Nero

by David Wishart

  'Gnaeus!' Silia spoke quietly, but her voice held a curious warning note. 'That is quite sufficient!'

  'Oh, Petronius is safe, darling.' Arruntius shifted his weight round to look at her: he'd got a great deal heavier over the years I'd known him, and now he was quite gross. 'Like he said, he hasn't the balls for politics. But the magic's gone for him as well as everyone else. Eh, Petronius? Am I right or not?'

  I said nothing, and nor did Silia: she was looking daggers. Arruntius grinned and reached for an almond cake.

  'Of course I'm right,’ he went on. ‘And do you want me to tell you why so many people are pissed off with Nero these days, my dear? Because he isn't a winner any longer. Us broad-stripers, we're tolerant of winners, we'll forgive them a lot.' He paused and stared directly at me. 'You think we're hypocrites. The Senate, I mean. Well, we're not. We're realists. Us and the emperor, it's like a marriage. You've got to have respect both sides. Doesn't matter what each partner does so much, as long as each fulfils the terms of the contract.' He turned suddenly to Silia, spilling the rest of his wine on the table. 'You agree, dear?'

  'Gnaeus, I'm terribly sorry but I'm afraid you're drunk, darling.' Silia's voice was frosty. 'We'd best be getting back.'

  'No. Oh, yes, I know I'm drunk. But we're not going home. Not just yet.' He dabbed at the spilled wine with a napkin. 'Don't worry that I'll get personal. I didn't mean it that way, you and Petronius can do whatever the hell you please together, I couldn't care less. But you see my point, don't you, Titus? Governing's a contract, and Nero isn't honouring it.'

  'Really, my dear,’ I said quietly, ‘I think Silia's right. And it is getting rather late, at that.' I shared her concern: the servants were all reliable, but we were verging very closely on treason here.

  Arruntius had heard me, but he paid no notice. Masinissa came back in and he beckoned him over.

  'Here, boy. Come and sit by me. You don't want us to go home yet, now, do you?'

  Oh, Serapis. We'd had this problem before. The only thing to do was to let the poor darling talk himself out and fall asleep where he lay. We could always throw a blanket over him and leave him there for the night. I raised my eyebrows at Silia, but she was looking the other way. Arruntius draped his left arm round the lad’s shoulders and held up his empty cup to be filled.

  'He's ballsed up the Armenian war for a start,' he said. 'We could've held Armenia against the Parthians if he'd shown a bit more spunk. Then there was the business with the corn.'

  'That wasn't his fault,' I said. Nor it was; through an unlucky combination of events almost three hundred grain ships had been lost with their cargoes, and Lucius had ordered a barn-load of corn which had gone mouldy dumped into the Tiber. As a result Rome's granaries had been left almost empty.

  'Maybe not his fault, but his responsibility. It's the emperor's job to look after the city's corn supply. Otherwise the mob gets upset and we're all in trouble.' Arruntius's forefinger was stroking the boy's nipple through his tunic. 'And another thing. Three hundred ships wrecked, then that fancy new Greek gymnasium of his struck by lightning. Then the earthquake at Pompeii. Too many disasters all in one year. I may not be superstitious, Petronius, but even I get the feeling someone's trying to tell us something. It all adds up.'

  'It all adds up to what?'

  'I told you.' His voice was becoming slightly slurred: that last cup of wine might have done it. Surreptitiously I indicated to Masinissa to keep the top-ups coming. 'To Nero being a loser. Even then we might be more sympathetic if he'd back up a bit where we're concerned, but he couldn't care less.'

  'You being the Senate again?' All this was quite alarming. I was used to Arruntius shooting his mouth off when he was drunk, but usually it was only hot air. This sounded more serious.

  'Us being the Senate. Nero may hate our guts but he's a fool to make it so obvious, because some of us may just decide we've had enough and do something about it.'

  'Arruntius, I really think that we should –’

  'Piso for one. Ever since that slimy bastard Romanus tried to get Seneca indicted he's –'

  'Gnaeus! That's enough!' Silia snapped. She'd been getting more and more restless, and I'd assumed it was because of Arruntius's bad manners: his left hand had moved down to the hem of the slave-boy's tunic. Evidently it wasn't: I'd rarely seen her so angry.

  Arruntius, too, was surprised. His mouth opened then shut tight as a clam's.

