Nero

by David Wishart

  That was just the start. Our major task over the next few days was to keep Arruntius from apoplexy. There was the female ballet dancer, for example, who gave us a tolerable Cassandra ('Her brother was City Judge, Petronius!'); and, worst of all, the scene where King Minos of Crete’s wife Pasiphae, shut up in the hollow wooden cow, is made love to by her husband's bull – the latter danced superbly by Paris. ('Jupiter! He's screwing her! The fellow's actually screwing her!')

  Paris was, too, but very tastefully. Not even Acte blushed. Under the circumstances I thought it better not to tell Arruntius that 'Pasiphae' was the wife of a noted senator and had volunteered her services. That information, I suspect, would've finished the poor darling off totally.

  On the last day Lucius took the stage himself.

  It was meant as a surprise, of course, but I doubt very much if there was anyone in the packed theatre who didn't know beforehand. Even so, the silence as he stepped on to the platform in his spangled harpist's gown was absolute. Silia and I had to hold Arruntius down.

  The applause came wave upon wave. It was led by a specially recruited clique of youngsters whom the emperor had trained himself in great secrecy: Lucius was taking no chances. There were three groups, scattered throughout the theatre. The first kept up a low buzzing, the second applauded with cupped hands and the third with their hands stiff. The result was impressive. It went on for what seemed hours before he held up his hand for silence, and struck his first note.

  He gave us one of Terpnus's best, the lament of Niobe over her slaughtered children. Each note was pure as a bell, and the total had me almost in tears.

  'Isn't he good?' Acte whispered proudly.

  I nodded, quite speechless. He was better than good. Emperor or not, madman or not, and flattery aside, Lucius was a superb performer. Composition, performance and phrasing were all excellent. Even a Roman audience, I felt, must appreciate quality when they heard it.

  Some of them all too evidently didn't. Arruntius, wedged between me and Silia, had a face like an ancestral death-mask. He was swearing under his breath, fluently and at considerable length.

  The song ended and the applause began. It was deafening as before, but the lad deserved it, every bit. I was only sorry that it meant nothing at all. As Emperor of Rome, Lucius would've got as much if he'd sung like a crow.

  As an encore he played a piece of his own: the death-song of Attis. I doubt if Terpnus himself could've faulted it. I looked around the audience. There were some rapt faces, to be sure, but there were more closed ones, and when the song ended these were often the people who applauded loudest. I spotted Seneca, sitting in the front row, and Burrus off to the left with the honour guard of Praetorians. I couldn't see their expressions, but I noticed that they'd the decency to keep their applause within reason.

  Arruntius, too, was barely clapping.

  'It's a disgrace,' he muttered. 'A disgrace.'

  'I thought he did very well, dear,' Silia said. 'Who would have thought he'd have such a lovely voice?'

  'In the past any citizen who appeared on stage lost his citizenship automatically.' Arruntius may have been angry but he wasn't a fool; he kept his voice down. 'That's still the law, so far as I know. And for an emperor to do it is nothing short of blasphemy.'

  'Nonsense.' Silia sniffed. 'Besides, how can it be blasphemy, dear?'

  'You know what I mean! Nero's...'

  I laid a warning hand on his arm. Lucius had raised his hand for silence, and the covering noise of the applause was dying away.

  He gave us another song, and then another. Finally, after the fifth encore – and a good hour after the concert had been scheduled to end – he made his bow and left the stage. The applause continued, but the emperor did not reappear.

  I let the rest of our row – a frozen-faced senior finance officer and his party – clear itself and then stood up.

  'Let's go backstage and offer our congratulations,' I said. 'He'll expect it.'

  Arruntius looked at me as if I'd made an indecent proposal. 'You can do as you like, Petronius,' he said slowly, 'but I'm going home.'

  'Oh, Gnaeus, don't be such a sourpuss!' Silia took his arm. 'Come on, dear! You too, Acte.'

  'Not me.' She was shaking her head. 'Lucius – the emperor, I mean –won't want to see me.'

  'Rubbish! You're not in disgrace, dear! You chose to leave Rome, he didn't send you away. Now come along, both of you!'

  'Silia, I've told you.' Arruntius pulled his arm roughly from her grasp. 'I'm going home. I'll see you later.'

  And without another word he walked away from us towards the exit. Silia looked after him fondly.

