Nest of vipers eor-2

by Luke Devenish

  The water dripped from her hand and Nilla leaned forward to try to dislodge the thing, not knowing why it compelled her so fully. The lead did not come loose easily; she had to prise it free with her nails. When she finally held it in her hand, it had surprising weight. She saw that it was really a flattened tablet that had been folded once and then again. She used her nails to open it, feeling certain, somehow, that she should see what was inside.

  The tablet held a message, scratched into the surface with a pin. But the writing was reversed. Not knowing how or why she sensed what to do so exactly, Nilla held up the tablet before the polished silver surface of a mirror. The message became clear at once. The course is cooked by a slave-boy's stroke; the fruit is lost with babes.

  The words seemed meaningless. She returned to the bed she shared with Burrus and did not use the water bowl again.

  Nilla succumbed to her dreams with her hands pressed gently to her belly.

  The Ides of January

  AD 29

  Ten months later: crushed by the weight of Roman taxes, the Frisian tribe of Lower Germany hang the officials sent to collect them

  Tiberius recognised his own seal upon the Senatorial document that had come with the afternoon correspondence. His mark was unmistakable — it could only have come from his hand — yet he recalled nothing of the edict it authorised. His memory told him he had never seen this document before, and yet here it was, a distressing directive, stamped with the print of the ring that did not leave his finger. He must have authorised it, but why? What proof had he been given that made it necessary?

  He looked around for Sejanus to enlighten him, but the Prefect was nowhere in sight. Only Tribune Macro was in attendance.

  'You there,' called Tiberius from his couch on the terrace.

  Macro came forward, raising his hand in salute.

  'My grandson Nero,' said Tiberius. 'I am fond of him.'

  'Yes, Caesar.'

  'He is a fine boy. A very promising future. I may make him my heir.'

  'Yes, Caesar,' said Macro, his face giving nothing away.

  Tiberius pointed at the edict. 'He's been exiled to Pontia. That barren island where his uncle Postumus died.'

  Macro's expression stayed the same.

  'Why should I wish to be rid of my grandson? It's his mother who is the menace, not he. He is blameless.'

  Tiberius tried to keep his eyes focused hard on the Tribune's face, but his vision blurred. He badly needed the Eastern flower but he didn't want the Tribune to witness him drinking it. 'What was his crime?' he went on, struggling to stay alert. 'What did the boy do?'

  Macro watched the Emperor's eyelids droop. It was time to give the answer he had prepared for this moment. 'It is news to me that such a popular and promising young man as Nero should have fallen like this, Caesar,' he said, betraying nothing of the truth — which was that he had been the arresting officer. 'It shocks me. I cannot imagine what must have occurred for exile to be ordered.'

  'But I have ordered it,' said Tiberius in bewilderment. 'Here is my seal.'

  'I know nothing of it,' Macro repeated. His face, he hoped, showed enough affront on the Emperor's behalf that Tiberius would see him as an ally. He gave just the right length to a pause. 'But Prefect Sejanus will recall the details, I am sure, Caesar.'

  'Yes.' Tiberius studied the Imperial ring on his hand. 'Find your superior for me, Tribune. Tell him I am confused by this matter and wish for his help in clarifying it.'

  Macro's face creased.

  'Well?'

  'Prefect Sejanus is no longer on Capri. He has returned to Rome.'

  Tiberius stared at Macro in confusion. 'Not here?' Then he remembered himself; it would not do for the Tribune to see that he had not known of this. 'Of course, of course. That will be all.'

  Macro bowed and departed, pleased at how the scene had played out.

  Alone, Tiberius gulped from his goblet, his tired eyes finding focus again. A flock of migrating birds took his attention, high up in the sky. He squinted to look at them. They were geese.

  'No!' he hissed at them. 'No!' He pulled his eyes from the sky and turned his back on the birds to drink from his draught, blocking them out.

  But the insistent honks drew him to look up again. The birds were tiny against the horizon.

  'Go away!' Tiberius cried out. 'Don't come back! What else are your warnings to me but falsehoods? Lies!'