  Silia turned to me. 'Titus, it's been a lovely evening,’ she said, ‘but I really do think we'd better leave.' Her eyes flicked back to Arruntius. 'Come on,darling. Now.'

  Arruntius grunted and slipped tamely off his couch.

  'Very well,' he said. ''Night, Petronius. Lovely evening. Lovely ostrich, lovely wine.' Deliberately he bent forwards and kissed Masinissa on the lips. 'Lovely boy. Yum! Buy him from you?'

  'Not at present, dear. He still has novelty value. Perhaps later.'

  He nodded. 'Look forward to it. Sorry about the...' He waved his right hand vaguely, realised he was still holding his wine-cup, drained it and set it mouth down on the table. 'Sorry about the spiel. Got carried away.'

  'Don't mention it.'

  'Mum's the word, eh?'

  Silia reached over and tucked his arm firmly beneath her own.

  'Good night, Titus,' she said.

  I thought, when they'd gone, about what Arruntius had said. Or almost said. I knew of Decius Romanus. He was a narrow-striper like myself, a notorious fortune-hunter who kept just one jump ahead of the bailiffs. Not long after Octavia's murder he'd gone to Lucius privately (rumour had it with Tigellinus's blessing) and told him he had proof that Seneca was involved in a plot with several notable senators, including the aristocratic Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso. Luckily the poor dear went about things in such a ham-fisted way that not even Lucius believed him. Seneca provided clear proof of his innocence, and Romanus was exiled to Spain for bringing a malicious charge.

  Now. Piso might feel resentment against Romanus for bringing the charge, but he couldn't – as Arruntius had implied – harbour any specially bad feelings for Lucius, who'd thrown it out. But wouldn't it be curious if Romanus was right after all, for the wrong reasons?

  I wouldn't've given it a moment's thought if it hadn't been for Silia's behaviour. She'd been on edge as soon as Arruntius had brought the subject of Lucius up, and when he mentioned Seneca she'd come down on him like a ton of ice and whisked him home. Did Silia know something I didn't? And if so why should she be so desperate for me not to find out? This secrecy wasn't like her. It wasn't like her at all.

  I was worried. Very worried indeed.

  37.

  In late January of the next year Poppaea gave birth at Antium to a daughter. The baby was named Claudia. Lucius was delighted.

  'She's the spitting image of her daddy, Titus!' he beamed. 'Bright red fuzz on top and the loveliest hazel eyes.'

  I'd been wondering, with quite a few others, whether the hair wouldn't be dark and curly and the eyes black, but Poppaea wasn't that stupid, and nor was Tigellinus.

  'Congratulations.' I sipped my beaker of hot honeyed wine: Lucius had a cold, which meant his guests had to drink medicinally as well. 'When can we see this young paragon?'

  'Not for two or three months yet.' Lucius popped a raw garlic clove into his mouth. 'Especially in this weather. She's very delicate. And Poppy gets terribly seasick, poor girl. It's just not worth the risk.'

  'She's fine?' I hoped the question sounded reasonably sincere. Personally I wouldn't've mourned too much if darling Poppy had died horribly of complications. I wouldn't've been alone, either.

  'Strong as a horse.' He made a face as he chewed. 'Oh, and I'm giving her the title of Empress. Her and the little one both.'

  'That's nice.' I tried to hide my shock. The title 'Augusta' carries tremendous weight. By producing Lucius's first child Poppaea had moved straight to the topmost imperial niche.

  A slave came in with a charcoal brazier and set it down between us.
I moved my chair back – the room was stifling already – but Lucius leaned forward and held his hands over the coals.

  'I'm sorry, Titus, but I can't get warm,' he said. 'It's this beastly cold. Do you never get them?'

  'Not often. A doctor I met once in Smyrna advised me to eat lemons whenever I felt one coming on. That seems to do the trick.'

  'Lemons?'

  'An Indian fruit, very sour. You boil them up with honey and spices to kill the taste.' I paused and then said delicately: 'Do the Senate know yet? About the new titles?'

  Lucius chuckled, then broke into a fit of coughing. He lifted the silver bowl beside his chair and I waited politely while he spat out a gobbet of phlegm.

  'Fuck the Senate, darling.' He grinned, wiping his lips on a napkin. 'Yes, they know. They're thrilled, of course. In public at least. We're to have a new temple to the goddess Fertility. And a special athletics event. They do seem to enjoy their physical exercise nowadays, don't they, the dears?'

