He shook his head.
“Did we fill the order?”
“No,” he said. “We don’t stock it.”
“That’s because it is hardly the drug of choice, unless you have fangs. If you just drink it, it is harmless. So someone would have to dissolve it, then smear it into an open wound. Hardly very subtle.”
“Perhaps he wanted to commit suicide.”
“There are easier and cheaper ways. Powdered venom is horribly expensive—it has to be imported from India. The snake charmers there milk the cobras.” I shuddered. “Not for the faint of heart.” I rattled the order book. “Even if we had it, he probably couldn’t have afforded it.” I had another thought. “Have you received any inquiries other than written ones?”
“Someone appeared a week or so ago, asking vague questions. I took him for a potential business rival, so I told him nothing and sent him on his way.”
“I see. Next time let me know.” I must be vigilant. I sensed a halo of danger around the emperor.
XXXI
ACTE
When the official summons came from the palace, for an instant I believed he had sent it. The soldier who delivered it in its shining cylinder served the personal dispatches of the imperial household, not the political ones.
Once inside the privacy of my workroom, opening it with unsteady hands, I saw the seal and thought, Yes! He has called for me. But when I broke it and unrolled the letter, it was not from him. It was from her.
How did she even know who I was or where I was? But there was probably nothing mysterious about it. She must have intercepted the letter I had sent Nero warning him about Senecio. Perhaps he had never even had the chance to see it. But I did not regret sending it, trying to warn him. And unappealing as the prospect of meeting Poppaea was, it would give me the chance to deliver the message about Senecio again. I would tell her, and whatever her faults, Nero’s well-being would be her paramount concern.
Now I looked more closely at the details. The Augusta requested my presence in three days at the lake location of the Golden House, at the eighth hour.
That was all. No explanation of what or why. But I knew it wasn’t to order amphoras or tiles.
* * *
• • •
I stood in the outer atrium of the famous—or infamous—Golden House. Even in Velitrae, there was constant talk about it. Amazement at its glittering magical beauty. But there were other less laudatory murmurs. It’s an extravagance and an insult to the people who were made homeless by the fire. Homeless first by the fire, now by the Golden House that takes up the whole center of the city. And it shows what he considers important—experiments in architecture. A disgrace!
It seemed many had quickly forgotten all his efforts to help after the Fire. They hadn’t seen it; I had. But those efforts weren’t advertised like the Golden House. They were seen once, fleetingly, while the bulk of the palace remained, tauntingly, every day.
I took advantage of the visit to see the inside for myself. I looked around, my eyes taking in the many colored marbles on the walls and the floor, the open view straight through the columns and out into the sunlight. It was dazzling, if overwhelming. Its scale was so large it made me feel small. Perhaps that was the intention of it.
“You are to come with me,” a voice behind me announced. I turned and stood up. Poppaea herself! But no . . . the voice was a man’s.
He smiled. The face was Poppaea’s? Of course not. But it disoriented me. Perhaps that, like the huge atrium, was the purpose of having such an attendant—to unsettle visitors.
I followed him through what seemed miles of corridors and connected rooms, until we reached large gilded doors, the apartments of the Augusta. He flung them open, only to reveal another long corridor. He led me down that one until we finally reached a room that glinted with reflected light from the choppy waves on the artificial lake outside, stirred by a stiff breeze. Seated at the far end, like an eastern idol, was a woman who looked like the attendant. But her color was pale and her arm appeared thin when she waved me forward. So this is the legendary Poppaea, the most beautiful woman in Rome, the second Helen. I was prepared to disagree. But as I came closer and her features came into focus, I had to admit it—she was indeed glorious, even in a diminished state, as she was also clearly unwell.
“Thank you, Sporus,” she said to the attendant. Then she turned to me. “Do I address Claudia Acte?” she asked. Her voice was rich, beguiling, melodic.
“Yes, Augusta.” I bowed.
“Come closer,” she said. “I want to look at you.”
I took a few steps nearer, coming to within ten feet of her. Her chair, set on a dais, enabled her to look down at me. For long moments she said nothing. I had a desire to turn and leave.
“What does the Augusta require of me?” I finally asked.
“It is not for you to ask me questions,” she said. She made me wait longer. Then slowly, carefully, she descended from the regal chair. Suddenly her manner changed, like switching masks. “I wanted to thank you for your warning about Senecio,” she said. “The emperor is grateful to you. As am I.”
“It was my duty,” I said before thinking. That was true, but only a small part of it. I had been so alarmed at the thought of a plot against him that I had not slept that night. And I still shivered thinking of Senecio’s sly grin.
She turned and walked toward a group of couches in another part of the enormous room, which was big enough to host a dinner, a lecture, and acrobatic acts simultaneously. She sank down on an especially cushioned couch and beckoned me to take the one nearest her. Her small feet barely touched the ground, and she lay back on the couch, arranging her gown to cover them.
