going to turn out to be the first day of your life. Everything that's gone before's just been wasted time and having to pretend you were someone else.'

  'Put like that, it sounds pretty reasonable,' he said. Then he pulled a terrible face, like he'd just remembered that yesterday was his wife's birthday 'There's just one problem.'

  'Oh? What's that?'

  'I haven't got a harp.'

 
THIRTEEN

  Hadn't thought of that, had I?

  Bloody musicians, you see. Most people with a trade, it's not the sort of problem that causes much grief You're a stonemason? If you go for a job in a quarry and you don't happen to have your own hammer and chisels, that's fine, there'll be tools you can borrow. Shipwright? No problem, borrow what you need from your mates till you've got a few bob saved up, then you nip across to the smithy and have a set made for you, or hang around the auctions till what you're after comes up for sale. Tools aren't cheap, exactly; nothing's cheap, especially when you're broke. But in any trade you care to name, there's ways round the problem, and skilled tradesmen face it every day of the year, so how you go about dealing with it's tolerably well known.

  Every trade you care to name, that is, besides harp-playing.

  'All right,' I said, 'let's think about this calmly. You're a harp-player. Where do harps come from?'

  'Easy From the harp-maker.'

  I scowled. 'Yes,' I said, 'but he doesn't just pluck them off the branches of the harp tree when the Pleiades are rising. He makes them. Can't you make one? I don't suppose it's all that difficult.'

  'No,' he said. 'Actually, it's extremely difficult. You've got to get everything just right, or the thing sounds like a fight between two cats.'

  I sighed. 'I see,' I said. 'So, how much do they cost, then?'

  He shrugged. 'Search me,' he said. 'Never bought one in my life. I just said to someone, Fetch me a harp, and a few heartbeats later, a harp appeared, on a red silk cushion.'

  He was being feeble at me. 'All right,' I said, 'but you must have some idea what they cost. More than a plough? Less than a warship?'

  'No idea. Please bear in mind, before I went on the road with you, I didn't know the price of a loaf of bread, let alone a harp. A war in Bithynia or a harbour or boots for twenty thousand infantry, yes, I could tell you more or less what that'd cost. But not little things.'