Nero

by David Wishart

'That's what I said. He had character.' Arruntius grinned; a fragment of apple peel clung to his left incisor. 'A bit of red blood in his veins. The man was a good old-fashioned damn-your-eyes Roman. Nero's been surrounded by women all his life and it's made him soft. Not good to be too much tied to the bloody apron strings. What he wants is toughening. A few good bouts in double-weighted armour with an ex-gladiator who won't take any nonsense, that's what he needs, and if he doesn't get them pretty quick he'll suffer for it later. We all will. You mark my words.'

  A remarkably profound observation, you must agree in retrospect; but then Arruntius wasn't the bluff ingénu he appeared, and he'd mixed enough with the imperial family to know what was what. He was quite right, of course. We did suffer for it, although given Lucius's background it constantly amazes me that he grew up as sane as he did. Which isn't saying much, but you know what I mean.

  Just then Philip reappeared with the wine, and Arruntius held out his cup.

  'Some Setinian, Petronius?' he said when the slave had filled it. 'Come on, boy, your cup's empty! The evening's young, you're beautiful and we may as well make the most of both.'

  I credit myself with a fair degree of insouciance, but – as I'm sure you can readily understand – I was finding this cosy domesticity far too wearing on the nerves for comfort. Even if Arruntius's latter inducement wasn't wholly serious. I stayed only as long as politeness demanded. Then Imade my excuses and left.

  2.

  Two days later, Arruntius being in Baiae negotiating for a yacht, I took Silia to the race-meeting given by Claudius in his new son's honour. We arrived just in time for the start – terribly late, in other words; but Silia being a senator's wife we were entitled to use the special rows. We settled down with our nuts and dried fruit next to a distinctly camel-like senator and his family, just as the trumpets blared and the imperial party stepped into the box. Claudius, as he always did, looked like he'd been bundled into his mantle and rolled all the way from the palace. Agrippina, on the other hand, was splendid; queenly would perhaps be a better adjective.

  'Just look at that gold embroidery, Titus!' Silia murmured in awestruck tones. 'Who does she think she is?'

  The senatorial camel, overhearing, looked profoundly shocked. Silia ignored him.

  'The Empress of Rome, darling,' I said drily. 'Or hadn't you heard?'

  'Yes, I know, dear, but really! It is a bit much. She'll be wanting her own official carriage next.'

  I saw what she meant, and I was rather taken aback myself. I am no republican – the god Augustus forbid, as my pious old nanny used to say –but I'm not a royalist either, should such a fabulous animal exist any more in Rome, and all Agrippina lacked of regalia was the crown. Beside her poor old Claudius, even if he was wearing his President of Games mantle, looked downright dowdy.

  The cheering started as he stepped forward to the front of the box, his arm tight round the shoulders of a scared-looking youngster. Lucius, of course; the newly adopted son who, technically anyway, was sharing the burden and glory of this morning's entertainment.

  'Where's Britannicus?' I whispered in Silia's perfumed ear. Claudius's natural son was conspicuous by his absence.

  'Perhaps he's ill. The child is asthmatic, after all.' Silia giggled. 'Or is it epileptic? I can never quite remember the difference. The thing where you have fits and roll around the floor foaming at the mouth.'

  'That's poetic inspiration, darling.'

  'Don't be silly, Titus.'

  I glanced up again at the vacant space. 'Perhaps he wasn't invited.'

  Silia frowned; she saw the implications of the remark. 'Oh, no! Oh, the poor lamb!'

  'The poor lamb has a stepmother now. And you do know what they say about stepmothers.'

  She shivered and looked back towards the box.

  'Agrippina's certainly terribly pleased with herself. Like a cat that's just got its claws into someone's pet sparrow. And isn't Lucius simply scrumptious? All sort of gauche and innocent and virginal.'

  He was certainly a good-looking lad, although I'd have drawn the line at scrumptious: he still had his spots, for one thing. Perhaps Arruntius's 'pretty' described him, although it was an insipid prettiness that personally I found unattractive. He had the red Ahenobarban hair, bright and bristly as copper wire, a prominent brow and deep-set eyes; but on the demerit side his chin was weak, his ears stuck out like the handles of a wine jar, and his whole attitude suggested a continual apology for existing. Not, as Arruntius had said, a patch on his father, who'd been a fine figure of a man before the drink got him. Still, looks aren't everything, and Lucius was after all the new crown prince. The mob cheered while the Idiot beamed and slavered over him, and his mother looked on fondly in the background.

