Nero

by David Wishart

  I showed it to Silia while she was being made up for her morning visits.

  'What do you think this is?' I said.

  Silia read the letter and laid it on the dressing-table in front of her. 'Goodness knows, dear. Maybe he just wants to see you again. You did seem to make quite an impression.'

  'Nonsense. We've only met twice, and neither occasion was particularly felicitous.'

  'That, my dear, is putting it mildly.' She held her cheek out to Lalage for the final powdering. 'None the less, darling, don't laugh but I suspect that for some reason the poor lamb looks up to you.'

  I laughed.

  'It's true, Titus. Isis knows why. Maybe he simply likes your beautiful eyelashes.'

  'Silia, I have no desire to get involved with Lucius. For a start, it's just too bloody dangerous.' Absolutely true; if one believed the rumours current in the Market Square (and I did), since Agrippina's hold over him had slackened Lucius's private behaviour had become increasingly erratic, and his friends and advisers were finding it more and more difficult to control him. Cut loose from the maternal apron strings the young man had discovered the joys of sowing his wild oats; and that, given the power that Lucius wielded, was no light matter.

  Silia, the powdering and general titillation over, removed the dust-sheet and read through the letter again. 'It seems an innocent enough request, anyway,' she said.

  'Oh, my dear! So, no doubt, did Caligula's.' I took the scroll from her, rolled it up firmly and tucked it into the fold in my mantle. 'And like his requests it may well be the prelude to a throat-cutting.'

  'Don't over-dramatise, Titus! Why on earth should Lucius want to cut your throat? It's not as if you're anyone important.'

  'Thank you. That makes me feel much better.'

  'Well, you know what I mean, darling.' She hesitated. 'Will you go?'

  'Do I have any choice?'

  She bent over and kissed me quickly on the chin.

  'Not really,' she said softly. 'But behave yourself, won't you? And don't say anything silly.'

  . . .

  The interview wasn't at all what I expected. Whatever that might have been.

  The slave showed me, not into the formal audience chamber, but into a room of the imperial suite which bore all the signs of being a private sanctum. Scattered around was a magpie's collection of bits and pieces from every branch of the arts: tools, brushes, half-completed projects abandoned and buried under later efforts. There was even a mosaic-layer's frame, with half the pieces missing. Lucius was standing at the central table talking to a fat Syrian; I recognised Argyrio, the Saepta jeweller. The emperor looked up and saw me, and his face broke into a broad smile.

  'Titus!' He hurried towards me with arms outstretched. 'So good of you to come, my dear!'

  'Sir.' I allowed myself to be enfolded. He was wearing a long-sleeved Greek tunic even more ornate, if anything, than the one I'd seen him in before, and he reeked of expensive perfume.

  'You know Argyrio, don't you?' The Syrian bowed, his curled ringlets spilling over his eyes. 'Of course you do, who doesn't? Argyrio, show Titus the necklaces!'

  The fat jeweller stepped aside. On the table lay three huge necklaces of gold and precious stones, any one of which would've cost me half my year's income.

  'Titus, I want your advice.' The emperor was still hugging my shoulders. His breath smelt of cassia. 'Tell me which one's the best.'

  'Sir, I...'

  'Oh, come on, darling! Don't be silly! Which one would you choose?'

  I pointed at random. 'That one.'

  He beamed and turned to Argyrio.

  'There you are, you see!' he said. 'I told you he'd pick the emeralds, didn't I?' Argyrio smiled and bowed, but said nothing. 'Titus has marvellous taste, simply marvellous! Now that's enough! Pack the other two up, dear, and off you trot!'

  We watched as Argyrio casually swept the rejected necklaces into a lambs-wool bag and with yet another bow followed the slave from the room. The door closed behind him. Lucius picked up the necklace I'd chosen and held it up between his hands.

  'It's for Acte, of course,' he said. 'A surprise. Do you think she'll like it?'

  'I'm sure she will.' The emeralds sparkled in the lamplight. 'Any woman would. It's beautiful.'

  'Then it'll suit the dear girl perfectly.' He tossed the necklace aside. 'I'd half decided myself, but I wanted to ask you first, just to make sure.'

  'You flatter me.'

  'Nonsense, darling. Acte's often told me your judgment's impeccable. The best in Rome.'

  I found this difficult to believe, but one doesn't contradict an emperor.

