'Please, sir!' He was almost crying. 'It's desperately important!'
'Oh, don't worry, I'll go! It sounds like fun.' I put the wax tablets into the desk and locked it. 'Where does this rabble-rouser live?'
'He has a house near the Praetorian Camp.'
Another surprise; I'd expected the Aventine or the Trans-Tiber region. First citizenship, now money. 'A good address. All right. Order up the litter. We'll go there now.'
The house wasn't a grand one but it looked comfortable enough from the outside: an old property behind a mud-brick wall on a pleasant tree-lined street. Someone must've been looking out for us because the door opened even before Crito knocked. The door slave stood aside to let us in.
'Welcome,' he said. 'Go straight through. He's in the garden.'
He. Not the master. The slave kissed Crito on both cheeks, which was also unusual. But, as I was about to find out for myself, it was an odd household altogether.
I followed Crito through the house and into the garden at the back. It was a pleasant place, simple but carefully looked after with a fig tree against the wall, rose bushes and terracotta pots of basil, thyme and rosemary. The small courtyard was full of people. Two of them, I noticed, were Praetorians. They were sitting on a stone bench chatting to each other quite naturally, as if they were at home and off duty. Only when they saw me did they stand up and come to attention.
In the shade of the fig tree sat a man in his sixties, dressed in a simple woollen tunic; smallish, balding, unremarkable in any way, except that he managed somehow to be the focal point of the garden. As we came out through the porch he looked in our direction. His eyes were sharp under massive eyebrows.
'Crito!' he said. 'God be praised!'
He was speaking Greek; good Greek, too, with an educated accent. I began to revise my opinions. He stood up. The younger man who'd been standing next to his chair – a slim, serious-looking man in a finer tunic than his – bent over and whispered in his ear, but he waved him aside.
'No, Loukas, I'm fine. Don't fuss, we have a guest.' The crowd parted respectfully to let him through. 'Welcome, sir. It's good of you to come. Justin, my friend, a little wine for the gentleman, please.'
The last request – it wasn't an order – was in Latin. The door slave who had followed us out smiled and left.
Paullus – this had to be Paullus – took my arm. Standing he was even shorter than I'd thought, scarcely the height of my shoulder. His legs were bent, almost crippled.
'My Latin's dreadful, I'm afraid,' he said. 'We'll speak Greek, if you don't mind.'
'Not in the slightest.' Someone had brought another chair and set it down under the fig tree. We sat. The conversation carried on around us, but I had the distinct impression that everyone was listening. Justin came back with a plate of grapes and the wine; one cup only. When he handed me it I noticed a huge discolouration on his lower leg. It was old, and looked like a burn: some childhood accident, perhaps. I sipped. A country wine with a hint of myrtle, and not at all bad.
'Now, sir.' The keen eyes turned towards me. 'You're wondering why I asked Crito to bring you here.'
'He says the emperor intends to blame the fire on the Roman Christians.'
Paullus nodded. 'Yes. We don't know for certain, but it's likely.’
'Is he right?' The old man's calmness annoyed me. 'Did you start it?'
'No.'
That was all. If I'd expected a tirade I was disappointed. At the same time the simple denial was vastly more impressive.
'So what will you do if he does accuse you?' I was intentionally blunt.
'Nothing.'
I frowned. This conversation wasn't going at all as I'd expected. 'But you're the cult's high priest, are you not? You've a responsibility to your people?'
'I'm no priest, sir, high or otherwise.' He smiled. I noticed that there were answering smiles from those around, and even some laughter. 'Just a common-or-garden sinner, worse than most if anything. And ours isn't a cult.'
'So what is it, then?' I was becoming really annoyed with his manner now. 'A philosophy?'
'It's the truth.'
I felt as if someone had thrown a cup of cold water into my face. This wasn't arrogance. It was worse than arrogance, it was complete egotism.
'One truth, surely,' I said.
'No. The truth.'
Politeness be damned. 'Your truth is in for a shock, then, if Nero decides he wants rid of you. Perhaps even a fatal shock.'
'The emperor can do as he likes. That doesn't affect the matter one bit.' He laid his hand on my arm. 'Don't be angry, please. I'm not trying to impress you, I'm only stating a fact. Bodily death is irrelevant. If Jesus calls us to be witnesses for him we'll die gladly.'
