Nero

by David Wishart

  Jupiter knows how long he spoke, but I must have nodded off. When I woke up the slaves were clearing the tables and surreptitiously finishing off the wine (not much of that, to be sure). Burrus, along with most of the other guests, had gone home, and I had the most almighty crick in the back of my neck. Unobtrusively I slipped out, having wrapped a few more of the dates up in my napkin for later; and, the night being less than half spent, went in search of more congenial company.

  That little conversation had been quite an eye-opener. In principle I agreed with everything Burrus had said (or most of it, anyway). Of course I did. But all the same young Nero Caesar sounded quite interesting. At least the lad promised to be different.

  4.

  Dion, my aspiring editor, tells me that before we go any further I must introduce you to Seneca: philosopher, statesman, speculator and (this not least) hack tragedian.

  First a warning. I didn't like the man (surprise!), so you must, as archers say, allow for the wind. Though Aeolus knows the old fart was full of wind in his own right, both literally and metaphorically, so...

  All right, Dion! All right, point taken, that was cheap, and not really fair. He did his best, I admit, according to his lights, and the material he had to work with wasn't too promising. But I'm not all that sure these disgustingly gory tragedies of his weren't at least partly responsible for shaking poor Lucius's beans loose. And the man was a hypocrite and a crawler of the first order, you can't get past that, my boy.

  Dion disagrees. Dion, bless his little cotton drawers, has the greatest respect for Seneca, both as a philosopher and as an all-round sincere human being. Serapis knows why, but there you are. I much preferred Paullus myself (we'll come to him eventually, if I live that long). The old Jew may have been barking mad but at least he was honest and, so far as I'm aware, practised what he preached, whereas that pious canting fraud was nine-tenths humbug.

  A potted biography, to bring us up to date and because he really is important, as you'll see. Seneca was a provincial, born at Cordova. Having pursued a frighteningly thorough course of education he came at last to Rome where he bored the pants off everyone in the courts. Exiled to Corsica after Caligula's death for furkling one of the imperial sisters, he spent the next eight years composing grovelling philosophical exhortations to anyone and everyone he thought could arrange his recall. Fortunately no one did. Finally, the year of the imperial nuptials, he was brought back by Agrippina as tutor to the young Lucius. The rest, as they say, is history, although...

  Dion's pen has snapped (good secretary that he is, he carries a replacement behind his ear). He objects to the furkling, saying it was a trumped-up charge, and to the inclusion of the word grovelling. All I can say is that I knew Seneca, and he didn't, and that you may form your own conclusions.

  The appointment was political, of course. Seneca was an academic high-flyer who had no love for Claudius, and Agrippina expected, reasonably enough, that he would be pathetically grateful; more, that a fifty-three-year-old furkler would be more than susceptible to his benefactress's abundant physical charms. With him providing the brain, and Burrus the brawn, behind her devoted young princeling, Agrippina must have reckoned she was on to a winner. Especially since she'd already pulled the bones out of the opposition and stitched the Idiot up so tight he couldn't so much as scratch himself without her permission.

  Ah, well. To paraphrase the playwright, whom the gods wish to destroy they first make smug bitches. Enough, for the present, about Seneca.

  The sun has gone, and Xanthus is lighting the lamps. Heigh ho, Petronius,you garrulous oaf, at this rate you'll never reach Lucius's principate, and no doubt the Praetorians will be hammering on your door at dawn to make sure you're decently stiff. Get on with it, skip the next three years and let Claudius tuck into his dish of mushrooms without further ado.

  Agrippina went from bad to worse. Among others whose deaths she arranged was that of her sister-in-law Lepida. Lepida was accused of attempting the empress's life by magic and of allowing the gangs of slave-workers on her Calabrian estate to run riot; a neat touch this, and designed to frighten the wollocks off the timid Claudius. So the Idiot signed the warrant for her execution, which was duly carried out. Unfortunately for him, when informed of Lepida's death he was foolish enough to pass a comment to the effect that Agrippina's own days were numbered. A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse and, to mix metaphors, the Idiot's goose was cooked. Agrippina availed herself of the services of a certain Locusta, who provided her with a subtle poison which she added to a dish of mushrooms served that evening to Claudius at dinner.