  I didn't know whether to take that as sarcasm or not. Over the past year Lucius had been going out of his way to encourage senators and narrow-stripers to appear in the arena and the athletic stadium. The younger, wilder set had done it willingly, but he'd made it clear that a token participation was expected from anyone who wasn't totally unfit if they wanted to stay in his good books; which had made him even less popular with the traditionalists.

  Lucius was watching me carefully, an odd expression on his face.

  'You don't think very much of me these days, do you?' he said.

  My stomach turned to ice. 'I'm sorry?'

  'You heard, darling. I mean, it's obvious. Don't think I haven't noticed. You don't like the way I'm handling things any more.'

  'You're the emperor.' Serapis! 'You don't need my approval.'

  He sipped his hot wine, his eyes on mine over the rim of the cup.

  'I used to think you were like me,' he said quietly. 'An idealist in a world of barbarians. Now I'm not so sure we're on the same side.'

  'It may not be a question of sides.'

  'You see?' He set the cup down. 'You're beginning to sound like Seneca. He said that once, do you remember? To me it is. The Senate would make me into their own image if I let them. When they say "Compromise" they mean "Behave yourself, do it our way." I can't let that happen because their way's narrow and wrong. That's why I need Tiggy, to put the fear of God into them.'

  'He certainly does that very well.' I was temporising desperately.

  'Inspiring fear's his function. I can't do it myself, however much I'd like to.' The words came out quite naturally, as if Lucius really believed them. Perhaps he did. 'It's silly, but there you are. I'm too good-natured. Tiggy's a pragmatic bastard who likes frightening people. Besides, the Senate love being slapped around, it gives them a chance to bum-suck in public and grizzle in private.' He paused. 'Titus, say something. I'm being serious now.'

  What could I say?

  'Being both emperor and artist can't be easy, my dear.' Ah, weak, weak! But I meant it: it was true enough and always had been. At that moment I felt more sympathetic towards Lucius than I had for months.

  He laughed and coughed. 'Tell me something I don't know! No, it isn't easy. But it may get easier now that Poppy's popped because I mean to settle down and be a family man from now on, and family men are respectable. Maybe the Senate'll bend a bit in return.'

  This was good news. Lucius was mellowing at last: I hesitated to use the phrase growing up. It was on the tip of my tongue to warn him about Piso, but I didn't. I'd no real proof (if there was anything to have proof of), and besides it was none of my concern.

  'You haven't any children yourself, have you?' He was rubbing his hands again over the flames.

  'No. Not that I'm aware of.'

  'You should. It changes your perspective. And of course it's a tremendous responsibility. I'll have to be careful with little Claudia. I don't want her growing up with the same problems as –' He stopped. 'With any problems.'

  'I'm sure she won't,' I said.

  'No.' He wasn't looking at me now, but staring fixedly into the brazier. 'No. Poppy'll be a marvellous mother. Marvellous.'

  I didn't answer. The silence lengthened, and I sat very still. Lucius's eyes were still fixed on the flames. He seemed to have forgotten that I was there.

  Suddenly he blinked and sat back.

  'I'm sorry, Titus,' he said. 'I was wool-gathering. What was I saying?'

  'That Poppaea Sabina would be a marvellous mother.' I tried a smile and hoped that it didn't look too false. 'I don't doubt that she will.'

  'Of course not!' He grinned. 'Of course she will! Now that's enough seriousness for one day. Where can I get hold of these lemon things you mentioned?'

  I told him – there is a shop in the Velabrum which specialises in luxury fruits – and we began chatting in a more relaxed way than we had for months. When I left we were almost back on our old footing. Almost, but not quite; as Arruntius had said, there'd been too many deaths and too much grief for that. I might still sympathise – Lucius and I were too similar in nature for sympathy ever to vanish – but I couldn't bring myself any more to like the poor darling, even allowing for this new mellowness of his. And without liking friendship is impossible.

  In any case, Lucius never did have his chance of becoming a family man, because four months later the baby was dead.

  She died of a fever, still at Antium, and Lucius was totally devastated. It didn't endear him any further to the old guard in the Senate.

  'The way he went on you'd think he was a woman!' Arruntius complained bitterly to me after the senatorial deputation had offered their official condolences at the palace. 'Tears, torn clothes, the lot! In public, too! I was disgusted, Petronius, simply disgusted! But that's these nancy-boy actors all over, they've no sense of proportion. Jupiter, the little basket wasn't even a boy!'