'Jesus being your god?'
'He's no god. Not in the sense you mean. He died himself, once.'
Sophistry was all very well, but this was too silly for words. 'You worship a dead man?'
'Wasn't the Emperor Augustus a man? And Claudius?'
There was a mischievous edge to his voice, and I couldn't help smiling. 'That's different, my dear,’ I said. ‘They're...political gods.'
'True. And neither of them rose.'
'Rose?'
'Returned to life.'
If he hadn't been so obviously serious I would've laughed in his face. 'And this Jesus did?'
'Of course. I've seen him myself. Several times.'
I must have simply stared at him. Despite the calm, rational, lawyer-like tones the old man was mad, completely mad. I looked up at the faces round us, expecting embarrassment, or even amusement. I didn't find either. They were as serious as Paullus's. Even Crito was nodding.
'So you see, sir,' Paullus went on as if we were discussing the price of fish in the market, 'we're not worried for ourselves. Our concern is for Nero.'
'Nero?'
'Oh, yes. He'd be making a terrible mistake, you see. At the moment he rules with God's permission, but if he turns against God's son then he's finished, body and soul. And I wouldn't like that to happen. The emperor's a good man at heart, only lost.'
The old man's egotism was unbelievable; only his insanity could excuse it. The threat, however, was chillingly real. We'd had trouble with Jewish fanatics before. And if Crito could be a Christian then so could any of the palace slaves. I looked for support to the Praetorians. They'd obviously heard, but they were smiling. Perhaps neither of them spoke Greek, or were pretending they didn't. 'You'd order your followers to kill him? Assassinate the emperor?'
Paullus shook his head.
'You misunderstand me. The Lord Jesus gives life, he doesn't take it. He may ask us to die for him, but never to do injury. Let alone murder.'
'So what do you want me to do?' I said. 'Tell Nero that if he holds you Christians responsible for the fire he'll be risking some kind of Jewish curse?'
'Not one of our making. And we are not Jews, as you see. Not all of us. Not any longer.'
'He'd laugh in my face, darling. And quite rightly so.'
'Is that such a terrible price to pay for telling the truth and saving a soul?'
'Your truth, not mine. And not my soul either.'
'Are you sure about that?' he said gently. 'Perhaps in telling him you might be saving both your souls.'
I got up. Crito, who had edged to the sidelines while we'd been talking, came forward again. The poor man looked miserable. No doubt he thought I'd failed him; as, indeed, I had.
I turned back to Paullus.
'I can't promise anything,' I said, 'and I certainly won't cross Nero for you. But I'll try my best.'
'None of us can do more.' Paullus stood too. With his age and obvious infirmity he ought to have looked frail, but he didn't, no more than a lump of olive root. 'Thank you. Go with the blessing of the Lord Jesus, Petronius.'
The audience, obviously, was over. I bowed ironically and went with Crito instead. His gratitude was sufficient.
43.
The palace, of course, was in ashes a
long with the rest of the Palatine. Lucius was staying in one of the imperial villas on the Janiculum, near Caesar's Gardens. When I arrived he wasn't alone: Tigellinus was a constant shadow these days. They were in one of the solars, huddled over a large table covered with sheets of paper.
'Titus.' Lucius was in one of his expansive moods. Tigellinus scowled at me, as usual. 'Nice to see you, my dear. Come and join us. Tiggy and I are replanning the city.'
The sheets were architect's sketches: I noticed a temple or two and some other public buildings. The Office of Public Works must have been working flat out to have produced that many so quickly.
'Bassus tells me you did terribly well in Isis and Serapis.' Lucius edged his chair towards Tigellinus's to give me room to move mine in. 'He was most impressed.'
'That was one of the districts that was completely gutted, wasn't it?'Tigellinus said sourly. 'Nice work, Petronius.'
'Now, Tiggy, don't be a cat!' Lucius gave him a fond smile. 'Titus did his best, I'm sure.'
'At least I was in Rome and not Antium,' I snapped; then regretted it. It was a monumentally stupid remark, because of course Lucius had been in Antium too.
Tigellinus grinned. 'True,' he said. 'We can't all be heroes. Eh, Nero?'