  Claudius handed the boy a white cloth. The cheering swelled to an ear-hurting roar.

  'Oh, how nice!' Silia said. 'The emperor's letting him drop the napkin!'

  Lucius raised the white square high above his head and dropped it on to the sand below. The starting gates flew open and the chariots sprang out.

  They were running two to a team, with both Reds as favourites – hardly surprising, since Red had swept the board that season, winning three races out of five with the other three colours sharing the remainder. Not that any individual race was a foregone conclusion by any means. In chariot-racing things can change in an instant. A bit of bad luck, an error of judgment, and the whole contest is thrown open; which is what makes it exciting. Not to mention the added spice of a little possible bloodshed.

  This time the Reds led from the start. They were two lengths ahead of the field when the first driver cracked a wheel against the turning post. His partner reined in and swerved, missing the crippled chariot but allowing the leading Green to slip past him. From then on it was a two car race: the second Green was out as well with a broken spoke while Blue and White could have been using plough oxen for all the speed their drivers could manage. By the sixth lap Red and Green were neck and neck with Blue and White a dozen yards behind, and when they came to the final turn the whole racetrack was on its feet yelling itself hoarse. I was myself, and so was Silia.

  Then I became aware that someone, somewhere, was shrieking: a strange, sharp, almost female sound unlike and apart from the deep animal roar of the crowd. I glanced across at the imperial box. Lucius was on his feet and pounding the ivory rail in front of him with his fist. His pasty, scared face was transformed and glowing with an excitement that in an older boy I would have described as sexual.

  Suddenly, Silia squealed and gripped my arm, and I looked back at the race. The Red charioteer – a nose in front of the Green and on the outside– had pulled in hard on his rein and was sliding round the post in a scattering of sand, leaving the Green no more than a narrow gap to make his own turn. Red wheel-hub caught Green wheel and the Green chariot swerved with a sickening crunch into the central barrier. Its driver, jerked from the wreckage by the leather reins tied round his waist, smashed head-first against the suddenly bloody marble.

  From high up and to my right came a scream – a quick scream like a woman's, and quickly choked off. I looked back at the imperial box. Lucius was standing frozen, his jaw sagging. Then he suddenly put his hand to his mouth and turned away. As he ducked beneath the rail and disappeared from view I saw the stream of vomit jet from his mouth.

  Tut! Not the behaviour of a President of Games, even a twelve-year-old associate president. I wondered if anyone else had noticed the lad losing his breakfast. Not his new father, that was certain: the Idiot's liking for spilled blood was excelled only by his own timidity, and his whole attention was fixed on the shambles opposite. Not Agrippina either: she was watching as well, quite dispassionately. Only me, so far as I could tell; although of course there could well have been a few hundred others on the terraces. I hoped not, for the boy's sake and reputation. These accidents happen, and although some people mayn't find them very pleasant one must take them in one's stride. And one certainly doesn't expect the Pres
ident of Games to be squeamish, however young he is.

  Red came in first, of course, romping home with the two Blues trailing by twenty yards. In the interval before the next race slaves removed the mangled corpse and sponged the blood from the marble barrier. I looked towards the box, but Lucius wasn't there any more.

  I told Silia what I'd seen on the way home (we were travelling by litter, side by side, with the curtains open).

  Silia thought it was sweet.

  'Sweet?' I was, as you can imagine, shocked.

  'Of course it's sweet, dear,' she said calmly, plumping her cushions. 'The poor lamb's obviously terribly sensitive. Don't you think that's sweet?'

  This was too much. I don't often get angry, especially over matters that don't directly concern me, but I'm afraid I lost my temper a little.'Silia,' I said, 'I don't know about you but I haven't been sick at the sight of blood since I was ten. And at the racetrack, for heaven's sake!'

  Her hands paused. 'What has that got to do with it?'