  'He is an old grouch, isn't he?' she said. 'Never mind, we're better off without him.'

  Lucius was in his dressing-room, together with some fifty other people. The result was a full-scale party.

  'Titus!' He beamed. 'Silia, dear! Lovely! Come over here and give us a kiss! Paris, get them a drink, darling! The good stuff, not that rotgut you've been palming off on me, you stingy bugger!'

  I fought my way through the crowd, dragging Silia by the hand behind me. They were all, I noticed, theatrical types or their hangers-on. Grey or bald pates and broad purple stripes were not much in evidence, and there was no sign of either Burrus or Seneca.

  'Who's that you've got with you?' Lucius had kissed first me and then Silia and was peering over our shoulders. 'Not Acte?' He pushed past us and enveloped her in a hug. 'Acte! How marvellous! I thought you were sulking in Campania!'

  'I wasn't sulking.' Acte's broad ugly face was alight and wet with tears. 'You know I wasn't. Lucius, love, you were wonderful!'

  'I was, wasn't I?' Lucius grinned and kissed her. 'Paris, make that three wines, darling! And if you spill them I'll have your wollocks docked!'

  'Here, gracious lord.' Paris spun through the crowd with a silver tray held high, then fell at Lucius's feet in a single fluid motion, arms raised and eyes rolling. On the tray were three cups of wine, filled to the brim. The silver was unmarked. As an exercise in movement, it was breathtaking.

  Lucius laughed and prodded him with his toe.

  'Don't be sarcastic, you old poof!' he said. 'And get up, you look like a manic chimpanzee.'

  Paris mimed huff, and went back to join his own group of admirers.

  'Now.' Lucius turned to us. 'Tell me again how marvellous I was. Anddon't spare my blushes.'

  'You were superb,' I said. 'Really superb.'

  He looked at me closely, then nodded as if satisfied.

  'I was nervous as a cat all the time, of course,’ he said. ‘And my breath simply stank of onions. Gods, how I hate onions!'

  'Then why eat them?' Silia was for ever practical.

  'The best thing for the voice, darling. That and chives in oil, which are even more loathsome. Still, it was worth it, wasn't it? I could've gone on for hours, they absolutely lapped me up. Except for old Seneca and Burrus, of course. Did you see them, the old farts, with their bum-faces, trying to pretend they were enjoying it? I thought I'd burst, honestly!'

  'I liked the support group,' I said, sipping my wine. 'Very impressive.'

  'He didn't need them.' Acte was still radiant. I'd never seen her look so proud.

  Lucius bent and kissed the top of her head.

  'Perhaps not,' he said, 'but they did well, didn't they? Some of them were sailors I got off a boat from Alexandria, lovely boys. I may keep them, just for fun.' There was a movement by the door. Lucius glanced up and frowned. 'Oh, hell, here come the bum-faces! Stand by your beds, darlings!'

  I turned round. Seneca was pushing his way through the crowd as quickly as his dignity would allow.

  'Oh, my dear fellow!' He reached us and embraced Lucius. 'Well done! My heartiest congratulations!'

  'Thank you. Where's the other...where's Burrus?'

  'He sends his congratulations too.' Seneca's smile enveloped us all. 'Petronius. Silia. Acte, my dear, delighted to see you again.'

  'You enjoyed the perfo
rmance, then?' Lucius was smiling back.

  'Certainly.'

  'How much? Tell me.'

  Seneca's smile froze. 'Do forgive me, Nero,' he said. 'I don't quite understand you.'

  'It's an easy question, darling. Just how much did you enjoy my singing?'

  'Very much.' He hesitated. 'Very much indeed.'

  'Very much isn't enough.' Lucius hadn't raised his voice, but the room was suddenly still. 'Not enough by far.'

  Seneca wasn't smiling now. He looked at me for support.

  'What Annaeus Seneca is saying, sir' – I put on my best pompous voice –'is that he enjoyed your singing as much as a bum-faced old fart with no ear for music can enjoy such a sterling performance.'

  It was as if a string that had been wound too tight had suddenly snapped. The emperor blinked, and hugged me.

  'Oh, Titus!' he said, grinning. 'Isn't he terrible, Seneca? Imagine calling my chief adviser a tone-deaf bum-faced old fart! Whatever next?'