'So it would seem.' The emperor was frowning. 'However, we're here now, Titus, and you heroes who let the city burn will need us lesser mortals' assistance to put it back together again.'
I said nothing. Tigellinus winked at me.
'Show him the plans,' he said.
Lucius brightened up immediately. He swept the smaller sketches aside and unrolled a large sheet of paper, weighting it at the corners with the bronze lamps from the table. I remembered Bassus's model - but then that would be useless now, except as a curio.
'We're rebuilding on the grid system,' he said. 'Nice broad streets laid out straight, not the old higgledy-piggledy nonsense there was before. All the buildings detached. And it'll be done properly. A fixed proportion of the materials will be fire-proof stone. And I'll have the Senate pass a regulation making it obligatory for householders to keep firefighting equipment to hand.'
'We'll regulate the tenements as well,' Tigellinus added. 'Nothing higher than seventy feet. And the frontages will be protected by colonnades.'
'Very impressive.' I didn't have to pretend enthusiasm, although I winced at Tigellinus's 'we'; the man's newly acquired air of civic duty made me want to throw up. 'It should be a great improvement.'
'Ah, but this is the best part, Titus!' Lucius's hand swept over the centre of the map. 'The new palace!'
Bassus had warned me, of course, but it still came as a shock. The entire area between Palatine and Esquiline had been blocked in with buildings and formal gardens.
'My Golden House.' Lucius glanced smugly at Tigellinus. 'Isn't it marvellous?'
'It's certainly...spacious,’ I said.
'Naturally.' Tigellinus gave me a bland look. 'Do you think the Emperor of Rome deserves anything less?'
'No, of course not. But the cost will be –'
Lucius was frowning again. 'Oh, the cost! What does that matter? It's not just for me, it's for Rome. And I'm sure the provinces will be delighted to contribute, especially the eastern ones. After all, if the old Greek kings could build on the grand scale I don't see why I shouldn't. I've asked Severus and Celer to take charge, although of course I've got my own ideas as well.'
'A good choice,' I said. Severus and Celer had worked on Lucius's last building project, the extension to the palace burned down in the fire. They must be rubbing their hands; the new commission would set them up for life, if Lucius managed to push his plans through the Senate. I could hear the popping of aristocratic blood vessels all the way across the Tiber.
'Now, my dear.' Lucius reached for another stack of sketches. 'Let me show you the plans in more detail.'
The cost aside – and even without the rest of the city to consider it would drain the Treasury dry – Lucius's Golden House was a magnificent concept. The low-lying ground between the Palatine and the Esquiline was to be flooded to form a huge lake, round which the buildings were set in an artificial landscape of fields, vineyards and woodland with wild and domestic animals roaming freely. A mile-long triple colonnade, broken to allow the Sacred Way and the New Way to pass through, linked the old and new palaces. On the Caelian, adjoining the Temple of Claudius, was a complex of colonnades and grottoes with plants and running water, while the main residential block lay on the Oppian spur of the Esquiline. Even in its roughly sketched-out form I could appreciate the impressiveness of the finished work.
'Won't it be beautiful?' Lucius beamed when he'd talked me through its main points. 'I'm commissioning a statue of myself. A big one, a hundred feet high. It'll go there.' He pointed to the area between the lake and the house's huge vestibule. 'Overlooking the Market Square. So people will know I'm looking after them even when I'm out of Rome, and these bastards in the Senate will see I've got my eye on them.'
Tigellinus sniggered. 'We're getting Zenodotus to do it. He's only done gods so far. It'll be a step up for him.'
'Oh, don't be silly, Tiggy!' It was a token protest, and Tigellinus took it as such. He smiled at me. 'But it will be nice. And of course you're invited to the house-warming, Titus. When it's all finished we'll have a real party.'
'Thank you.' I needn't hold my breath; he'd be building for years. 'By the way, my dear, speaking of gods, I had an odd bit of news myself the other day.'
'Really? Do tell.'
'It seems my head slave Crito has finally got religion and joined a cult.' I kept my voice light. 'The Christians. Have you ever heard anything so daft?'
'Daft is right.' Tigellinus laughed. 'His timing's imbecilic.'
'Oh?' I turned to him, keeping my expression bland. 'Why so?'