  'Don't be obtuse, darling. If it'd been the midday games there might've been some excuse.' Midday at the games is carnage pure and simple, with unarmed criminals facing armed opponents. 'At the racetrack it's ridiculous. The boy's almost thirteen, two years away from his adult's mantle. And if he's going to be the next emperor...'

  'He might not be. Britannicus is Claudius's son.'

  'Do you honestly think Britannicus will succeed, with the Bitch in charge?' She frowned and said nothing. 'Well, then. We've just seen the future master of the world toss his guts up. How can anyone that weak-stomached hope to be emperor?'

  'I don't see what being weak-stomached has to do with it, dear. A dislike of bloodshed is quite a laudable characteristic in a ruler. Not to say rare.'

  I sighed. 'Silia, I am most terribly sorry, but that's nonsense. How can an emperor make life and death decisions if he lets his sentiments rule his judgment? Your husband was right. The boy's far too soft for his own good. Or for Rome's.'

  'Well, yes.' She frowned again. 'I do see what you mean. But I still think it's sweet. It'll make a change to have someone decent in charge of things who doesn't take pleasure in killing for killing's sake. Someone who isn't a misanthrope or barking mad or a suspicious old pedant like the last three emperors we've had. Just an ordinary, normal person. Now do stop being silly, Titus. You're giving me a headache, and we don't want that this afternoon, do we?'

  She said that, Dion! Her actual words, I swear it!

  Just an ordinary, normal person.

  Ha!

  Ah, well. It's all part of life's rich tapestry. You've got to laugh, haven't you, ducks?

  Lucius, an ordinary, normal person...

  O Jupiter best and greatest! O Isis and Serapis! Oh, my aching ribs!

  An ordinary, normal person!

  Xanthus, my boy. Fetch over that bowl, if you would, and undo these cords for a moment or so. A pause, readers, for bleeding. Then perhaps another fig-pecker, and a little more of that excellent Faustinian.

  3.

  Not that Lucius had to wait another two years for his adult mantle, oh no. Crown princes never do, especially those with pushy mothers. He put it on nine months before his fourteenth birthday (the earliest legal date); and while the ten-year-old Britannicus was quietly edged to the sidelines his jug-eared, spotty elder stepbrother was showered with public honours. A lesser woman might've been satisfied with that much, but not Agrippina. The poor Idiot was browbeaten into replacing anyone likely to support his real son's interests with men of her own choice. Most of them were nonentities. One was different.

  I first met Afranius Burrus, the new Commander of the Praetorians, at a party to celebrate my cousin Turpilianus's appointment as City Judge. A staid affair, and not my style at all: darling Turpy wouldn't be seen dead at a decent party, let alone at a far more enjoyable indecent one, and a thoroughgoing orgy is simply wasted on the man. He wouldn't even let me bring Silia because, and I quote his very words, 'Your relationship with the lady, Titus, isn't altogether honourable.'

  Oh, Serapis! I especially liked the altogether, and so did Silia when she heard. Turpilianus, as you may have guessed, is a prig, or possibly a prick, of the first water. You can choose between the terms yourself, if you like, but I know which I prefer. Burrus on the other hand was straight as a builder's rule...

  Oh dear, oh dear! Coming from me that does sound so terribly disapproving, but it's most emphatically not meant to be. I've always had a high regard for people who practise virtue rather than preach it, and Burrus was one of them. I liked him from the start, which was more than I can say for Lucius's other mentor Seneca, who was a preacher if I ever met one. If anyone could have hauled Lucius by his silly jug ears on to the straight and narrow it was Burrus. It was a sad pity he died.

  We were couch-mates at the party. I discovered early on in the evening that he collected old Greek pottery, and we had a most enjoyable argument that kept just on the right side of acrimony: he liked Corinthian ware, I find it gaudy. Neither of us was prepared to give an inch and we both enjoyed ourselves immensely. That broke the ice, although Burrus could talk intelligently to anyone and on most subjects; a skill unique in my experience among professional soldiers, even those who come late to the profession as he did.

  To keep the conversation going I asked him how he was getting on with his young pupil.

  'It's too early to say.' Burrus spread his large hands and shrugged. 'But I'd be better pleased if the empress would keep her nose out of the boy's business.'