  'Not at all, my boy.' I could see that the old man was desperately trying to regain his composure. For a moment he'd been frightened, and I didn't blame him. 'He's quite right. I never have appreciated music properly. But I do enjoy it, as far as lies within my power.'

  'Then that's all we can expect, isn't it? It's not your fault you've got a tin ear. Or that you and Burrus are a pair of bum-faced old farts. So long as you try.' People were sniggering around us. As if he were onstage, he held up a hand for silence. 'We really will have to educate them, won't we, Titus? Seneca and Burrus both.'

  Seneca thanked me, later, as we were leaving the building. I laughed it off as nothing, but we both knew that the emperor had given his two advisers a clear and final warning.

  28.

  I was afraid that Lucius would go too far too quickly after his victory over the Roman philistines. In fact he acted very sensibly.

  'Some people were terribly upset about the games, Titus.' We were in the Greens' stable at the racetrack ten days later: Hermippus had a new team to show off. 'I mean, I know it's silly but there you are. The next day in the Senate House it was like talking to a row of mummies. Apronianus was biting his cheek so hard I thought he'd draw blood.'

  We moved down the row.

  'At least it was his own cheek,' I said. 'And presumably the facial variety.'

  'Oh, come on, darling!' Lucius sniggered. 'I'm serious! They were terribly complimentary to my face, of course, but they don't like what I'm trying to do one bit. Do they?'

  'No,' I said. 'They don't. They don't like it because they don't understand it.'

  He stroked the nearest horse's nose; it was a gelding of pure Spanish blood and must've cost the Greens a fortune.

  'Exactly. Bloody Romans. Well, I'm afraid they'll just have to lump it. I've decided to put on another festival next year. A proper Greek one thistime.'

  I wasn't unduly surprised. The Youth Games had been tremendously popular with everyone but the hard-liners. We'd come a long way since Cincinnatus at his plough, and it was about time we acknowledged the fact.

  'You'll be taking part, naturally?' I was politic.

  The horse in the stall next door whickered and nuzzled Lucius's arm. He took an apple from the basket by the wall and held it out for the pink lips to grasp.

  'No. No, I don't think so,' he said. 'I've scratched that particular itch for the time being, and it causes too much bad feeling. There'll be no ballet-dancing, either, for obvious reasons.'

  I nodded. Greek festivals were solemn religious occasions, and ballet-dancers an insalubrious lot: Mysticus, one of Paris's colleagues, for example, had recently caused a scandal by his part in the deaths of two purple-stripers at a party. One heart failure in coitu I could have understood – the gentlemen concerned were septuagenarians, after all, and Mysticus was an energetic soul – but two in one evening was careless.

  Lucius had taken more apples and was moving along the line of horses. They were from Sicily, black as midnight with not a white hair among them. I thought of Tigellinus.

  'Aren't they lovely?' he said. He patted the last black head. 'This one's the best. Brontes. A real hundred-racer, you can see. I wouldn't mind driving him myself.'

  'Why don't you?'

  'The farts again. I can't afford to offend them too much, Titus, and I have made my point.' He called the groom over and wiped his hands on the towel which the man held out. 'Actually I was meaning to ask you about another idea of mine.'

  'Oh, yes?' I said guardedly.

  'Don't look so worried. It's nothing special. What do you think of having regular poetry evenings?'

  'You mean recitations?'

  'Gods, no! Something on the Greek model. Where people can come to supper and give whatever they're working on an airing, so everyone can chip in with comments and suggestions.'

  'I think it's an excellent idea. Who would you invite?'

  'Anyone. Everyone. Even Seneca, if he'll promise to behave.'

  'Burrus?'

  'That old goat wouldn't recognise an anapaest if it reared up and kicked him, darling.' I laughed. 'I'm serious. He has his talents, but literary criticism isn't among them. What do you think of the idea, though? Really?'

  'I've told you. It's excellent.'

  'Good.' He patted Brontes's neck. 'I thought you'd like it. We'll start at once.'

  I enjoyed Lucius's literary evenings, but they led to my first little tiff with Seneca. The prime cause was Lucillius, a podgy Greek who wrote epigrams. He was giving us a few of these after supper one evening, and the last went something like this:

  Thyestes ate his own child: poor old fellow,

  He has my sympathies. Still –

  Wouldn't it be nice if Seneca had done the same?