  The Idiot was saved by an involuntary bowel movement. On the pretext of making him vomit, his doctor Xenophon (who was also in the plot) administered a faster-acting poison. In moments Claudius was bereft of life, his family of a loving husband and father, and the Roman state (ah,me!) of its chiefest ornament.

  Hail, Nero. Xanthus, the basin, please.

  5.

  We, meaning Rome, didn't find out about the death until the next day. Personally I was quite delighted. Lucius deserved his chance, although Agrippina was another matter; and unfortunately you can't have the sea-urchin, as the saying goes, and leave the prickles.

  Evidently the Senate thought so too. They were heartily sick of Claudius, and Lucius promised to be a great improvement, but getting the lad out of Agrippina's clutches would be a major job. Not being a senator I missed his maiden speech, but later at the Pullian Street baths I bumped into one of the nobility's brightest and best, a friend of mine called Fabius Persicus. He'd just, he told me, got back from the relevant meeting at the palace.

  'The palace?' I was surprised: the Senate only meets in the Senate House or in some other public, consecrated place. 'Why the palace?'

  Persicus leaned forward so that the slave could scrape his back.

  'You may well ask,' he grunted. 'The Bitch is feeling her oats.'

  'Bitches don't eat oats, dear.'

  'Oh, ha ha!' He was scowling. 'Very funny, Petronius.'

  'I try. I can even ask the same question twice if I don't get an answer the first time. Why the palace?'

  'Because even with the Idiot gone Agrippina still thinks she's the bloody co-head of state, that's why. Only being a woman she isn't allowed into the Senate House.'

  This was even more surprising. 'Agrippina was at the meeting?'

  He shook his head. 'No. But there was a curtain at the far end of the room and I'll bet you a dozen of Faustinian to a cup of vinegar she was on the other side of it.'

  'Naughty.'

  'It's worse than naughty. It's insulting.' He stretched his neck sideways and winced as the scraper's blunt edge caught his right ear-lobe. I expected him to cuff the slave but he didn't; the lad – a pretty enough thing in a sulky way – evidently had other talents which made up for his clumsiness. 'Jupiter knows why Nero allowed it.'

  'He knew?'

  'Of course he knew. How could he not? Still, she's got what she wanted, the lad's emperor. Maybe she'll draw her claws in now and let him get on with things.'

  I sat back against a pillar: I'd had my scrape earlier, and I quite enjoy watching others suffer. Persicus turned over. The slave poured oil onto his chest and rubbed it in exactly as if he were basting a chicken; I wondered if Persicus had promoted him out of his kitchen. 'How was he himself?' I asked.

  'Nero? Oh, Nero did fine. More than fine. A bit nervous, but that's understandable. At least he can string a sentence together without tripping over his tongue or spraying you with spit like the Idiot. What's more, he talked straight sense. Believe me, that's another thing that hasn't been too common lately.'

  All this sounded most promising. Persicus was an honest, conscientious man (well, fairly honest and conscientious) who said what he thought. And he spoke for the best of the Senate.

  'So you think he'll do?'

  'He'll do. So long as he can shake himself loose from the tit.' The point of the scraper snagged a rib, and he winced.
'Jupiter! You watch what you're doing, you little bastard!'

  If the boy had been mine I'd've sent him arse over tip into the pool, 'other talents' or not, especially since he only smiled in apology. He had nice teeth, though.

  'Will he? Shake loose, I mean?'

  'You pray that he does, boy! Pure sweetness and light, that's our future, if he lives up to his promises. No secret trials, no corruption, no favourites. No fuck-all of what we've been used to these last thirteen years.' Persicus grinned suddenly. 'Hey! Smile, Petronius! You're on the threshold of the Golden Age!'

  'Oh, my dear! I've heard that one before!'

  'This time it could be true. We'll have another god on the team. Maybe he can swing it, if he doesn't trip over himself as usual.'

  'Oh, and who's that?'

  'Guess.'

  I laughed. 'Claudius? You're deifying Claudius?'

