Oh, sweet Serapis! I shuddered. The thought of how the majority of Romans would react if asked to jump a hurdle or pitch a discus in public like a prissy Greek made me feel distinctly queasy. Good healthy fun or not.
'I wouldn't mention that either for the moment,' I said carefully.
'No? You really think not?' He frowned. 'Perhaps you're right.'
I was looking round the room for an excuse to change the subject. My eyes fell on a beautiful Greek lyre with a mother-of-pearl-fronted sound-box and gold and ivory pegs.
'Do you play?' I asked.
He blushed again. 'A little. Would you like to hear something?'
'Very much,' I lied.
'You're sure?' Eagerly, he took the lyre down from its peg and cradled it in his arms like a child. 'You don't have to. Honestly. Not if you don't want to.'
'I'd be honoured.' That was enough. Lucius beamed. While he was finding a plectrum and settling himself in a suitable chair I sat back and prepared to be bored, if not deafened, in the cause of duty.
I was neither.
I'd expected something large and self-important, a Euripides choral song, perhaps, or – considering what we'd been talking about – one of Pindar's Pythian Odes. What I got was a simple little lament, beautifully played and beautifully sung. When the last note sounded I confess I had tears in my eyes.
Lucius laid the lyre aside diffidently, and with reluctance.
'I could've played that a lot better,' he said. 'Menecrates is giving me lessons, but I still haven't got the hang of the vibrato.'
'It was marvellous,' I said. 'Marvellous.' I meant it.
'Really? You really, truly liked it?' His face was alight.
'I really, truly liked it. Whose was it? Bacchylides’s?'
He reddened. 'No, it was mine, actually. Although Menecrates helped with the setting. You didn't think my voice was too weak?'
'No, not at all.' It had been a medium-strength baritone, with more body than his usual tenor, and I knew from experience that it would have carried to the back of a fair-sized concert hall.
'Only I've been doing exercises, you see.' Lucius sat down and put his hands together. 'Breathing exercises with weights on the chest. As well as following a strict diet. I'm glad it seems to be working.'
'I've heard professionals who wouldn't have done as well. It's a pity –' I stopped. The silence lengthened between us.
'It's a pity I happen to be Emperor of Rome,' Lucius said quietly. 'That's what you were going to say, wasn't it, Titus? Oh, but I agree, darling. I agree completely.'
I said nothing.
'You know what I'd like to do? If I were ever good enough?'
'No.'
'I'd like to make the musician's tour of Greece. The big festivals. As a contestant.'
Jupiter! The establishment would burst a corporate blood vessel! 'You could.'
He shook his head. 'No, I couldn't. The ever-so-proper Roman Senate wouldn't let me. And anyway, I'd only end up winning everything I went in for. Do you think I want that?'
'No.' I looked at him directly; for, I think, the first time ever. 'No, Lucius. I don't think that you do.'
'Thank you.' He smiled and ducked his head. 'Oh, I'd like to win, of course, but I'd want to do it fair and square. And you see as emperor I'd never know.'
'Being emperor does have its advantages.' I shouldn't be saying this, but I suddenly felt a strange affection, very close to pity, for the young man. 'You can be a force for good.'
'I knew you'd understand!' He was on his feet. 'Titus, that is so right! That's exactly what I want, more than anything else! To drag this rotten, barbaric city out of the mud and give it a soul!'
I felt myself agreeing. Lucius had put his finger on the problem. That, I'd always felt, was precisely the trouble with Rome: she was red-necked and crass, she had power without subtlety. If she had a soul at all it was weighed down with rods and axes and money-boxes. For a moment I found myself totally and unconditionally on Lucius's side.
It was a pity he was mad.
There was a knock on the door, and Acte came in.
I'm sorry,' she said. 'I thought I heard shouting.' She looked at me, anxious, one eyebrow slightly raised. 'Is everything all right?'
'The emperor's been treating me to a private recital.' I kept my face straight.
Lucius laughed. 'You utter pig! You said you liked it!'
'I did.'
'He is good, isn't he?' Acte said proudly. Lucius hugged her and kissed the top of her head. 'Admit it, Titus!'
