Nero

by David Wishart

  We poured out of the shop and ran, dodging down an alleyway and then several more at random and in quick succession, until we had lost them. Then Lucius slipped on a pile of dog shit and the rest of us piled on top. We picked ourselves up and dusted each other down. I was not feeling proud of myself, and besides I had twisted an ankle. Otho was cursing and holding a bruised shoulder, but the others were giggling uncontrollably.

  Then Senecio saw the drunk.

  He'd propped himself against a tenement wall by one arm and was being violently sick on to the pavement: a middle-aged man, greying at the temples, no purple-striper but reasonably well-to-do by the quality of his mantle. He had a pair of party slippers tucked under his other arm, and a wilted garland of flowers over one ear. God knows what he was doing alone and torchless in this maze of alleyways, but whatever the reason it was his pure bad luck.

  As we walked (or in my case hobbled) towards him he gave one final retch, raised his streaming eyes from the ground, and saw us. He tried to run, but his mantle caught round his legs: not enough to trip him, but enough to prevent escape.

  Senecio gripped the sleeve of his tunic. Paris grabbed him from the other side.

  'Hey, pal!' Senecio was grinning. 'What's the hurry?'

  The man stared at us, his vomit-flecked mouth slack with fear. He tried to pull away, but Senecio and Paris held him fast. Paris was already feeling for his purse.

  'Been to a party, eh? Must've been a good one.' Senecio shifted his grip and thrust the man hard against the wall. Between the drunk's feet urine trickled on to the pavement. Paris leapt aside to avoid the spreading pool, and Senecio swore.

  'You're a filthy little bugger, aren't you, pal?' he said.

  ''leathe,' the man said. ''leathe.' Half his front teeth were missing, and his mouth was badly bruised; obviously he'd been rolled already that evening.

  Paris's hand came out from the tangled folds of his mantle. It was empty.

  'The larder's bare, darlings,' he said. 'We just haven't been lucky at all tonight, have we?'

  'Come on, Senecio.' Otho stepped forward and took hold of the Spaniard's free arm. 'Leave the poor bastard alone. He's plastered.'

  Senecio sniggered but didn't let go. 'Poor's right. Poor and plastered and pissed. All the p's. Hasn't much going for him, has he?'

  Leave him,' Otho said again. 'Let's get on to Mammaea's. The first one's on me.'

  Senecio shook his hand off. 'You go ahead. I'll catch you up once I'm done.'

  So far Lucius had stayed in the background. Now he came forward. The hat he'd been wearing when we set out had come adrift in our dash through the alleyways, and he was bareheaded.

  The drunk looked up and saw him. His bleary eyes widened.

  'But you're the –' he said.

  He never finished. Senecio's hand reached under his cloak, his arm came back and thrust forwards once, twice. The man gave a gasp, his eyes opened even wider and fixed themselves on something behind Senecio's shoulder. Then his mouth opened and he vomited blood.

  Senecio stepped to one side and the dead man slid to the pavement.

  'Look at that,' he said. 'All over my cloak.' He kicked the corpse. 'Bastard!'

  The rest of us stood frozen, too shocked to move. Paris was the first to recover.

  'It serves him right,' he said. 'He should've kept something back for us. A few silver pieces wouldn't've killed him.'

  Senecio laughed as he bent down and wiped the blade of his dagger on the dead man's mantle.

  'Filthy bastard,' he said again, this time almost lovingly.

  'You didn't have to stab him.' I noticed, even in the half-light of the moon, that Otho's face was grey. 'A beating's one thing, but murder...' He made a curious gesture with his hand, like the sign to ward off bad luck. 'Murder's different.'

  'I'd no choice.' Senecio straightened and put the dagger away. 'He recognised the emperor. That's right, isn't it, Nero?'

  I glanced at Lucius. He was staring at the corpse, his eyes bright and fixed, and he was breathing heavily.

  'Nero?' Senecio said again. His voice had lost its certainty.

  There was no response. We might not have existed, as far as Lucius was concerned.

  'That's enough excitement for the night, Senecio,' Otho said quietly. 'Sod Mammaea's. Let's go back.'

  Paris was looking at the emperor.

  'Perhaps we should,' he said.