  'No better than your own, sir, I'm sure,' I said.

  Lucius beamed at me. Then with a sudden sweep of his hand he cleared the two nearest chairs of their clutter. 'Sit down, my dear. Would you like some wine?'

  I nodded. I was feeling more than a little bemused. There was a jug on a side table. He poured and handed me the cup, then pulled the other chair over, sat down himself and stared at me. Our knees were almost touching. I felt most uncomfortable.

  'Well?' he said at last. 'What do you think?'

  I frowned. 'Pardon?'

  He giggled. 'The wine, you idiot! Go on, taste it!'

  I wondered if he intended to poison me as he had Britannicus; but it would've been the height of bad manners (and probably equally fatal) to refuse. I took a sip.

  'Good?' He was watching me closely.

  I held the wine in my mouth for a moment before swallowing. Greek, of course – I should've expected as much – but not by any means remarkable.

  'I'm afraid I'm not too fond of Rhodian,' I said diplomatically.

  'Oh, stop farting about, Titus! Let's have your honest opinion! I won't bite you, my dear!'

  I took a deep breath. 'Very well. My honest opinion is you could do better for Rhodian. Who's your shipper?'

  'Memnon.'

  I nodded. 'I've had trouble with him before. He's overrated, in my view. Personally I favour Euelpides. Not so fashionable, but a far better judge of how well a wine will travel.'

  His face clouded, and I mentally cursed my own stupidity. When asked for my opinion on another man's wine, my invariable rule is to say that it's excellent, even if it's absolute rotgut. If the other man also happens to be an emperor, the rule is even less open to modification.

  'I'm sorry, sir,' I said. 'But you did ask.'

  He was still scowling. 'No, no. Quite right. Quite right. I'd doubts myself.' He got to his feet, strode to the door, opened it and yelled, 'Straton!'

  An elderly Greek slave appeared and bowed nervously. Lucius glanced at me.

  'Straton,' he said. 'Cancel that order we placed with Memnon. Transfer it to Euelpides. In fact' – another glance in my direction – 'double it, there's a good fellow. A thousand jars.'

  The slave left, closing the door behind him. Lucius smiled at me.

  'There you are, darling. Satisfied?'

  My head was spinning. 'Sir, I really wouldn't like to...'

  'Nonsense!' He threw himself into his chair again. 'You've done me a favour. You're right, it's terrible stuff. I've said so myself, many times, but you know servants, they just won't listen!'

  'Yes, sir.' Serapis!

  He pulled the chair even closer. Involuntarily, I drew back; but fortunately he didn't seem to notice.

  'You see, other people haven't got our sensibilities, my dear,' he said. 'Rome's a terrible place, it's so full of boors you can't imagine. Sometimes I feel so dispirited I could just give up altogether and leave them to it. If it wasn't for civilised friends like you and Acte I would. Even Mother...' He paused and frowned.

  'The empress...?' I prompted. I had the strangest feeling that I had strayed into one of these boring little tête-à-têtes so beloved of middle-aged matrons, all scandal and back-biting.

  Lucius giggled suddenly. 'Well, we'll leave Mother out of it. She's a lovely girl, but so unworldly you just wouldn't believe!' I bit my tongue. 'What the poor
darling would say if she knew how I...' He hesitated. 'Titus, my dear, we are friends, aren't we? Good friends?'

  'Of course.' I was beginning to sweat. This 'interview' was turning into something unpleasantly like a seduction, and I was not wholly sure how I was going to handle it. I could see that Lucius's own forehead, under the crisped curls, was beaded with perspiration.

  'It's nothing very terrible,' he said. 'Not really. It's only a bit of fun, and I get so bored being good all the time. You understand that, don't you?'

  'Yes, sir.' I wondered if I should simply plead a sudden griping of the bowels and cut and run. 'Of course I do.'

  'I knew you would. You really are terribly understanding. Like dear Acte. So you'll come with me tonight? Just to see?'

  'Sir, I don't quite know...' Our knees touched. I flinched.

  'Please, Titus! You'd enjoy it, I'm sure. It's great fun, honestly.'

  Personally I reserved judgment on that. Lucius's idea of fun and mine, I felt, were unlikely to coincide to any marked degree. I said nothing.

  'Oh, come on, darling! Say you will! Don't be such a spoilsport!'

  I took my courage in both hands.

  'What exactly is it,' I said, 'that you want me to do?'

