Nero

by David Wishart

  'Accepted, but –'

  'There is no but! We are like a chariot, Petronius, with a runaway horse and only a single rein. The last thing we need is some well-intentioned idiot urging the beast on to greater efforts.'

  'Oh, what a lovely metaphor, my dear! And so flattering to the emperor and myself.'

  'It's valid, damn you!'

  'Perhaps it is,' I said carefully; I had never, ever heard Seneca swear before and it was an indication of just how upset he was. 'But what if the horse is going at a reasonable pace in the proper direction, and your idiot has his doubts about his co-driver's right to give orders?'

  'Then the man's even more of a bloody fool than I give him credit for!'

  There was no more to be said. We finished the journey in hostile silence, and I dropped him off at the Caelian like a hot brick.

  29.

  Ah, well. I suppose it was inevitable we should fall out eventually. Seneca was all head, whereas I've never claimed to be an intellectual. Perhaps that was why I got on so well with Lucius. We were very alike in many ways. We still are.

  Incidentally, I'm beginning to realise that telling this story has been a journey for me as much as (hopefully) it has been for you, my reader. I feel, for example, a little more sympathetic towards Seneca than I did when I started (Dion is smiling! Rot you, Dion!), and certainly more than I felt at the time. Perhaps it's the loss of blood, and my powers of judgment are going, or changing. Seneca slit his wrists too of course, in the end, and shared suicide does inevitably engender some sympathy, as if we were members of some exclusive club. If I'd been slower to condemn him as a hypocrite, and he'd been less convinced of his own perfection, we might still never have been friends but I think we could at least have reached a better understanding. But that's enough of maudlin philosophy, my friends. It is not, as they say, my bag.

  As it was, after that quarrel in the litter we treated each other with a certain wariness. The only time the barriers were lowered and we found ourselves on the same side was two years later, after the murder of City Prefect Pedanius.

  Pedanius was a bastard: a thin, sour-faced Cato who weighed life by the scruple and never forgot an injury. He had a chef called Cycnus who'd saved enough from his tips to buy his freedom. After the deal was made Pedanius went back on it without returning the money. That night Cycnus took his best filleting knife along to his master's bedroom and cut the poor dear's throat. Then he gave himself up. As a self-confessed murderer he deserved all he got, but under Roman law where a slave kills his master every other slave in the household is executed with him. Which meant in this case four hundred innocent men, women and children.

  When the news broke there was rioting in the streets and crowds surrounded the Senate House where the case was being debated. Thanks largely to the eloquence of another upper-class paragon named Cassius Longinus, the death sentence was confirmed; and to make sure there was no further trouble from the mob a company of Praetorians were detailed to line the route by which the condemned slaves were taken to execution.

  Like every other decent person in Rome, I was stunned and shocked; so shocked that I actually set out for the palace hoping to persuade Lucius to override the Senate's decision. I was on my way there, via my banker's in the Market Square, when I bumped into Arruntius. He told me how delighted he'd been by the result of the debate.

  'Cassius really stuck it to them,' he said. 'You should've heard him go, Petronius! Marvellous stuff, simply marvellous!'

  '"Fortunate ears, to be so blessed,"' I quoted in Greek.

  'What's that?' Arruntius frowned: I don't think he'd caught the meaning, let alone the reference. 'Oh. Indeed, yes, certainly. Anyway, he got a standing ovation, and it's not often that happens. It sent a clear message to these wishy-washy liberals that we've had enough, I can tell you.'

  I'd had enough myself. Of Arruntius.

  'Meaning the emperor, darling?' I said loudly. Several heads turned in our direction. 'And who might "we" be?'

  Arruntius paled and glanced quickly to either side.

  'Don't do that, you fool!' he hissed. 'You know bloody well who I mean! Anyway, Cassius was right. Someone's got to state the obvious sometimes, just to remind us it is obvious.'

  'It's obvious that four hundred innocent people have to die because they happened to be under the same roof when a murder was committed? Oh, Arruntius, dear, how simply lovely!'

  'Not people. Slaves. And not so innocent either.'

  'How many does it take to cut one person's throat?'

  He scowled. 'Don't be so bloody literal! Do you think one or two of them didn't know before the event? That that bastard of a chef kept it a total secret?'