  We were already turning when Lucius let out a yell. He raised his foot and began kicking the dead man – ribs, face, head, back and groin. Even Senecio, I think, was appalled by the sudden violence of the attack. It was as if Lucius intended to kick the corpse into a lump of anonymous flesh.

  Paris and Otho grabbed him and wrenched him away. By this time Lucius was screaming obscenities at the top of his voice, and any moment I expected – half wished for – heads to appear at the tenement windows, or the Watch to come charging round the corner; but tenement-dwellers mind their own business after dark, and the Watch has more sense than to patrol the alleys.

  'Get that cloak round his face!' Paris hissed.

  Otho wound Lucius's cloak round the emperor’s mouth and nose and pulled it tight. The muffled curses gradually died away, and Lucius slumped against the other man's chest. Otho slackened his grip and made sure Lucius could breathe normally again.

  It took us an hour to get him back to the Palatine. He said nothing all the way, not one word; made no sound at all, in fact. His face looked as slack and empty of life as the dead man's had, and he stumbled from foot to foot as if he had been drugged.

  16.

  You can't, as the saying goes, hide good scandal or bad tunny-fish. Before the month was out Lucius's nocturnal escapades were public knowledge. I didn't go with him again myself: after that one disastrous occasion I kept my head down despite frequent invitations.

  Scandal wasn't the worst of it. Under cover of the emperor's name, other youngsters began roaming the streets beating up and robbing innocentcitizens. A lone pedestrian – or even someone in a litter – was asking for trouble if he went out even in the better districts after dark without a hefty bodyguard. The Watch were overstretched and martial law seemed inevitable. With Lucius himself one of the worst offenders, however, that was out of the question.

  Early in March Acte sent me word from the palace that she wanted to see me urgently; and not only Acte, as I discovered when I arrived. I recognised Seneca's dry tones even before the slave bowed me into the room.

  Acte glanced up quickly. She looked frightened.

  'Petronius!' she said. 'Thank the gods it's you!'

  'Who else would it be, darling?'

  She reddened. 'I thought it might be Lucius.'

  Seneca, who was sitting with his back to the door, turned round and stared. He, at least, didn't seem too pleased to see me.

  'You know Annaeus Seneca?' Acte asked.

  'We've met.' An overstatement: philosophers don't patronise my kind of parties and vice versa. The only time I'd seen the old fraud socially was at Lucius's abortive dinner.

  'Young man.' Seneca inclined his head gravely.

  'Sit down, Titus.' Acte was looking even more haggard than she had the last time I'd seen her. She'd never been beautiful. Now she looked a positive sight. 'We need your help.'

  It was the first time she'd used my given name, but I didn't mind. We were, I supposed, old enough friends to make no difference, and I suspected that Acte needed all the friends she could get. I pulled up an ornate gold and wickerwork chair: we weren't in the sanctum but one of the palace's public rooms, and the furnishings were eccentric. 'Help with what, dear?'

  'With Lucius, of course. The poor love's causing himself no end of trouble.'

  'Causing himself trouble?' Love may be blind, but Acte seemed afflicted with a moral astigmatism which was positively heroic.

  'Philosophically speaking our friend here is quite correct,' Seneca put in smoothly. 'By his misguided actions the dear boy is tarnishing his soul; hence he can
truly be said to be doing himself a disservice.'

  I could have kicked his smug ankles. In any case I'd no intention of being diverted by dubious platitudes. 'From what I hear,' I said, 'any problems there are with the emperor's behaviour seem to be other people's. To speak plainly, the Emperor Nero is turning into a proper little thug.'

  Seneca frowned but said nothing.

  'So you don't know what happened last night?' Acte was chewing on a fingernail; the other nine, I noticed, were bitten to the quick. 'With Julius Montanus?'

  I shook my head. The name was familiar: I remembered a thick-set middle-aged man with the build of a wrestler, not known for his equable temper.

  'Lucius...came across him outside Marcellus's Theatre. Montanus punched him.'

  I laughed. 'Oh, how marvellous! Good for Montanus!' A punch on the nose was just what the brat needed, in my view. 'Was he badly hurt?'

  'You don't understand. When Montanus saw who it was he apologised. Lucius told him to go home and slit his wrists.'

