I was genuinely puzzled, and not a little alarmed. 'My knowledge isn't as exhaustive as your own, darling. No, I'm afraid I did not.'
'They're from one of Seneca's own plays, his Hercules Mad.' He was smiling broadly now. 'The full quotation goes – and correct me if I'm wrong – "There can be slain no sacrifice more acceptable to God than an unjust and wicked king." You replied – and again I'm speaking subject to your correction – "Indeed."'
We stared at each other in silence. The masks were down. Tigellinus wasn't smiling any longer.
'I told you. He was talking about the dead slave,' I said. 'At least, I thought he was.'
'Your thoughts, my dear, aren't worth a wet fart. I'm interested in words. His were treasonous, and you agreed with them.'
I picked up my wine-cup and drank, proud that my hand didn't shake.
'You said you hadn't come to arrest me,' I said.
'And I added, Not yet. I want you to suffer for a while first.' Tigellinus was grinning again. 'Darling.'
'Why?'
'Because I don't like you. I've never liked you.'
'And that's your reason?'
He shrugged. 'Do I need a better one?'
I shifted on the couch. 'Supposing I kill myself now?'
'You can please yourself. But you'd be a fool if you did. And who knows? You may be lucky. I might die before you after all.'
'Lucius would never believe I was a traitor. I'm not. You know that yourself.'
'He'll believe what I tell him. The poor bastard can't tell reality from fantasy nowadays anyway.'
That was true enough, although I hadn't expected Tigellinus to state the case so baldly. Lucius had always been convinced that despite all evidence to the contrary everyone loved him. Now, with the conspiracy, he was confronted with proof that they didn't, and his world had collapsed around him.
'What do you want, Tigellinus?' I said softly. 'Power? To be emperor yourself?'
He laughed. 'Fuck that! I told you years ago, when we first met. I only want to enjoy myself. Nero understands. He may be stupid in many ways but he knows I'm loyal.' He stood up. Carefully, deliberately, he poured the rest of his wine over the couch and dropped the cup. It smashed on the marble floor. 'A libation to Seneca's ghost. And to yours, Petronius. Don't bother to see me out.'
I lay for a long time after he had gone, staring at the closed door.
46.
The treason trials continued. How many of the fifty-odd accused were actually guilty, and how many were innocent victims of Tigellinus, I didn't know. I wasn't sure even about Seneca. Certainly he was on record as saying that when all else failed it was the good man's duty to kill a tyrant, but then the old ham's actions always had fallen short of his philosophy. Frankly I doubted if he had the guts for revolution. The great surprise was the condemnation of Lucius's and Tigellinus's co-judge Faenius Rufus. Him I have no doubts about at all; Rufus had neither the will nor the energy for treason. God knows what Tigellinus promised Scaevinus if the latter accused him, but it was never paid. Scaevinus and Rufus both died.
Others died, too. Lots of them, including Lucan, Seneca's nephew. I hadn't much time for Lucan, who wore his hair in the old Republican style(despite his flattery of the emperor) and had a grossly inflated idea of his own skills as a poet; but he didn't deserve death on those counts, poor lad, let alone the reason that was given. Relieving himself of a bout of wind in one of the public privies, he had been stupid enough to quote one of Lucius's own lines to the assembled company:
You might have thought it thundered 'neath the ground.
One of Tigellinus's spies happened to be sitting two beams along. He reported the joke back, and Lucan was condemned.
For his help in suppressing the Great Conspiracy Tigellinus was awarded an honorary triumph and had several statues of himself erected in prominent public places, by grateful vote of the Senate. What there was left of it.
Heigh ho.
It is, by the way (to bring us back to the present, which we've almost reached), almost dawn. The slaves are pulling back the curtains and the light of the lamps is beginning to look somewhat pale. Dion (my secretary, remember?) is yawning; he's done marvellously, poor darling, and I'll give him his freedom for this night's work before we make an end. Promise.
Before we make an end. One more page, Dion, or perhaps two. To clear up a mystery.
Who burned Rome? And why?
Oh, yes. I know. No, it wasn't an accident, or at least not completely. Nor was it Lucius, to make room for his Golden House, let alone the poor Christians, out of misguided piety or pure devilment. Other agents were responsible.
What agents, you ask? I found out because Arruntius was drunk. He'd never have told me otherwise.
I'd gone round at Silia's invitation: a house-warming (if that isn't an unfortunate term after the first house has been destroyed by fire) which was also – tacitly – a celebration of Arruntius's having escaped being involved in the Great Conspiracy. We were, of course, in the dining room, rather depressingly decorated in the old-fashioned style with Europa and the Bull plus a Still Life with Dead Pheasants. It had been an excellent meal: spiced seafood dumplings, celery and calfs' brains with egg sauce, and a truly imperial sturgeon cooked whole in wine and fennel. Arruntius had managed to lay his hands on several gallons of vintage Faustinian (I didn't ask how, but I had the distinct impression that it was a bribe for whatever he'd been engaged in at Ostia), and we'd done our best to make a hole in it. Silia had fallen asleep on one of the couches. Arruntius and I were left looking pop-eyed at each other. We were talking about the fire.