  I had grown so used to spending my hours in Livia's suite with my face pressed hard against the floor that I no longer registered the discomfort of it. The prone position, intended to humiliate me, had become my natural stance. I took to it willingly, throwing myself to the tiles whenever my domina entered and letting out cries to suggest I was suffering, even though I was not. She was pleased by these displays, no longer needing to waste her words in commanding me to adopt poses of supplication.

  I became creative in my methods of debasing myself before her. Unhappily, I was forced to reject excrement as a pillow, unless I was out in the open air where the stink would not offend. Instead, I choose fragments of glass, sharp rocks or little tacks to lay my body upon, pressing my bare limbs and cheeks against the torment they provided. I always ensured my domina observed my mattress of choice before I prostrated myself, so that she might increase my debasement by walking upon me or laying weights upon my back.

  My enslavement to Livia was more complete than it had ever been through our long lives together. I had foregone every aspect of the humanity I had acquired in her eyes. I was no longer a living thing. My every accomplishment and privilege had been removed from me. Dogs enjoyed greater status now. I was of lesser consequence than a toad or a gnat.

  As I spent the hours unmoving upon the floor of my domina 's sleeping room with my myriad wounds beginning to scab, I congratulated myself on the unforeseen consequences of all I had done. I had taken actions that were repellent in a slave, after all. I had thought for myself, instead of bowing to others' thoughts. I had forgotten my place and now was receiving my just reward. I had not foreseen it, which in itself was evidence that correction was required. And now that the consequences were upon me, they were truly exquisite. I, who had never wanted anything for myself other than enslavement, had attained the true zenith of my state.

  Part of my torment, as Livia intended, was that I should witness her resumption of her affair with Sejanus. With my violations of her body now a distant memory, my domina wanted the pleasures that her lover enjoyed to be the sharpest thorn in my side. Forbidden to look and allowed only to hear, I wept like a child when Sejanus's cries of ecstasy reached their loudest, a cruel reminder of all I had lost. But this was what my domina demanded and so I imprinted his moans in my mind, coming to know their pattern. The gentle sighs, then the boyish panting; the building groans and the rush of joy. It was like the carefully erected structure of a poem or a hymn: reverent and tender to begin with, becoming urgent for the middle parts before the triumph of the end. I would ease in and out of consciousness, my domina 's lovemaking with Sejanus like a too familiar song, played always by the same musicians with only the slightest variations each time.

  But one day, with this torture in my ears and my mind drifting like the tide, I heard a departure from the song. I had not been upright when Sejanus had entered the room and so had not seen him, only heard. I was prone still from the night before, and my domina had quashed the stink of my newest sores by dripping scented oil where I lay. Yet she did not order me gone.

  When I had heard Sejanus arrive, I had allowed myself to snooze. But the Prefect's cries, when they came, woke me not because of their passion or volume, but their tone. There was a new delight behind them — a childlike thrill. Sejanus was like a lover experiencing euphoria for the first time. He shouted with all the glee of discovery, as if my domina was a novelty to him, a precious treasure he had long desired. Then I saw why.

  Wanting the wounds on my face to be equal on each cheek, I made the one movement I allowed myself when prone
. I lifted the left side of my face and turned my head so my right cheek could press against the tacks. In doing so my eyes opened involuntarily, barely a crack, and I glimpsed Sejanus's clothes upon the floor. His helmet seemed odd: the plume had been altered in some way. It was not the decoration I recognised as a Prefect's. Had the rank signifiers been changed, I wondered, in the face of centuries of tradition? Or, even more extraordinarily, had Sejanus been demoted? His was not the helmet of a Prefect on the floor but of a Tribune.

  Then I guessed the answer. It was not Sejanus seeking his pleasures upon my domina at all, but his subordinate, Macro, for whom the joy was new. Livia had a fresh instrument in her schemes.

  Despite being lower than a worm, I could never cease admiring her for keeping me so constantly surprised.

  Little Boots and Aemilius stared in fascination at the cup. 'Pick it up,' said Little Boots.

  'You pick it up,' said Aemilius.

  Little Boots hated to appear a coward in the face of a dare. He let his fingers stroke the jewels on the side of the vessel for a moment before clutching the thing by the stem and raising it.