  Oh, Jupiter! Oh, good sweet Jupiter! 'He did what?'

  'Told him to kill himself, Titus.' Acte stood up and walked over to the window; the room was on the first floor, overlooking the courtyard garden. She kept her back turned towards me as she spoke. 'It just isn't like him. Lucius isn't a monster, he even hates signing official death warrants. How could he do a thing like that? Kill someone for nothing?'

  'Not for nothing.' I was remembering the dead man in the alleyway; he had recognised the emperor too. 'Did Lucius tell you this himself?'

  'He didn't even mention it. I only found out this morning.'

  'So what do you expect me to do?'

  She turned round again to face me. 'Help. I don't know how. Just help. Lucius needs help. He has to be stopped now, before...' She bit her lip.

  'Before he gets a taste for capricious killing.'

  A nod, with lowered eyes. Seneca wasn't looking at me either.

  'Acte, be realistic! I hardly know the man. Why should he listen to anything I have to say?'

  'Because he seems to have a curious respect for your...ah...powers of judgment, Petronius,' Seneca said stiffly. 'Although a respect based on what evidence I'm not exactly sure.'

  Again my foot itched to hack at his shins. 'Even more respect, my dear, than for the sterling advice that you give him so freely? Oh, Seneca, darling! Surely not!'

  The large bland face coloured and the fat lips drooped.

  'Petronius,' he said. 'You are a young man. I am not. The young will listen to the young where an older man's words, even if they are wiser, will go unheeded. I have talked to Nero. He refuses to admit that he encountered Montanus last night at all. More, he denies being engaged on any nocturnal...expeditions at any time.'

  'But that's –' I was going to use the word 'insane' and thought better of it. 'That makes no sense at all. He's made no secret of what he gets up to at nights. I've been with him myself.'

  Seneca pursed his lips with distaste. 'Exactly. He couldn't deny it to you. With me the case is different. I would have to start by calling the dear boy a liar.'

  I saw his point, of course, and it was a good one. Seneca had no official standing at court, not even (now Lucius had reached adulthood) that of tutor. To provoke a quarrel would be extremely stupid, almost certainly futile, and possibly disastrous for Rome. Not to say potentially fatal for Seneca himself.

  'The nub of the matter' – Seneca was fingering a fold of his expensive mantle – 'is that the lad is emperor and can do what he likes. As yet he hasn't fully realised this. The longer we can delay realisation the better, for his sake and for ours.'

  'And how does this involve me?'

  Instead of replying Seneca looked at Acte.

  'We thought we – you – might divert him, Titus,' she said. 'It's only boredom after all. Lucius doesn't really want to be emperor, he never has.'

  'Divert him?'

  'Into safer channels,' Seneca said. 'As Acte says, the lad needs an interest. Something to take his mind off mundane pursuits like...like...'

  'Governing? Beating people up? Handing out arbitrary death sentences?'

  He glared at me. I stared back impassively.

  'Quite. At least until he develops a more responsible attitude.'

  'And did you have anything particular in mind?' I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  'Titus, don't be difficult, please!' Acte crossed the room and put a hand on my arm. 'This is too important.'

  'I'm sorry.' I was. She was quite right, it was important. Crucial, even. 'It's just that I'm genuinely at a loss as to what you expect me to do.'

  'Lucius is an artist. We felt,' – she glanced at Seneca, who frowned –'at least I felt, that if he had someone to encourage him, someone whose opinion he valued, an older man...' She stopped in confusion.

  'What Acte is trying to say,' Seneca's lips were pursed again, 'is that the Emperor is, or would like to be seen as, that rare bird, an aesthete. A philhellene.' He used the Greek word, pronouncing it carefully and with distaste.

  Acte was nodding with relief.

  'He likes Greeks,' she translated.

  'Thank you, darling,' I said. 'I do understand the term. Only I still don't see what –'

  'My dear Petronius, that is precisely the point,' Seneca interrupted me. 'Rightly or wrongly, Nero considers you...unRoman, if I may coin the word. In his mind you are indeed' – he smiled smugly as he delivered themot, – 'rare birds of a feather. If you can use your influence to divert the emperor's attention from his other pursuits down that innocuous path then you will have our eternal gratitude.'