  'Even so...'

  'Even so nothing!' Arruntius turned to go, having mentally, I suspect, washed his hands of me as a kindred spirit. 'Executing them all will make sure it never happens again. The next time some crack-brained sod takes it into his head to murder his master he won't get within a mile. I'll see you around, Petronius.'

  When I finally got to the palace Seneca was already in the anteroom. He looked grey as death.

  'Petronius.' He gave me a stiff nod.

  'Seneca.' I was equally cool; we hadn't seen each other in months, and even then we'd hardly been on speaking terms. Luckily the secretary appeared at that moment and led us straight through to the emperor's private suite.

  Lucius, too, looked haggard. Although it was late in the day he hadn't shaved and he was wearing a rumpled tunic. Even before the slave had closed the door behind us he was holding up a placating hand.

  'I know!' he said. 'I know! Don't look at me like that. There's nothing I can do.'

  Seneca lowered himself into a chair. His hands were shaking.

  'You once said, my dear fellow, when you were asked to sign an order for execution that you wished you'd never learned to write.'

  'This has nothing to do with me! It's the law!' Lucius turned towards me. 'Titus, you tell him!'

  'You're the emperor.' I sat down too. 'You're above the law.'

  'I am not!' Lucius's hand thudded on to the desk beside him. 'The Senate made the decision. The Senate's responsible, not me.'

  'You have the power of veto.'

  'Darling, I can't! Honestly! Don't you understand?' I stared at him. 'Don't blame me, blame the Senate and their fucking, twisted, Roman ideas of justice!' I thought of Arruntius. Twisted was a good word. 'You weren't there, either of you, when Cassius made his speech.'

  'He was only one voice,' Seneca said quietly. 'There must have been others.'

  'Oh, yes.' Lucius was pacing the room. He was almost in tears. 'Lots of them. Mostly agreeing, because Cassius's argument was a clincher with these hide-bound bastards: "It's the law as our fathers made it, gentlemen, it's how we've always done things. We've had enough changes these last few years. Make your stand now, before it's too late. Vote for the good old Roman ways!"' He stopped and faced us. 'Do you think I'm a fool? That I didn't see the implications?'

  'Cassius made it a political issue.' I felt sick. That was what Arruntius had meant about sending a clear message to the liberals.

  'Of course he did! And most of the Senate are with him. I can't fight them, I don't dare, not over this!' Suddenly, Lucius spat. 'Barbarians! Fucking barbarians! I hate them!'

  'They're not barbarians.' Seneca had clasped his hands in front of him. His eyes were lowered. I thought perhaps he was praying. 'Just misguided.'

  'As misguided as you think I am?' There was no answer. I held my breath, but Lucius didn't press the issue; he was almost gentle. 'My dear, what would your historians – your good, solid, patriotic, Roman historians– write about Cassius and me if we both died tomorrow? They'd say that Nero was a sport of nature, a degenerate who aped the Greeks and gave public performances in theatres. And Cassius? A good old-fashioned Roman who defied tyrants like his namesake. Whose side would you cheer for, Seneca, even when the corpses were counted?'

  Seneca said nothing, only looked at his han
ds. Lucius threw himself onto a couch and slopped wine into a cup.

  'They'll regret this, you know,' he said conversationally. 'All of them. I won't forget.'

  Seneca and I exchanged glances. Lucius caught us, and smiled with his mouth, not his eyes.

  'Oh, don't worry, my dears! I'm not my Uncle Gaius, I don't mean that!’ he said. ‘But they will regret it, eventually. Now piss off, I'm feeling low. Interview over. Request denied.'

  We left.

  They died. All of them. All four hundred.

  30.

  I think even Cassius would've hesitated if he'd known what the execution of those four hundred slaves would mean in the long run, and not only for the Senate. Eleven months later, a gentleman named Antistius Sosianus gave Lucius the opening he needed by reciting verses satirising him at a dinner party.

  The verses were pure doggerel, and if they'd been written before the Pedanius incident I think Lucius would've ignored them as he'd already done others; like many artists he was so sure of his own talent that anyone who refused to recognise it was beneath contempt. However, he decided to use the situation to send a clear message to the Senate. Through a sympathetic intermediary, Sosianus was charged with treason.