  His little sister Julilla gasped. 'You'll be caught.'

  This spurred him further. He posed with the thing, mimicking Tiberius's gestures. 'He's asleep — how will he know?'

  'No one but Grandfather touches that cup.'

  'So why did he leave it here where we could find it?'

  'Perhaps he's not well today?' Drusilla suggested, electrified, watching on with her younger sister.

  'When is he well any day?' quipped Little Boots.

  This prompted the others to laugh before they clapped hands to their mouths, lest they be heard.

  'Smell it,' said Little Boots, thrusting the cup towards Aemilius's nose.

  'No!' Aemilius recoiled.

  'Weakling,' said Little Boots. He held his own nose to the cup. The dregs of a thick brown liquid sat in the bottom. Whatever it was, it did not smell unpleasant. It smelled sweet, if anything, like wine brewed from honey.

  'What is it?' asked Julilla, wide-eyed. 'Is it poison?'

  'Why would Tiberius drink poison?' said Drusilla.

  'To fortify himself against his enemies?'

  'That's hell of a lot of fortifying he does then,' said Aemilius, smirking at Little Boots. 'He does it all day and all night.'

  'Perhaps it's an antidote?'

  Julilla's theory was dismissed by the older children, who already had their own suspicions about what the strange liquid might be.

  'Drink it,' said Little Boots to Aemilius.

  'No fear,' said Aemilius. 'I'm not touching anything the old man's been drooling in.'

  'But it's magic,' said Little Boots. 'You know it is. Don't you want to see the trick?'

  'What trick? Turn into something like him? I see that trick every day when he does it, thanks.'

  'Weakling,' said Little Boots again, making as if to throw the contents at him.

  'Don't you dare!' yelled Aemilius, trying to cover himself.

  Drusilla's eyes followed her brother's best friend, secretly liking the way his long, bare limbs moved with such athletic grace in the sun. She knew what the drink did; she had watched her grandfather enough times to guess it. It removed inhibitions. It made a person bolder — and happier. She could see nothing wrong with attaining such things when forced, as she was, to live in constant unhappiness on this island. To be made free of conscience and self-loathing would be the greatest of gifts, she thought. It was no wonder the Emperor so jealously guarded it.

  'I'll drink it,' she said.

  The boys turned to her in surprise before casting looks at each other.

  'Really?' said Little Boots.

  Drusilla clicked her fingers for her brother to pass it to her before her courage failed. 'Why not? It's magic, isn't it?'

  'Go on then,' said Little Boots, thrusting the thing at her. He doubted she had the nerve.

  'What'll you give me if I do?' said Drusilla, gazing into the cup. She raised her eyes and met Aemilius's look.

  'Aemilius will give you a kiss,' laughed Little Boots, thinking this would appall her.

  It didn't. Aemilius flushed red.

  'Don't, Drusilla,' said little Julilla, horrified. 'The Emperor spat in it!'

  Drusilla let the liquid touch her lips. It was as sweet as it smelled — like nectar. 'Mmm,' she purred, making a show of her daring for Aemilius's benefit. 'It really is quite nice…'

  Burrus stood back as the midwives presented the tiny child to Ahenobarbus, placing it at his feet.

  'A girl, domine,' said the older midwife. 'An ornament to your house. And the mother is resting well.'

  The companion midwife cast a glance at the woman standing next to this silent master, staring at the newborn with intensity. It was unorthodox for a husband to have a female friend in attendance with him during his firstborn's birth — let alone one so immodestly dressed. But it was no more unorthodox, perhaps, than a domina holding the hand of a male slave throughout her labour.

  'She has come into this world with her mother's beautiful fair hair,' said the older midwife, hoping to elicit a response from Ahenobarbus. 'But who knows? Perhaps she'll grow her papa's fiery locks before long?'

  Something in these words snapped Ahenobarbus from his stare. He met eyes with Burrus, who looked down to the ground. The slave was not anxious at what Ahenobarbus's response to the baby might be. He already knew that Nilla's husband would pick up the child and acknowledge it. There was an agreement in place between all four of them — he and Nilla, Ahenobarbus and Albucilla — an agreement had been struck when Nilla's monthly flow ceased and she had known she was carrying a child. Albucilla's hand brushed her lover's arm and he cocked his ear to let her whisper in it. Practised in tactfulness, the midwives gave no visible reaction to this provocative display, waiting in silence. Ahenobarbus stooped and picked up the child.