  'Got it in one, boy. And don't spread it around either because it's not official yet.' He sat up. The incompetent bath slave collected the tools of his trade and ambled off, drawing more than one appreciative glance from the loungers by the cold plunge. 'The Bitch wants to build him a temple on the Caelian. Only thing is, the engineers have to lick the hydraulics problems first.'

  I frowned. 'What hydraulics problems?'

  Persicus chuckled, his eyes on the boy's retreating buttocks. 'How to make a cult statue that shits itself and drools at the same time. What else would they be?'

  Golden Age or not, there were ominous signs that Agrippina had no intention of pulling her claws in. First to go was Narcissus, Claudius's all-powerful secretary and the empress's principal opponent. Not many tears were shed for him: the old fraud had been feathering his nest at public expense for years, and being an ex-slave and, worse, a Greek he was persona definitely non grata with the Senate. However, towards the end of the month when I went round to Silia's to pick her up for a birthday party I found her friend Junia Calvina doing a Niobe all over the marble floor.

  'I'm sorry, dear.' Silia had her arm round the sobbing girl's shoulders. 'I can't go. Junia's had a bit of bad news.'

  A bit of bad news was putting it mildly; Junia was large and cheerful, and not normally given to hysterics. I sat down on a folding chair while she continued to deliquesce and Silia explained. The two had been shopping for trinkets in the Saepta when a young fool by the name of Passienus had come up and commiserated with the girl over the death of her brother who, as far as she knew, was alive and well and governing Asia. Junia had promptly gone to pieces, and Silia had been obliged to ferry her home and feed her doughnuts.

  'It wasn't Passienus's fault, Titus.' The waterworks were slowing by now, but Junia's plump face was flushed and puffy. 'Not really. He thought he was being ever so kind and daring because Marcus was poisoned by imperial agents.'

  'He was what?'

  'P-poisoned. By agents of the emperor.'

  I couldn't believe my ears. It was too melodramatic for words. Marcus Silanus was one of the most ineffectual men I'd ever met, and about as dangerous to the state as a pet rabbit. If the situation hadn't been so serious I'd've laughed. 'The emperor had him killed? Lucius did?'

  'Don't be silly, dear.' Silia was still patting Julia's hand. 'The men were acting on orders from Agrippina.'

  'They admitted that?'

  'Of course not. But they implied it. And Agrippina's practically co-ruler these days, as you well know.'

  I still didn't believe it. 'Julia, you're certain? That it was an official killing?'

  'Oh, yes.' She dabbed at her shiny nose with a handkerchief. 'They murdered him quite openly, at a dinner party.'

  'But why on earth should Agrippina want to kill your brother?' I was being tactful: a more natural question would've been, 'Why on earth would she bother?' Marcus Silanus had all the rage and fire of an under-cooked blancmange.

  'Because we're descended from Augustus, of course.' The handkerchief came up again and Junia blew. Hard. The walls echoed. 'That horrible woman's jealous.'

  'Ah.' I sat back. Of course. That explained everything. Now she'd got her son on to the throne Agrippina was eliminating other possible claimants. The fact that she'd begun with poor Marcus Silanus, who couldn't have mounted a decent rebellion to save himself or drummed up enough support for the presidency of a glee club, didn't augur well for the future: Silanus wasn't by any means the only descendant of Augustus around.

  The Bitch was feeling her oats right enough.

  'You go on to the party, Titus.' Silia looked up. 'We'll be fine here.'

  'No, darling.' I shook my head. 'I'm not especially bothered. Honestly.' I wasn't. The couple who were giving the birthday bash (they were both men, filthy-rich business acquaintances of mine) had as much culture as my door slave. Less: he could count and read, and he didn't wear cheap make-up. I moved over to the couch next to Junia and poured a cup of wine from the flask on the table.

  'There's only Decimus and me in the family left now.' Junia was sniffling in earnest again. 'Plus little Lucius, of course.' Lucius was her nephew, Silanus's son and heir. 'We'll be next, I just know we will.'

  'Don't be silly, Junia!' Silia snapped. 'Agrippina may be a nasty piece of work but when all's said and done she's only the emperor's mother. She can't tell him what to do, he won't allow it. Nor will the Senate.'

  Junia shook her head violently; a single teardrop landed on my wrist.