  'Really?' I was surprised, not at the sentiment (everybody by that time was gut-sick of Agrippina) but at the fact that Burrus had expressed acritical view to a comparative stranger. It was my first experience of the man's refreshing bluntness. Also of his good sense.

  'Really. He's a fine lad with a lot of promise (where had I heard that one before?) but he's no will of his own and he's soft as a girl.'

  The slaves were serving dessert. I had ours serve me some cold stewed quinces (God knows where Turpilianus had got them from or what they cost, but they were excellent) while I told Burrus the racetrack story. He nodded.

  'I wasn't there myself that day but I'll believe you. That's young Nero all over. Too nice for his own good, and can't leave go of the tit.' He frowned, perhaps remembering belatedly the need for tact. 'No offence to the empress, of course.'

  'Of course not,' I said. 'Perish the thought. A truly remarkable woman and a most caring mother.'

  'A paragon.' He matched me dryness for dryness. 'All the same the best thing she can do now is step back and let us get on with the job. Then we might knock some of those fancy ideas out of the lad's head before they get a proper grip. Start to make a man of him.'

  I scented a piece of juicy gossip. 'Fancy ideas?'

  'His obsession with chariot driving, for one. Oh, I know. Every lad worth his salt since Romulus has wanted to be a charioteer. I wanted it myself. But by eight or nine years old any normal boy's grown out of it. Nero's almost fourteen, and he's still obsessed, he even plays with toy chariots in his room. It isn't natural.' He stirred the quinces round with his spoon. 'Besides, it's not respectable.'

  There spoke the true antique Roman. I helped myself to a handful of dates rolled in honey and poppy seeds from a passing tray. 'His father liked chariots too. Perhaps they're in the blood.'

  Burrus's frown deepened. 'Yes, well, the son keeps it in proportion, thank Jupiter. So far, at least.' Ahenobarbus's driving had been notorious; on one occasion he had intentionally ridden down a child on the Appian Way. 'But then there's this Greek business, and that's worse.'

  I pricked up my ears. 'Greek business?'

  We were interrupted, infuriatingly, by the wine slave, a most unprepossessing Gaul with bare legs like hairy tree-trunks. I had him fill our cups to the brim: City Judge or not, Turpy was stingy as hell, and although he served good wine it was well watered and sparse as desert dew.(They say he served beer to his guests when he governed Britain a dozen or
so years later. I can believe it. He and Britain were made for each other.)

  When the cups were full Burrus waved the man away. 'Don't mistake me, Petronius,' he said. 'I've got every respect for the Greeks. We owe them for every scrap of culture we've got. But when all's said and done it's us Romans who'll civilise the world. The Greeks are past their prime. Decadent. Men like you and me, we take them or leave them, and with a pinch of salt. We don't think they're the gods' only gift to humanity.'

  That was another thing I liked about Burrus. He automatically credited one with his own standards. I took my inclusion as the compliment he meant it to be.

  'And Nero does?' I said.

  'Nero does. Speaks the language like a native. Even thinks like them, from what I can see. But that's not the half of it.' He glared into his wine cup and added quietly: 'The boy sings.'

  Oh, Serapis! This was gossip and to spare! In my surprise and delight I almost swallowed a date whole. A singing crown prince was something new in the world.

  Seeing my expression (and misinterpreting it completely) Burrus gave a sour nod. 'That's right. Appalling, isn't it? Sings and plays the lyre. Composes poetry. Writes playlets. You name it, he does it, everything bar press flowers. A proper little Greekling. He turns my stomach at times, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.'

  'But this is serious!' I was trying desperately not to laugh; it would've offended him terribly.

  'Of course it is.' Burrus took a swallow of wine. 'Maybe I'm misjudging the boy, but it's worrying all the same. I've had him out on the exercise ground with a training sword and he's got no more idea of fighting than flying. No fire, no aggression, nothing. He's like a pudding. You see what I mean about fancy ideas? They're all right in a dilettante like you, Petronius, no offence meant...'

  'None taken. I appreciate your frankness.'

  '...but not in an imperial. Rome'll never stand for it.'

  Just then there was a stir at the top end of the dining-room: cousin Turpy was getting up to make a speech. We listened respectfully to the new City Judge's orotund phrases and I marvelled at what, seemingly, Rome would stand for from those she called to high office.