  'I doubt if Rome would take kindly to a Greekling wearing the purple,' I said.

  'It may be that or suffer another Caligula.' That came out flat. Acte drew in her breath, and Seneca turned briefly in her direction. 'I'm sorry, my dear, but it had to be said. I like it no more than you do, but the lad already expresses an admiration for his late unlamented uncle. You understand now, Petronius?'

  'I understand.' I felt unutterably weary. 'Very well, I'll help if I can. What exactly do you want me to do?'

  'Come back this evening,' Acte said. 'Lucius is staying in for once. I'll arrange a private chat.'

  Oh, Serapis! If this was keeping my head down then I was a blue-arsed Briton.

  17.

  He was in his private sanctum. I'd expected Acte, but we were alone.

  'Titus! Oh, how nice!' He stood up, scattering papers from his lap. 'Acte said you might drop by. Come in and sit down, my dear!'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Oh, tosh! Tosh!' He had me by the arm. 'Call me Nero. Or better still Lucius, as Acte does. It makes you special. I feel we've known each other for years. Don't you feel that?'

  'Yes, sir. Lucius.' I sat while he fussed around straightening things and pouring us each a cup of wine.

  'I'm sorry the place is such a mess, but I won't allow the slaves in here.' He beamed. 'You know slaves. All sticky fingers and huge great feet. They do more damage to a room in five minutes than a marauding army. Here.' He handed me the wine. 'First of the new batch from Euelpides. I didn't forget, you see. You were quite right, it's miles better than Memnon's. Cheers.'

  'Cheers.' I sipped the wine while he watched me closely.

  'Good?'

  'Good.'

  'That is good.' He giggled and covered his mouth with his hand. 'I'm sorry.'

  'Not at all.' I had been looking down at the papers he had let fall when I came in. Now I picked the top one up. 'Do you mind?'

  'No. No, please.' He was blushing with pleasure. 'Go ahead. Only don't tell anyone else. Not just yet.'

  It was an architect's elevation of an amphitheatre, and from the scale marked at the bottom a big one at that. I was a little taken aback: Lucius didn't like or approve of gladiatorial games, or wild beast hunts either. So what was he doing, I wondered, planning to give Rome another amphitheatre?

  'It's not what you think, Titus.' He was grinning at me, and I
felt again that curious sensation that he had looked into my mind. 'Oh, yes, it looks like something you fight in, but it isn't, not at all. That's the surprise.'

  'Then what is it for? There isn't a great deal else you can do in an amphitheatre.'

  'Oh but there is! Guess, my dear! Three guesses!'

  'Sir, I really don't –'

  'Lucius.'

  'Lucius, then. I really don't have the slightest idea.'

  His grin widened. 'I'll give you a clue. Olive, parsley...?'

  The penny dropped. 'Greek games? Athletic contests?'

  'Why not?'

  'In Rome?' Serapis! There would be an outcry! He might as well have the Guild of Gladiators arrange a game of kiss-in-the-ring to take the place of the midday bout.

  The emperor's smile faded. 'You don't think it's a good idea?'

  'I think it's –!' I stopped, remembering why I was there. 'I think it's simply splendid.'

  The smile was back, and he blossomed like a flower unfolding.

  'Really?'

  'Really. It's brilliant. So long as you don't tell anyone.' The amphitheatre would take two years to build, and it would be best to allow people during these two years to assume it was intended for the usual purpose. There was no point in raising hackles until the time came; by which time the lad might possibly have learned more sense. 'Of course you'll have to keep an eye on the work personally.'

  'Will I?'

  'Naturally. You know what contractors are, and this amphitheatre will become a showpiece. Where is it to be, by the way?'

  'I thought Mars Field.'

  'Good idea. Plenty of space. You must show me the site tomorrow and explain where all the various bits will be.'

  'We'll go first thing.' He was almost jigging about with excitement. 'Oh, Titus, I'm so glad I told you first! Not even Acte knows!'

  'I'm flattered.'

  'Nonsense. But it is a secret. Don't forget, now, dear.'

  'Of course I won't.'

  'Wouldn't it be lovely if they caught on? Greek games, I mean. No more sword-fights or rioting on the terraces, just good healthy fun. We might even persuade people to join in, the way they do in Greece.'