  'Nero won't stand up to Agrippina,' she said. 'He's soft as a worm.'

  She was right, of course, and personally I wouldn't have given tuppence for the Silanus family's chances of seeing the new year in. However, now wasn't the time for pragmatism. I put the wine cup to Junia's lips and tilted. The wine was practically neat, and there was plenty of it. She choked and swallowed. Silia patted her on the back.

  'Listen, Junia darling,' I said firmly when the spluttering had stopped. 'The emperor may be a worm, but worms do turn. Especially imperial worms new to the job. Agrippina won't have everything her own way much longer. Now drink up like a good girl, have another doughnut and give us a smile.'

  She did, eventually; Junia was a splendid girl (though rather over-large and bouncy for my taste) and as I've said already she wasn't usually prone to the horrors. Members of the old aristocratic families seldom are; they take death by politics in their stride. A few more cups of neat Setinian and a little jollying along and she was enough herself again to be sent home giggling; by which time if Agrippina had walked past she would've spat in the Bitch's eye.

  She wouldn't have missed, either.

  6.

  It was late by the time Junia left, and we'd had more than enough wine ourselves, so we went straight to bed. Unhappily, however, Silia was in no mood for fornication.

  'It really is too bad, Titus,' she said. 'Junia was in a terrible state, and she's absolutely right about the emperor. Someone should do something about that woman.'

  I sighed: politics is always trying when one's mind is on erections rather than elections. 'What would you suggest?' I said. 'A scorpion in the imperial drawers?'

  'Don't be flippant. I'm serious.'

  I was serious myself; practically-neat Setinian always makes me feel randy.

  'Darling, Junia has my sympathy. Rome has my sympathy. But there is not a great deal that I personally can do about the situation. Certainly not at this time of night. So...'

  Silia pushed my questing hand away.

  'Titus, do listen!' she snapped. 'This is important! I didn't like to say so in front of poor Junia, but things are going to get worse. You know they are. And by that time it'll be too late.'

  'Agrippina isn't the only one with influence over young Lucius, dear.' Priapus! What the hell was I doing in my mistress's bed at two in the morning discussing Julia Agrippina? 'There's always Seneca and Burrus.'

  She snorted. 'Agrippina will make mincemeat of those two. So long as she has that poor boy under her thumb she can do anything she likes with him, exactly as she did with Claudius.'

  Outside the w
indow an owl hooted. Not the most propitious of omens, and entirely apposite; the blankets were now humped up into an impenetrable barrier. Seemingly all nature was against me. I gave up with as good a grace as I could manage.

  'Silia,' I said gently, 'Lucius is only seventeen, he's been under his mother's thumb since he was born, he's had no father to put backbone into him and as a result he's as wet as a half-wrung dishrag. What do you expect? Give him a few months as emperor and he'll dry out enough to tell Mummy to get lost. Now go to sleep, please.'

  She lay quiet for a long time. I closed my eyes and tried not to think of sex. Then, suddenly, she said: 'Do you think he's a virgin?'

  I sat up so fast that I bumped my head on the brass cupid bed-end.

  'What?'

  Silia had propped herself up on one elbow and was staring at me wide-eyed. 'Titus, please do pay attention. It's a simple enough question. Do you think that Lucius is a virgin?'

  Oh, Serapis! Too much, my lord, too much! I rubbed my scalp, feeling for the rising bruise.

  'For God's sake, woman! The boy's been married to the Idiot's daughter Octavia for a year! Of course he isn't a bloody virgin!'

  'Don't shout, dear. You'll wake the slaves. I don't mean a technical virgin. I mean a real one.'

  'Silia, it's the middle of the night and I am not up to splitting philosophical hairs.'

  'How old were you when you had your first girl?'

  Plato in a bathrobe! 'Darling, I'm sorry but you've lost me completely. I don't see the connection. And anyway I'm afraid that piece of information is really none of your business.'

  'Fourteen?' She ignored me. 'Fifteen?'

  I rested my aching head against the offending cupid and closed my eyes. First no sex, now no sleep and questions no gentleman should be expected to answer; certainly not in another woman's bed. Such is not Petronius's idea of the perfect way to finish an evening.