  Naughty and not very tactful, especially since the great man was sharing his couch at the time. Everyone roared: I was eating a grape and choked on it, and my own couch-partner had to pound me on the back.

  Seneca swelled up like an outraged rooster.

  'If that,' he said, 'is a hit at my recent tragedy then it is not particularly funny.'

  Lucillius shrugged and raised a beautifully curved eyebrow. While Seneca puffed himself up even more, he turned towards the emperor and held up a languid hand in the classic pose of a gladiator appealing for the verdict. The room erupted, and Seneca looked angrier than ever.

  'Oh, come on, Seneca!' Lucius said. 'Don't be such an old kill-joy! It was just a joke.'

  'So's his Thyestes,' Lucillius muttered, but loud enough for everyone to hear. There was fresh laughter, in which Lucius joined.

  By this time Seneca was coldly furious.

  'Perhaps, my dear Lucillius,' he said, turning to the Greek, 'you would be so good as to tell me what precisely is wrong with the play.'

  Oh my. A less conceited man would've seen the dangers of such an invitation, but modesty and a true assessment of his own literary abilities had never been Seneca's strong points. Gleefully, Lucillius took the thing apart, and others chipped in. I doubt very much if the old ham had ever had so much valid criticism given him in his life, and if much of it was malicious he'd only himself to blame.

  Finally his temper snapped.

  'The emperor liked it, at least!' He turned to Lucius, who hadn't taken part in the baiting. 'You told me so when I gave my recital, did you not, dear boy?'

  'But of course I did, darling!' Lucius beamed at him. 'Your Thyestes is splendid theatre! Blood and guts by the bucketful! A glorious rant from beginning to end, and so deliciously evil!' He gave a shiver. 'Lovely stuff!'

  This wasn't quite what Seneca had been looking for. His face was puce.

  'But as poetry, my dear?' Lucillius prompted. 'As literature?'

  Lucius's smile widened. 'Oh, as literature the thing's a monstrosity.'

  Seneca's mouth fell open. The room dissolved. He said very little for the rest of the evening.

  He was still smarting when we shared a litter home.

  'I cannot imagine what the emperor sees in some of the
se so-called writers!' he said. 'Tonight was dreadful, absolutely dreadful!'

  'I quite enjoyed it myself,' I said.

  Even in the darkness I could feel him glaring.

  'I mean no disrespect, Petronius, but you would. There's too much of the anarchist in you for your own good. And for everyone else's.'

  'Really?' I said mildly. 'And for everyone else's, eh?'

  'Certainly.' He straightened a cushion. 'Don't forget you have responsibilities. The way you pander to the emperor at times is quite appalling. It sets the poor fellow totally the wrong example.'

  I was too taken aback to be angry. 'Seneca, don't be ridiculous! As far as pandering to Lucius goes, you could give me lessons any day of the month.'

  'That is completely different!' he said stiffly. 'A wayward ruler must be indulged in small things to safeguard the greater. If Nero wants parties and dancing girls...'

  'How about dancing boys, dear?'

  '...then I am willing to give him parties and dancing girls. But that does not mean I approve, and I certainly wouldn't encourage him, let alone suggest any...refinements. You seem to be doing both.'

  'Perhaps that's because I quite like parties and dancing girls myself. And dancing boys.'

  'Oh, don't be disgusting!'

  'At least I'm not hypocritical.' Although I knew the reason for his foul mood he was getting under my skin, and I had to work to keep the irritation out of my voice. 'Personally I think Nero's done wonders with Rome these last few months. He's shaken some of the dust off and put a bit of colour back into life.'

  Seneca snorted. 'Nero is nothing but a spoiled child. Spoiled children, especially if they happen to be rulers, need careful guidance. Like it or not, you are one of the guides, and I'm afraid to say at the moment you are not making a very good job of it.'

  'I disagree.' I was getting angry myself now. 'For a start the emperor is not a child. I've said that before. But he is an artist. His priorities may be different from yours, but they're just as valid, and the fact that you can't appreciate them doesn't –'

  'Oh, stop being a child yourself!' Seneca snapped. 'This is nonsense! Whatever his artistic pretensions Nero is first and foremost a ruler. He has many good qualities, but he is and always will be mentally unbalanced and over-susceptible to the influence of others, and that, in a ruler, is a recipe for disaster.'