  I didn't agree. Lucius's grief may have been theatrical, but it was real. Certainly he was less guilty of hypocrisy than Arruntius and his senatorial cronies, who immediately declared Claudia a goddess.

  I was at the palace offering my own condolences when the news arrived.

  'You see, Titus?' Lucius said, giving me a ghastly smile (he hadn't slept or eaten for four days, and his private room was even more of a pit than usual). 'They think I'm a child myself, to be kept sweet with nonsense. How could the poor mite possibly be a goddess just on their say-so? It's silly.'

  'Then tell them it's silly. Use your veto.'

  He shrugged. 'Why bother? It wouldn't do any good. They're despicable and there's an end of it. Anyway, I'm finished with them. From now on they can take me as I am or leave me alone.'

  This sounded ominous, but I didn't pursue the matter.

  'How's the empress?’ I said.

  'Taking it very badly. What mother wouldn't?' He hid his face in his hands. I thought he was going to cry but it was only tiredness: he was slumped against the back of his chair. 'We'll try again of course, but not immediately. The poor girl's inconsolable. Absolutely inconsolable.'

  Privately I doubted it: Poppaea's powers of resilience were considerable, and she'd never struck me as the maternal type.

  'Is she coming back to Rome?' I avoided the awkward pause.

  'In a few days, yes. After the embalmers have –' He stopped. His shoulders began to shake and he raised his hands again. This time there was no question about the reason. I wondered whether to leave, but that would have been impolite, so I sat in silence until he'd finished and blown his nose into a napkin. 'We'll bury the child in the family mausoleum. I've never seen a goddess buried before. What are the rites, do you know?'

  'No,' I said quietly.

  'It doesn't matter. We'll leave that up to the Senate as well. They'll be...impressive, I'm sure. We can trust them for that much.' He fell silent, staring into space, until I thought he'd forgotten me. Then, suddenly, he laughed; a harsh sound with no humour in it.

  'I was just thinking, my dear,' he sai
d. 'Old Julius is a god. My great-great-grandfather Augustus is a god. Even poor old idiot Claudius is a god. The Senate was responsible for all of them. Maybe the slimy bastards have got some sort of power after all.'

  I said nothing.

  'So if little Claudia really is a goddess, then what does that make me? Can a mortal father a goddess and still be only mortal? Come on, my dear, you call yourself an educated man. What's your answer? The father would have to be divine himself to begin with, surely?'

  I held my breath. He was sounding (and looking, for that matter) far too much like his Uncle Gaius for my liking, or for the good of Rome. One reigning god-emperor had been enough in a generation; we didn't want two. Mentally I cursed the Senate for a pack of interfering, shit-stirring fools. If we were witnessing the birth of another Caligula then they'd only themselves to blame.

  He must have noticed the look on my face, because he stopped laughing.

  'Titus,' he said gently. 'It was a joke.'

  I let the breath out slowly. If Lucius hadn't been aware of the tension before he was aware of it now. He was looking grave; very grave indeed.

  'You thought I was serious, didn't you?' he said. Wordlessly, I nodded. 'But I told you, dear, the whole thing's silly! You can't dignify it by any other term, it's just silly!'

  'I know that.'

  His clenched fist came down hard on the chair-arm; I was surprised that the wood didn't break.

  'Then stop treating me like a fool!’ he snapped. ‘You're as bad as the bloody Senate! I'm as mortal as you are!'

  'You're sure, dear?' The flippancy was out of place, of course, but I was too relieved to care.

  Lucius didn't smile. 'I'm not mad, Titus,' he said. 'I'm no god, and if it's left to the Senate I never will be. Not that I care, because being human's difficult enough. It's more than these fuckers can manage half the time, anyway.'

  Being human is difficult enough.

  I thought about that on the way home. I still think about it. Leaving the question of madness to one side (I'd've been surprised if he'd admitted to that), what exactly did he mean? Oh, the first part is clear enough: when he goes – however he goes – it's unlikely the Senate will deify him, at least not willingly. But the bit about finding it difficult to be human, that I don't understand at all. Perhaps he was only talking about quality of life. When Rome burned and he began his splendid new palace – we’ll come to that part of my story soon – he remarked in my hearing, 'At last I can live like a human being.'