'Let's just say he'd be safer lopping his dangler off and signing up for Attis.'
I played the innocent. 'I didn't know it was a dangerous religion.'
'Oh, it's dangerous all right! Or it soon will be. If your pal hasn't paid his dues yet you can tell him not to bother, he won't be getting the good of them.'
'What's all this about?' I looked at Lucius. He was scowling. 'The whole thing sounded harmless enough to me the way Crito described it.'
'Then you were misinformed,' Lucius said shortly. 'The Christians aren't harmless, darling. They eat human flesh and drink blood, for a start.'
I thought of Paullus and the house near the Praetorian Camp. 'But that's nonsense!'
'Are you contradicting me?' Lucius spoke quietly, but there was an edge to his voice that I recognised. Also Tigellinus was grinning; always a bad sign. I closed my mouth and wished I hadn't brought the subject up. 'Titus, I know these people. They're not a proper cult, they're atheists and criminals, perverts of the worst sort.'
'Oh how exciting.'
'I'm not joking, my dear. They're the dregs of society. Even the Jews will have nothing to do with them. And the flesh and blood is right enough. Did Crito tell you about their love feasts?' He used the Greek term.
'No,' I said. 'He never mentioned them.'
'There you are, then. Ask him yourself and see what he says.'
'He didn't tell you his friends were arsonists either, I'll bet.' Tigellinus spat. 'Religious fanatics who'd burn every temple in Rome for the fun of it. Who have burned more than half of them already.'
'And tried to blame it on me.' The emperor's voice was still calm, but his eyes had developed the hot, manic glare I'd seen before. 'They burned my city, Titus. Oh, yes, I have proof, it was a conspiracy. They're animals, fucking animals, and they'll die like animals, every one of them. I won't stop until Rome's clean again.'
Oh, sweet Serapis! Nevertheless, I let the subject drop. I'd done my best as promised and there was nothing more I could do. Besides, to some extent my sympathies lay with Lucius. Although I didn't believe the rubbish about the love feasts – typical gutter rumour; Lucius had probably got it from Tigellinus, along with the
whole idea – old Paullus's egotism had annoyed me considerably. Basically he deserved all he got. A bit of persecution would make his Christians appreciate the civilised virtues of tolerance and compromise, and if Lucius had to find a scapegoat for public anger I could think of worse candidates than that sanctimonious crew.
Still, I didn't relish having to tell Crito.
44.
Operations against the Christians began a few days later. Lucius and Tigellinus had obviously been compiling a private dossier of the cult members, because several hundred were rounded up at once and confined to the Mamertine Prison and other holding areas for eventual disposal in the arena. Most were pimps, prostitutes, common thieves and street hawkers, city sweepings of no great loss to society. There was a tacit moratorium on privately-owned domestic slaves – quite rightly so; it would hardly have been fair for their masters to have suffered for the slaves' idiocies – but just in case I sent Crito off to a villa I owned at Alba. Despite, I must say, his own reluctance to go: either the old dear had shaken a tile loose since his conversion or he'd contracted a dose of uncharacteristic heroism. Whichever it was I didn't see why it should lose me a perfectly good head slave.
I found the savagery of the cult's suppression distasteful, even though I appreciated the depth of feeling that lay behind it: all of Rome after the fire was frustrated and angry, and the frustration and anger needed an outlet. How much of Lucius's own anger was genuine I didn't know. Probably most of it; I'd seen before how when he thought himself threatened he would lash out with unaccustomed cruelty that often had no rational basis. In any case, the mob wanted revenge, and revenge was what he gave them.
Most of the executions took place in the newly-built racetrack in the Vatican valley beyond the river. I only went once: sword-fights I enjoy, if the gladiators are professionals, but to my mind there's no real pleasure in seeing unarmed men torn apart by wild beasts. Besides, I found the whole thing curiously unsettling.
There is a special atmosphere about these occasions which you don't get with gladiators, a cheerful hardness on the part of the spectators, totally lacking in sympathy. Natural, of course: the victims are criminals, after all, there to entertain by dying, not by killing. Their terror is part of the fun, and although an agile man will get a round of applause for avoiding the cats he's expected to play the game in the end and die screaming.
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