'Oh, he's excellent. Too good for an emperor.'
'Haven't I always said so?' Acte reached over for the lyre and put it in Lucius's hands. 'Again, dear, for me. Please.'
It was late when I got back home. I had half a dozen slaves with me, plus three torch-boys, so if there were any of the pseudo-Neros around they wisely decided to leave me alone.
I dreamed that night that Lucius was sawing me in half, from crown to toe. The dreadful thing was, that in the dream I didn't know whether to be glad or sorry.
18.
I got to know Lucius well, and certainly much better than I wanted to, over the next eighteen months. I also saw far too much of Seneca, who clearly considered it his moral duty to save my soul while I was helping him save Lucius's. Neither of us succeeded: mine had a rooted aversion to being taken to task by a sententious old bore who saw everyone's failings but his own, and Lucius's had as many sides to it as a Parthian envoy has faces.
That particular fact was indisputable. Seen from close up the poor lad was a bigger mess than I would have believed possible. Keeping him on the right side of sanity, for his own sake and for Rome's, was an uphill struggle. Nevertheless we could have done it, I think, if it hadn't been for the monumental stupidity of Otho.
Well, well, that's unfair. No doubt Poppaea Sabina would have got what she wanted in the end without Otho's kiss-and-tell bragging; but we really should have seen what was coming. As it was, by the time even Acte knew Lucius was smitten with darling Poppy and had summoned us to the palace, it was too late to mend matters.
Acte herself, of course, was furious.
Her room was a shambles: chairs overturned, crockery smashed, the dressmaker's dummy tipped over against the wall. The girl Chryse who had shown us in had already fled white-faced.
'She's a bitch!' I'd never seen Acte angry, and it was frightening. 'A total, fucking, shit-faced bitch!'
Crash went another vase as it smashed against the door a foot from my head. I ducked in reflex.
'Do calm down, dear.' Silia hadn't moved. She brushed the single stool that had remained upright clear of debris and sat down. 'It's not the end of the world.'
'Oh, yes?' Acte stared at her, then clenched her fist and banged it hard against the wall. 'I should've known she was after Lucius when she married Otho! Who the fuck would let that knock-kneed balding effeminate prat into them unless they had other plans for their maggoty cunt?'
I winced. She was quite right in her description of Otho, of course,but still...
Moving very deliberately, Silia stood up again, stepped towards her and slapped her hard on the side of the head. The two women stood glaring at each other for a long time. Then, all at once, Acte collapsed sobbing against the work-bench.
'Find us a flask of wine, Titus,' Silia said. 'And take your time about bringing it, please.'
I left, hurriedly.
When I opened the door again later with the tray they were sitting side by side on the bench. Acte was still sobbing, with Silia's arm round her shoulders, but at least the air was clear of flying flowerpots. Silently I poured and handed Silia the cup. Acte drank the neat wine down in two swallows.
'You're all right now?' I asked.
She nodded. 'I'm sorry, Titus.'
'Don't be, darling. It was an education.'
'I meant every word. Poppaea's a bitch.'
'So I gathered.' I righted an overturned stool and sat down. 'Apart from that obvious fact, what exac
tly has happened? All your messenger said was that you wanted us to come immediately.'
'Lucius has invited Otho's wife to be his guest here at the palace,' Silia said. 'Indefinitely.'
'Jupiter!' I suppose I'd guessed as much already, reading between the extremely pungent lines which had greeted us as we came in, but the raw statement still came as a shock. Lucius had talked about Poppaea, of course, and Otho was for ever boasting of his new wife's beauty and sexual talents, but I hadn't expected things to go this far. 'What about Otho?'
'Lucius is sending him to Lusitania.' Acte took the wine jug from me and poured herself another cup. 'As governor.'
'Poor Lusitanians. So Poppaea's to be an official mistress?'
'Not yet. But it's not for want of trying on her side.'
I frowned. I knew Poppaea, by reputation at least, and she was another Agrippina in embryo. If she had her claws into Lucius then we were in very deep trouble. 'The man's a fool,' I said. 'We've helped him get rid of one predatory female and he goes and saddles himself with another. I mean, honestly, darling!'