  He smirked like a schoolboy. 'Oh, nothing very dreadful. Just take a little walk with me.'

  I breathed again. It seemed that I had misjudged the lad.

  'What kind of a walk?'

  'Just a walk around Rome. With me and Otho and Paris and Senecio. We've been doing it every night for a month now. You'll love it, I'm sure.' He stood up suddenly, and I surreptitiously wiped my sweaty hands on my mantle. 'Just a little walk through the streets.'

  'What, now?' No one in his senses walks in Rome for pleasure at night. Nor, for that matter, in the daytime.

  'Yes, dear, now. It'll be quite exciting, I promise. Only...' He paused.

  'Only what?'

  His smile was dazzling.

  'Only don't tell Mother. It's our little secret.'

  15.

  The others were waiting for us by the gatehouse, wrapped in thick cloaks; against the chill, I thought, although I was only partly right. Lucius, too, had put on a thick travelling cloak – he was sensitive to cold – and had found another for me.

  I knew Otho and Paris reasonably well, but not Senecio. Nor, on first glance, did I particularly wish to. He was the son of one of Claudius's freedmen; a big, brawny Spaniard with an accent thick as boiled corn-meal and breath stinking of raw onions.

  'Who's this?' He scowled at me; evidently the instant dislike was mutual. 'We don't want company, Nero.'

  'Oh, don't be silly, darling!' Lucius was fitting on a hat with an extra-large brim, which concealed his features even in the brightly lit forecourt. 'Titus is my guest. Behave yourself, there's a good boy. I won't have fighting.'

  'Not yet, anyway.' Paris sniggered. Even covered by a woollen cloak he looked like what he was, the best ballet-dancer and mime artist in Rome. 'Hi, Petronius. Looking forward to your evening out?'

  'Of course, my dear.' I was already beginning to have my suspicions about what they had in mind, but I wasn't such a fool as to voice them.

  'So what's it to be?' Otho was grinning. 'The Eighth Region?'

  'Naw. It's boring, and there's too much extra muscle around the Square.' Senecio had produced a vicious-looking club from the folds of his cloak and was tapping it gently against his palm. 'I vote for Cattlemarket Square. Lots of punters round there, and we could finish up at Mammaea's.'

  Lucius turned to me.

  'Titus, dear, you decide,' he said. 'Guest's privilege.'

  I may have been cabbage-looking, but I wasn't altogether green, and I didn't like the sound of this at all. The Cattlemarket Square area is definitely the wrong part of town, and Mammaea's is the roughest brothel on the Aventine: dangerous enough in daylight, sheer murder after dark.

  'Don't ask him!' Senecio spat into the shadows. 'He's pissing himself already. I say Cattlemarket Square.'

  'Oh, let Senecio have his fun, Nero.' That was Paris. 'Petronius doesn't care, do you, Petronius?'

  'Very well, then.' Lucius gave me a brilliant smile from beneath the shadow of his hat. 'Cattlemarket Square it is. All right, Titus?'

  It was very much not all right; but again I was not fool enough to say so. Lucius had the guard unbar the gate and we were on our way.

  It was starting to rain, and the streets were dark and deserted; of pedestrians at least, although there were plenty of heavy waggons around making their night-time deliveries. Most were slow as arthritic snails and made enough noise to wake the dead – city-centre residents need cloth ears after sunset – but we'd just turned into Tuscan Street when an empty cart nearly spared us the rest of Lucius's principate. Paris hefted a rotten cabbage. It bounced against the tailgate.

  'Bastard!' Lucius yelled after the disappearing cart. 'Mother-fucking bastard!'

  Paris muttered something I didn't catch – nor, I suspect fortunately for him, did Lucius – and Senecio laughed. Not a pleasant sound.

  By the time we'd reached the first of the streets round Cattlemarket Square Otho and I were trailing the others. I suspected that for all his blade-about-town manners he was as lacking in enthusiasm as I was; prowling the streets looking for trouble and swearing at carters is a young man's game, and Otho could give Lucius and Senecio a good four years. Paris, of course, was older than any of us; but then Paris was the eternal adolescent, and a mad and bad one at that.

  'You do this often?' I asked Otho. I kept my voice low.

  Otho shrugged. 'When he gets the urge.' I didn't need to ask who 'he' was. 'Which seems to be most nights recently.'