Without openly staring, I tried to steal looks at her clothes, her jewelry, her face. As she found a comfortable position, I suddenly saw that she was pregnant. The sight sent a jolt through me. I did not want to see it. Nor did I want to see her. But she was the empress and could command me.
She leaned toward me as if we were friends. “Yes, we are grateful. One cannot be too careful. We would appreciate it if you would continue to keep us apprised of any such information.”
We are grateful . . . we would appreciate . . . So did she mean I must now report to him through her? No more private correspondence to the emperor?
“I will, though I hope there is no further need to. And if there is, the official courier is not the best way to send it. You should provide me with a trusted channel to send it through.”
“I will. And next time I will not send the soldier.”
Next time. Did there have to be a next time?
“But I had only the information of your work address to summon you. From now on . . .” She clapped for a slave and ordered sweet wine, figs, and cheese without asking me what, if anything, I wanted. She swung around on the couch, and her eyes bored into me. “Are you wondering where the emperor is?”
I had been but would hardly say so. “I came to see you,” I said. “Not the emperor.”
“He’s at Ostia for the day,” she said. “I thought it would be better if we had our privacy.”
But so far she had said absolutely nothing that he could not hear.
“As you wish, Augusta.”
“It is as I wish,” she said. “And I wished to see you for myself. Now that I have, I can forget all about you. As a rival for the emperor’s affection, I mean. I see that you are harmless.”
I wanted to say, It is only the emperor who can truly know how harmless I am. Only Lucius. You never knew him as Lucius, but I did. I do. My Lucius.
I was suddenly seized with the desire to laugh and sweep my hand around the opulent room and say, This could have all been mine. Me in the chair on the dais. My head on gold coins. Me draped in jewelry. Me as Augusta. But I walked away. Oh, what would her face have looked like then?
“Indeed I am, Augu
sta. Indeed I am.” I smiled.
The only thing I envied her, with a sharp sorrow, was that she carried his child. The rest she could have.
XXXII
NERO
The visit to Locusta had allayed my fears but only somewhat. That she was unable to pronounce definitively that yes, poison was at work was reassuring. But she did not rule it out, either.
Were we to imitate Seneca and eat only bread made in our presence and drink only water from running streams? Perhaps we should try it and see if Poppaea improved.
The journey back to Rome, in the swirling fog, had taken a very long time, but it had been bracing to leave the city for a bit. I could think better away from it. As the carriage bumped and rumbled, I began plans for next spring, when the baby would be born and the rebuilding of Rome finished, with ceremonies to commemorate that. There would be much to celebrate—that less than a year after the catastrophe, Rome had recovered, with improvements and new amenities. And beyond that, there were innovative architectural experiments to add another dimension to the city, not the least of which was the Golden House.
And in the autumn, we would have the second Neronian Games. I would build, perhaps, a new stadium where they could be held. And this time I would race chariots myself. By the time we rolled into the palace gates long past midnight, I had it all planned.
The next day, at my orders, we went on what I laughingly called the Seneca Diet.
“We will eat only fruit we have peeled ourselves, bread that can be made from grain in special guarded fields, ground in front of us, and baked in a little oven we’ll install in our quarters, drink only water from a running stream,” I told Poppaea.
She rolled her eyes. “Shall we just move into the kitchen, then?”
“This is for you. You do want to recover, don’t you? Or prove that it isn’t poison?”
“Yes,” she said. “More than anything.”
“Then we will have to follow this plan for a while.” I sighed and patted my stomach. “This will ensure I finally lose weight,” I said. “I have not made much headway so far.”
I needed to shed a lot more before I was svelte again. The honeyed cakes, the wine, the roasted piglets . . . all had done their worst. In an effort to shame myself into action I had allowed unflattering profiles of myself to be portrayed on coins, exaggerating my double chin. It had not worked; all it did was broadcast to people who had never seen me that the emperor was portly.
I had neglected my exercise, too. Too busy in rebuilding Rome to attend to that. Well, the upcoming Neronian Games would provide the incentive I needed.
We followed this dreary diet for five weeks. I found that after a spell I lost my appetite and had trouble eating the dry bread. Perhaps I could make a good ascetic after all. There was less willpower involved than I had assumed. I did get thinner; I could see it in my face and in how my belts tied. But I was the only one who benefited from the regimen. Poppaea did not feel better. So we abandoned it as Saturnalia approached, although I vowed to curb my eating from now on, tempting cakes or not. I did not want to lose ground again.
“Yes, you are almost back to the lithe man I married,” Poppaea said. “It is nice to see him again.”
But I could not say likewise; I could not say, You are the blooming woman I married. I held her close to me. She was not being poisoned. It was something else.
We plunged into the darkest time of year. The sun did not rise until we had long been up, and even then its light was so wan we kept the oil lamps lit. It set in a blaze of yellow in the south so early there were hours left until bedtime. Its rays lit the pavilion longer as it was on the hilltop, but the high ceilings there made it difficult to heat so we seldom went there. Fabullus had finished working there for the season, as his paints did not behave well below a certain temperature.
“It would make a fine setting for a Saturnalia party,” I said wistfully. But not this year.