'It's not his fault.' Edged to the sidelines or not, Acte still rushed to Lucius's defence automatically. 'It's her. Poor Lucius can't help himself. She's a stunner, a real stunner and' – she blushed and lowered her eyes – 'she's good in bed. Very good. He likes that.'
True enough. We'd had many interesting and informative chats over the past few months, Lucius and I; his sexual tastes were refreshingly eclectic, albeit gross even by my generous standards. And from what Otho told us Poppaea Sabina was both energetic and inventive.
'Does Seneca know?' Not that the old man could do much directly, even if he wanted to.'Otho told him. He's very upset. Otho, I mean.'
'So I would imagine. It can't be easy, being told to trot off to Lusitania just so the emperor can screw your wife.'
'Titus, this isn't funny!' Silia snapped.
'I'm sorry, dear. You're quite right.' I poured a cup of wine and added water from a jug on the table that had miraculously escaped destruction. 'So what does Seneca advise?'
Acte picked up a scrap of material from the bench – it looked to me like Coan silk – and blew her nose loudly. The wine seemed to be doing its work, and she was almost her usual feisty self.
'I don't know. He looked in earlier but' – she indicated the room – 'he didn't stay.'
I laughed. I could imagine Seneca's jowly, horrified face peeping round the door while Acte vented her feelings. A pity she hadn't slugged the old goat with a wine jug.
'Perhaps you should talk to him, Titus,' Silia said. 'Work out some mutual plan.'
'Me? Why the hell me?'
'Why not?'
I felt a stand had to be made somewhere, and the sooner the better. Some things were being taken far too much for granted.
'Because, darling, unfortunate though the situation is it's really not my concern. I contracted to keep Lucius's mind off politics, yes, but not to interfere in his sex life.'
'Titus, that is pure flannel, and you know it. Besides, you owe it toActe.'
'Hey, that's okay.' Acte's sad eyes looked at me over her wine cup. 'Don't mind me. You're quite right, Titus, it isn't your business. We'll work it out somehow.'
Silia ignored her.
'Best go now, dear,' she said.
When I reached Seneca's mansion on the Caelian – only slightly less palatial than the palace itself – Burrus was already there, perched on a very uncomfortable-looking stool in the great man's study, about two feet from a charcoal brazier. He looked ill, and I wondered if it was the poor ventilation, or the heat, or simply his proximity to Seneca, who lay on the only reading couch with his best profile to the door and greeted me with a silent, regal wave of the hand.
'Petronius.' Burrus nodded. 'Good to see you. You've heard the news?'
'I've just come from the palace.' I took a seat as far from the brazier as possible. 'Acte sent for us.'
'How is the dear girl?' The Man Himself smiled. 'Still...upset?'
'She was when we arrived. She's better now.'
Burrus grunted. 'Highly strung, these Greeks. But I'm sorry about Acte. She was a good woman, ex-slave or not. And at least we knew where we were with her.'
'Burrus, you're talking as if the poor soul were dead.' Seneca frowned. 'She's not out of favour, my dear fellow. Far from it, whatever she may think herself. The emperor has simply...taken on an extra interest.'
'A bit on the side, you mean?' I said.
The fishy eyes turned in my direction.'Poppaea Sabina is not Nero's mistress, Petronius. Not officially, anyway. And she has many good qualities. She is intelligent, witty, well-read...'
'Strong-minded.' Burrus was leaning back with his eyes closed; he really did not look well. 'Ambitious. Unscrupulous....'
'All I am saying,' Seneca snapped, 'is that this is not the disaster you three – I include Claudia Acte – seem to think it is. Poppaea is no real threat. I would be far more worried had the Empress Agrippina been back in favour.'
Burrus's eyes opened. 'Agrippina learned her lesson with Britannicus,’ he said. ‘She's keeping her head well down these days, and very wisely, too.'
'That may be so.' Seneca's tone sharpened: the poor dear really did not like to be contradicted, especially on his own ground. 'But I would not count on the situation being permanent. She is still a considerable force, and the emperor, whether he will or nill, remains very much...attracted to her. Acte may be a sterling lady in her way, but she cannot satisfy the Emperor's more unusual, er,' – he looked down – 'physical yearnings.'