  The Senate were shocked. When Lucius had come to power he had promised to end the treason trials which had scarred Claudius's reign and were a notorious money-spinner for professional informers. A throwaway line or an ill-advised joke blown up out of all proportion could result in death or exile, and most of the victims were senators or their narrow-striper relatives. The very thought that the emperor might reintroduce them sent a cold draught up more than one patrician back-passage. I was a bit worried myself.

  'But, Titus, it's a lovely plan!' Lucius insisted when I called in at the palace accidentally-on-purpose to test the wind on behalf of some broad-striper friends. 'A bit of fear's good for them. It's what they understand. Besides, they don't appreciate how lucky they are having me in charge, they really don't.'

  We were walking in the palace gardens. Lucius stopped occasionally to pick a spray of evergreen for the garland he was plaiting.

  'You lived through some of the trials yourself.' I tried to keep the tone light. 'Do you really want all that nonsense back again? Inoffensive old buffers put to death just because they wear a purple cloak to a party?'

  'Of course not! Don't be silly.' He frowned at a peacock cut from the centre of a boxwood hedge. 'I just want them to see that things could be a lot worse if I were that way inclined. Besides, Sosianus is a smarmy little bugger. Rome would be better off without him.'

  I felt cold. 'You'll let the Senate execute him?' Technically, the penalty for treason was death. 'Just for a bit of bad poetry?'

  'Oh, no.' He giggled. 'I'm not a monster, darling, you should know that by now. They'll want to, of course, because I shall be terribly upset and angry, and the sycophantic bastards will assume I'm as callous as they are. I'll step in at the last moment and show them how a proper civilised person behaves.' He set the garland on his head and tilted it over one ear. 'It's a salutary reminder, Titus, that's all. And the poor hack can spend his exile polishing up his iambics.'

  In the event Lucius didn't have to intervene, which I'm afraid was partly my fault, although I never told him: he never could resist the grand theatrical gesture. The case went exactly as he'd said it would. The consul-elect, a prime crawler named Marullus, demanded the death penalty, and he would have got it if I hadn't already told old Thrasea Paetus – one of the few decent members of the Senate – what Lucius's real feelings were. As a result, Sosianus escaped with exile.

  Although Sosianus's trial frankly bordered on farce, six months later Lucius made a decision that had much more immediate – and far-reaching –consequences.

  I found out about it on a routine visit to the palace to make the final arrangements for the Spring Festival party Lucius had asked me to organise. As usual his secretary showed me in to the private suite. On the guest couch to the emperor's right, chewing his way through a hot-house peach, was a man I'd been trying to avoid for over two years.

  'Titus! Come in, my dear!' Lucius was beaming. 'Meet the new Commander of Praetorians!'

  'Joint commander.' Tigellinus set the peach down and gave me a slow, not very pleasant smile. 'With Faenius Rufus.'

  'What's happened to Burrus?' A silly question but I was shaken. Burrus commanded the Praetorians. Tigellinus had been in charge of the City Watch since Lucius had brought him to Rome the year before, but from that to Guards Commander was a huge step.

  'He's dead. He died last night.' Lucius was still smiling. 'That lump in his throat finally did for him. So sad. Titus, sit down, dear, you look quite pale.'

  It felt like someone had sandbagged me from behind. I reached for a chair. I'd known Burrus had been suffering for the past few months from a growth in his windpipe, but he'd seemed a permanent fixture. Now, suddenly, he was gone. It was like an amputation.

  'Rufus is only a sop to the Senate,' Lucius was saying. 'He doesn't really count, he's a useless old buffer at the best of times. Tiggy'll be in charge, really. Won't that be nice?'

  'Very,' I said. Tigellinus was watching me with dark, amused eyes. 'I'm sorry about Burrus. I didn't even know he was dying.'

  'Nor did I, darling.' Lucius made a throwaway gesture. 'Still, it was quick at the end. One moment here, the next a bag of old bones. Comes to us all in time. I must write a poem for him.'

  'Speaking of bags of old bones, Petronius' – Tigellinus pulled a grape from the bunch in the fruit bowl beside him – 'how's your pal Seneca these days?'

  Something cold touched my spine. 'I don't know. I haven't seen him recently.'