“Or for your birthday,” said Poppaea.
“But not this year,” I said out loud.
“Perhaps we could have a small gathering here,” she said. “Should not the emperor’s birthday be celebrated?”
“We celebrated the accession in October, and the legions and the magistrates will pledge loyalty at the New Year. We need not add another celebration.” Poppaea was not up to it in any case.
* * *
• • •
Work did not cease, even in this time of year. I sent out a number of dispatches concerning various shipping projects—the harbor at Ostia, the canal between Naples and Ostia, the docks at Antium. The smiling courier took the cylinders and said, “Nothing for Velitrae today, Caesar?”
I looked at him. “No. Why should there be?”
He shrugged. “I had to deliver a message there not long ago. I wasn’t sure of the exact address of the party I was looking for. But I know it now should there be more messages.”
I knew instantly the address he was looking for and who had sent the message. I rose in anger—not at him. He I sent on his way with a cheerful wave. Then I marched into Poppaea’s apartments.
She was lying down, surrounded by her attendants, who were pampering her with sweetened wine and tidbits; a lyre played softly in one corner. I ordered everyone out. Sporus stood by respectfully.
“You, too,” I told him, and he melted away with the others. When he was gone and we were alone, I looked down at Poppaea. “Why did you send a message to Acte?” I demanded.
She raised herself up on her elbows in complete equanimity. “I wanted to thank her for her warning.”
“Without me there? Was it not my place to do that? Did you wait until I was away to issue this . . . invitation?”
“You were busy at Ostia.” She turned her head and fingered the fringes of the blanket covering her, finding them very interesting.
“You planned it that way. Don’t lie to me. What did you really want with her?” I was embarrassed, furious that she had done this. “You are talking to me, remember? Me, who understands how you think.”
Now she took herself off the bed, slowly. She stood before me, looking plaintive. “I meant nothing devious,” she said, in her most beguiling voice.
“I said don’t lie!” I barked. “Don’t you dare insult me that way!”
She stepped back as if the force of my words had hit her like a blow. She stood, thinking. I knew exactly what she was thinking. Shall I confess or prevaricate? Finally she said, “I sent for her because I wanted to see her.”
“Obviously,” I said. “This tells me nothing. Why did you want to see her? And don’t lie about thanking her. What a pitiful cover story. Surely you are more creative than that. But don’t try to outdo yourself and come up with something else. Just tell the truth. It is so much easier.”
“How would you know?” she spat. “You who betrayed your friend Otho and took me from him.”
I laughed. “With considerable help from his loving wife. Enough of this. It is past, and I don’t make a habit of lying. And I’m not the one in question here.”
But it was my lie about Mother’s death, and my tryst with Poppaea, that had driven Acte from me. She had said, I do not want a liar for a husband, even if he is the emperor. I had had to lie then. But I hated thinking of myself as a liar. I ascribed that to what I called the third Nero, the one who did bad but necessary things. I had not had to summon him in some time, like Locusta, and I hoped never to again.
“Very well, then,” she said. “I was curious to see her. Because I love you, I am jealous of anyone you have ever loved or who ever loved you. If you can’t understand that, you have never loved.”
But I thought it was more spite than love that made Poppaea jealous of Acte, more competition than curiosity.
There was no point in arguing. “It is true, I have seen both your husbands. There is peace of mind in that. For those of us who have a j
ealous nature.” Her first, Rufrius Crispinus, was much older and had been the Praetorian prefect under Claudius. Her second, Otho, an amusing and wealthy dandy, was now governor of Portugal. Neither one would excite much jealousy, at least in looks. “So, having seen her, what do you think?”
She sighed. “That I can see why you were taken with her.” She tilted her head. “What a pity she was so far beneath you. A slave.”
“A captive from a noble family in Lycia. A former slave. Now a businesswoman of great success.”
“Thanks to your generosity.”
“I just helped her get started. She is on her own now,” I said.
“As she should be,” retorted Poppaea.
I let it go and returned to my own quarters. What was I most angry about? That Poppaea had gone behind my back to see Acte? Or that I was not there to see her myself?
* * *
• • •
Petronius was to host a Saturnalia party in his new house in Rome, hastily constructed on the Aventine, near his old damaged one. “All the world is flocking to the New Rome,” he said, “and so one needs a place, be it ever so small.” Knowing him, I knew it was not likely to be small.
I pondered who to disguise myself as. Someone from mythology? From history? A living person? In my new thinner state, I thought of a wandering philosopher, one of those who lived on shriveled apples and scummy water. But I would have to walk around spouting pompous platitudes and that would be tedious.
Thinking of philosophers brought me back to Seneca. I decided to look through Octavia again, to read it more carefully, more thoroughly. The first time I had been aghast and read it hurriedly. Now time had passed and I could analyze it.
The attacks on me seemed even more vicious than they had the first time I read it. But now something else struck me. Mother’s ghost spoke directly, cursing me and Poppaea.
The avenging Fury has a death prepared
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