'Nero does very well on that score already, darling,' I said calmly. 'You take it from me.'
Burrus chuckled. Seneca eyed me with distaste.
'I am not talking about temporary liaisons,’ he said. ‘You must know by now that the poor boy has a need to be dominated – sexually dominated – by older women. Acte, as I say, is temperamentally incapable of satisfying that need, but satisfied it must be if the emperor is to remain tractable.'
That was fair, so far as it went. Also remarkably perceptive. 'And you think Poppaea fits the bill?' I said.
'I do.'
'I disagree.' Burrus's brows were down. 'Oh, not with what you say about Nero's character, Seneca. You're quite right, the lad's always been tied up in apron strings and he won't grow out of it now. But I don't think Poppaea Sabina's quite the innocent you evidently believe her to be. The woman has ambitions.'
Seneca sighed. 'My dear fellow, please give me credit for a little intelligence! Of course she has ambitions, but she is not a fool, and unlike Agrippina she has neither great political acumen nor the empress's single-minded drive for political power. I am not particularly happy with having her as an additional factor, but comparing her with Agrippina she is by far the lesser evil.'
'You're making her sound almost like Messalina,' I said. 'She wasn't political either.'
As I'd intended, the name produced a sudden silence. We had all lived through the reign of Claudius's beautiful and viciously amoral wife; and we'd also all known people who hadn't been so lucky.
'That is nonsense,' Seneca said flatly. 'Messalina was a totally different case. In the first place she was a fool, in the second so was Claudius, and for all his...eccentricities Nero is not. In the third place the emperor is married already.'
'To Octavia,' I pointed out, 'whom he can't stand and who hasn't lived with him for years, never mind shared a bed. And there is such a thing as divorce.'
Seneca reddened: with anger, not embarrassment. For someone to have the temerity to contradict him was bad enough, but argument set one beyond the pale.
'Poppaea's mother may have come of reasonable stock,' he said, 'but she was certainly not noble. And her father was a complete nonentity. You're not suggesting that the lady is contemplating marriage, surely?'
I blinked. I hadn't considered that, like many provincials, Seneca might be a snob, especially when his attitude to class distinctions was otherwise so relaxed. Norma
lly I would have found this unexpected blind spot amusing. In this case it was worrying.
'I'd have thought it was obvious that's what she's after,' I said mildly.
'I agree.' Burrus sat up. 'Of course she is. She'd be wasting her time otherwise.'
Seneca looked from one of us to the other like a baffled rhino. 'You're both wrong,’ he said. ‘Completely wrong. A mistress is one thing, a wife another. The emperor would never divorce his predecessor's daughter to marry Poppaea Sabina. Never.'
Ah, well. There was no point in arguing further, especially with the old bore in this bone-headed mood. I'd done my best, but in any case there was very little we could do in the meantime. To look ahead a little, though, it's only fair to add that Seneca wasn't completely unjustified in his opinion; it was to take darling Poppy four years to make an honest man of Lucius, and that wasn't, as Acte put it, for want of trying.
I called in on Otho on my way home. He was busy packing, and uncommunicative. I was sorry for Otho; he may have had his faults but he was an honourable enough man at bottom. Before we said goodbye to each other he took me aside. He was fingering the small silver figurine of Isis that he always wore round his neck.
'Tell Nero I'll be back,' he said; just that. But his eyes added, 'And I'll spit on the bastard's grave.'
I shivered as I climbed back into my litter. The day had turned grey and cold.
19.
It didn't take Poppaea long to prove me right. I was kept abreast of her plans by Lucius himself, who was completely disingenuous where his sexual partners were concerned.
'Poppy wants me to marry her, Titus,' he said, setting down a plate (we were in one of the palace dining rooms; I was advising him on the choice of a new dinner service). 'She asked me again last night, and that's the fifth time this month. I mean, honestly, darling, I'd love to indulge the dear girl but how can I? It's so unreasonable!'
'Don't ask me about marriage.' I picked up a mushroom dish from the selection on the table and held it to the light. 'It's the one subject on which I'm not an expert. Not from the inside, at least.'
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