  'Ah. There now,' said the older midwife, beaming.

  Ahenobarbus and Albucilla raked the child with their eyes.

  'The hair,' said Albucilla. 'You say it will turn red?'

  'I'm sure it will, yes,' said the midwife, good-naturedly. But she was not sure. Sometimes babies didn't gain the colour of red-haired fathers — a misfortune that had been known to cause wills to be redrawn even when the mother was blameless. But in this case, the midwife already suspected, there was blame on all sides.

  Ahenobarbus met eyes with Burrus again, expressionless. Then his lips split to reveal an unsettling grin.

  Albucilla was not grinning. 'Fetch its mother,' she said to Burrus.

  Burrus frowned. 'She is asleep. She lost blood.'

  'Fetch her,' she repeated. 'Bring her down to your master now. He wishes to congratulate her.'

  Burrus knew that something was awry. The agreement was threatened. 'All right.' He left the room.

  The midwives were apprehensive without knowing why.

  Burrus took the stairs two at a time, but slowed when he reached the upper gallery, not wanting to wake Nilla in alarm. He reached the door to her room they shared, the room that had once been the witch Aemilia's. The aged maid was seated crosslegged on the pallet.

  'I must wake her,' Burrus whispered.

  The old woman shrugged. 'What interest is that to me?'

  Burrus went to go inside but the woman clutched at his ankle. 'She is exhausted from the birth. Leave her be, for the gods' sake. Let her sleep.'

  'The red-haired one demands it.'

  The old woman stiffened. 'Has he rejected the child?'

  'He picked her up. He has acknowledged her.'

  She relaxed. 'Then no one will know of the shameful secrets we harbour here.'

  'You and your "shame", old woman. You walk the halls muttering that we're the house of the walking damned, but you see the love Nilla and I share and you encourage it. Just as you do with red-hair and his whore.'

  The old servant wouldn't acknowledge this as true, even if it was. 'Wake her gently, you oaf. Don't
worry her.'

  'What else do you think I'll do?'

  Burrus crept to sleeping Nilla in the bed. 'My love,' he whispered, softly kissing her cheek. 'Wake up, my love.'

  Nilla stirred from the depths of her exhaustion. 'So tired, Burrus …'

  'The red-haired one wants you to come to him. The whore says he wants to congratulate you for the birth.'

  'My little girl?'

  'He has picked her up. The midwives are with her. All is well and happy, as we planned.'

  'That is good…'

  Burrus lifted her from the bed, carrying her easily to the door. The old servant placed a sheepskin on Nilla. 'Careful,' she whispered. 'Watch your step.'

  Burrus didn't need to be told. He took the stairs slowly, the mother of his child a sleeping bundle in his arms. Reaching the ground floor, he moved swiftly through the atrium and into the study, where Nilla's husband was waiting. The oil lamps had been extinguished. The room was now in semi-darkness. Albucilla rose from a chair, silhouetted against the moonlit garden beyond.

  'I have brought Nilla to you,' Burrus whispered. 'Say your congratulations.'

  The midwives were gone. Albucilla was the only other woman left in the room. 'Congratulations,' she said.

  'They're your lover's most heartfelt words, are they?' said Burrus. Turning to the shadows, he called, 'Show your wife a smile at least, domine, so that she can see that our agreement still stands.'

  'Our agreement does not stand,' said Albucilla.

  Alarmed, Burrus realised she had a sword in her hand. 'What do you mean? What is that for? You plan to attack us?'

  'I plan only to defend myself. Should the need arise.'

  Burrus looked around the dark room and realised with dismay that Ahenobarbus was not even there. 'I have woken his wife and brought her downstairs and now he's playing jokes on us?'

  'He has left,' said Albucilla simply, her fingers tightening around the sword.

  A dread seized Burrus, with Nilla still sleeping in his arms. 'The baby — where is our baby?'