  'Why?'

  Another shrug. 'Someone has to keep him out of trouble. He is the emperor, after all. As well as being a friend.'

  'I meant why does he do it? I grew out of this sort of thing when I was seventeen.'

  Otho grinned. 'Didn't we all, dear?'

  Ahead of us the others had disappeared into a shop doorway above which I could just make out a crude wooden sign with a painted wine-jar. We caught them up just in time to see Paris produce a crowbar from inside his cloak. He stuck its point between the door itself and the locking bar and heaved. There was a splintering crack and the bar hung loose.

  Lucius giggled.

  'Drinkies, gentlemen,' he said, stepping past them over the threshold. 'Titus, where are you? I need your advice.'

  I hesitated.

  'Better go, Petronius,' Otho whispered.

  I followed Lucius inside. The place was pitch-dark, of course, and we collided.

  'Where the hell's the torch?' he complained petulantly. 'Why does no one ever have a torch?'

  There was no answer to that, or at least none that needed voicing. We weren't carrying torches because torches make one conspicuous. I felt other bodies squeeze into the narrow space behind us, and I could smell Senecio's oniony breath and Paris's perfume even above the scent of stale wine.

  'Never mind, never mind! I've found a shelfful of jars up here.' Lucius had moved away. I could hear him fumbling about behind the stone counter. Earthenware scraped and bumped, then shattered. 'Oh, fuck! Never mind, there are plenty more. Try this one, Titus. See what you think.'

  The jug caught me in the chest and I grunted with pain. Paris sniggered.

  'Pass it back, dearie,' he said. 'Don't hog.'

  'No, no!' Lucius's voice came out of the darkness. 'Titus gets first swig. He's our wine expert. Go ahead, Titus! Blind tasting.'

  Paris sniggered again. I broke the wax seal on the jug, removed the bung and took a sip.

  'Oh, do come on, darling! I'm waiting!'

  There was nothing I could do but give a mental shrug and commend myself to Bacchus.

  'Sorrentine,' I said. 'Not much body, I'm afraid.'

  'Shit! Give it back here.' That was Senecio. The jug was pulled from my hands and I heard a slow glugging, followed by a hawk and spit. 'The pansy's right. Flat and sour a
s a Chief Vestal's knockers.' Earthenware shattered on the stone floor and the smell of spilled wine intensified. 'Let's have another one, Nero.'

  The emperor obliged. This one was Massic, and rough as only bad Massic can be. It, too, was consigned to oblivion. Lucius chose a third – bad Massic again – and then a fourth, which contained a vicious aberration from Fundi. I'd been served it (or its close relative) once at a dinner party and despite drinking sparingly had had gut-rot and a splitting headache for days afterwards. I broke the jar myself this time, out of pure kindness to humanity.

  I must admit, crass though the admission is, that by this point I was beginning to perk up. Also either my eyes had become used to the darkness or the clouds had cleared away, because I could see grey shapes where before everything had been black. I even managed to field the fifth jar when it was thrust at me. I couldn't place this one exactly, but it was the poorest of the lot.

  As the flask hit the floor Lucius made a tutting noise.

  'This is dreadful,' he said. 'Simply appalling. Whoever owns this place is an absolute boor.'

  Mentally I agreed. Five separate wines, and none of them drinkable. The vintner would have been better employed selling lamp oil.

  'Move on?' Paris suggested.

  'Yes, darling. But first' – Lucius giggled – 'a little quality control. Pass me the crowbar.'

  Paris reached past me and set the heavy metal bar down on the counter. Lucius picked it up and hefted it.

  'By the power vested in me by the Senate and people of Rome I hereby revoke this wineshop's licence to trade. The stock, such as it is, is forfeit. Mind your heads, darlings!'

  I ducked; just in time. The iron bar came back and swept along the shelf of jars. In the narrow confines of the shop the noise was terrific. There was suddenly wine everywhere, the air was full of wine, drenching us and filling our noses with its stench. We began laughing like maniacs, stamping in the puddles and generally making adolescent fools of ourselves. How long that would have gone on for I don't know, because someone suddenly shouted, 'The Watch!'

  I'd forgotten about Otho. He had stayed outside, either because he couldn't get in or because he'd wisely decided we needed a look-out. Whatever the reason, I blessed him. Without him we would've been caught like rats in the cellarage; and that would have been too embarrassing for words.