  'We'll have to have a talk soon, the pair of us. That's right, isn't it, Nero?' His eyes shifted momentarily from mine as he tossed the grape in the air and caught it neatly in his mouth. He chewed and spat the pips into his palm.

  'If you must, love. Although why you should want to is a total mystery to me. Old Grizzle-guts is hardly a barrel of laughs.' Lucius frowned. 'And speaking of that, Titus, you don't seem to be terribly taken with my new appointment.'

  'I'm sorry?' I was still watching Tigellinus, who was selecting another grape.

  'Thrilled. Delighted. Over the moon. Ravished.' Tigellinus chuckled. 'At the idea of Tiggy taking over the Guards, darling.'

  'Of course I am.' I tried to smile, although it wasn't easy with those black eyes boring into me. 'I was just a little surprised to hear about Burrus. My heartiest congratulations, Tigellinus.'

  'Thank you.'

  The emperor watched our stiff exchange with amused interest.

  'Ask me why,' he said.

  'Why what?'

  'Why Tigellinus.' He got up from his couch, moved over to the one Tigellinus was occupying and sat on its edge. 'You're dying to know, really. Aren't you?'

  'I don't have to ask why. I think it's an excellent idea.'

  'No you don't, my dear.' Lucius's fingers had embedded themselves to the knuckles in the other man's hair, and he was flexing them against the scalp as if Tigellinus were a monstrous cat. 'You disapprove, and you're curious. Be honest.'

  The black eyes were still staring into mine. 'Very well,' I said. 'Why Tigellinus?'

  'Because he's efficient. Because he's been an excellent Watch Commander and because he'll make an even better Commander of Praetorians. Does that satisfy you?'

  'No.' I was watching the fingers. They had moved down to the nape of the neck. Tigellinus's smile widened, and he stretched. His joints cracked.

  'It's true. All of it.'

  'Perhaps. But these aren't the main reasons.'

  'No, they aren't.' The index finger brushed the dark hairs gently upwards. 'All right. Try this, then. I like him. We get on well together. He has a sense of humour. He knows how to enjoy himself. His...carnality amuses and excites me. Right, my dear?'

  Tigellinus arched his muscular back without answering. He was almost purring.

  'I'm afraid that
doesn't fit either,' I said; the dark eyes still hadn't wavered, and I was finding their effect hypnotic. 'Whoever commands the Guards holds one of the most important political military posts in the empire. You're careful over those. You wouldn't give one to someone because he happened to be a friend.'

  Lucius smiled. 'Oh, well done! Quite right, I wouldn't. Or not just because of that, anyway.' His hand travelled the length of Tigellinus's spine and rested at its base. 'Shall we tell him, my dear?'

  'Go ahead,' Tigellinus said. He hadn't moved or acknowledged the presence of the emperor's hand in any way.

  Lucius went back to his own couch and lay down.

  'Tiggy's an ex-slave, Titus,' he said. 'He's been a bad boy all his life, he's clawed his way to the top of the heap and he has no time for convention or morality. He's a natural survivor with only one interest. Gaius Ofonius Tigellinus. Am I right, Tiggy?'

  Tigellinus smiled. 'On the nail. But there's a but.'

  'Of course, dear. I'm sorry.' Lucius turned back to me. 'He's also completely loyal to me, because I can give him everything he wants and without me he's nothing. Yes, Tiggy?'

  Tigellinus nodded. 'Yes.'

  He meant it, I could see. The man was no fool. My mouth felt dry. 'You still haven't quite answered the question,' I said. 'Why Tigellinus?'

  'Haven't I?' Lucius frowned. 'Oh, but Titus, the answer's obvious! Tiggy's perfect because the Senate will absolutely loathe him. What other reason would I have?'

  I said nothing. He was right, of course. If Burrus had been a provincial at least his family were respectable and he was what Arruntius would call a 'sound fellow'. With Arruntius and his cronies –which meant a good two-thirds of the Senate – Tigellinus would be as popular as a rotten squid in a barrel of Baian oysters.

  'They have asked for it, after all,' Lucius went on, his voice reasonable. 'They've been asking for it for years, the po-faced Roman bastards. And Tiggy's just what they deserve. Aren't you, Tiggy?'