'Terrible thing, Titus. Terrible.' Arruntius tried to lift his wine-cup to his mouth and failed. 'A disaster. A complete disaster.'
'Not for Tigellinus, my dear,' I said. 'It left the emperor vulnerable. Exactly where Tiggy wanted him.'
'That's what I mean. Total miscalc-. Miscalc-.' Arruntius belched, then stumbled carefully through the word. 'Miscalculation. All that trouble for nothing.'
I felt suddenly sober. 'Miscalculation?'
'Idea was. Just the poor areas. Get mob on our side.' Arruntius's head was nodding. 'Nero was too popular. Only it got out of hand, didn't it? Shame, Titus. Crying shame.'
I kept my voice matter-of-fact. 'Bassus said it started by accident. In the oil shops near the racetrack.'
'So it did. Accident. Pure accident. But we kept it going despite the fucker.'
'"We"?'
His eyes opened for a moment and he grinned at me.
'We,' he said, and winked.
I remembered the gangs who'd roamed the burning streets stopping the rescue attempts in the emperor's name. And the senior consul, the arch-aristocrat Crassus Frugi who had been, conveniently, out of Rome at the time. Things could've been a lot worse if Bassus hadn't been so efficient, or less ready to take responsibility.
'The second fire,' I prompted. 'The one that started on Tigellinus's estate. That was the Senate's doing as well?'
He nodded, and held a shaking finger to his lips. 'Not the whole Senate,’ he said. ‘Just the best of us. But don't say a word, Titus. Not that it matters any longer. It didn't work, and we're all dead anyway. Bastard wriggled out of it.' His head settled on the swelling back of the couch. 'Bastard wriggles out of anything. Even a knife. Shame. Still, give him enough rope and he'll hang himself eventually.'
I stayed very still, until Arruntius's eyes were closed and he was snoring softly. Then I got up and left.
So there you are. Believe it or not, just as you choose. Perhaps it was just the wine talking, and the whole thing was an accident from start to finish. In a way I hope so; I wouldn't like to think that any member of the august Roman Senate would put his personal hatreds above the lives of thousands of his fellow-citizens, let alone countless millions in property, even if it wasn't wholly premeditated. But if it is true then the conspirators deserved all they got, and I've less sympathy for them than I do for Lucius. Or even for the animal Tigellinus.
The sky through my dining room windows is turning red. The Praetorians will be here shortly to check that the emperor's orders have been carried out. Briefly, then.
Poppaea died; pregnant, she was kicked in the stomach by Lucius in a blind fit of rage after he had accused her of conceiving the child by another man. She'd never proved to be the danger Seneca had thought her, and Tigellinus had taught Lucius to trust no one but himself. She was buried in Augustus's mausoleum – not burned in the Roman manner, but embalmed like an Egyptian queen. I wasn't invited to the ceremony:Tigellinus had already persuaded Lucius that I wasn't worthy of the honour.
Not present either was Gaius Cassius Longinus, a descendant of the Cassius who'd killed Julius Caesar. Lucius's reasons (or Tigellinus's, rather) rapidly became clear: Cassius was accused of fomenting a fresh conspiracy with poor Junia Calvina's nephew. Among others implicated was one Titus Petronius Niger, erstwhile friend of the emperor. Lucius signed the order for my death, I am told, while selecting costumes for an up-and-coming concert tour of the Greek city-states. I doubt if I caused enough distraction to make him hesitate between the silver or the gold spangles.
So. Here we are, at the end. Dion looks relieved, as indeed he should: the poor darling's right hand must be aching. The plates and the wine jugs are empty. No more fig-peckers. No more wine. All gone.
Ah well.
Silia should be in Marseilles by now, beginning her own exile. That, I am afraid, I cannot forgive Lucius for. He may be a killer and a madman, but I never thought he was spiteful; although perhaps that, too, is Tigellinus's fault. Arruntius survives, but then Arruntius would. Tigellinus, of course, is thriving, and emperor in everything but name.
There's a lesson there, no doubt, if I had the time and the energy to learn it.
Perhaps mad old Paullus was right, and Lucius is cursed. If so then it's a pity. He meant well enough, in the beginning, whatever happened later. And I'd far rather see Lucius's future for Rome than Paullus's. Whatever his faults, the emperor has good taste. He ought to: I trained him to it myself. And wholesomeness left to itself can be so terribly boring.
The sun has cleared the horizon. We've timed things well.
Dion, the pen, please.
And then, my dear, the tourniquets.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
The main characters in Nero are historical, although – as Petronius himself admits in Chapter Four – I have interpreted them subjectively. This, to be fair, is not much different to the practice of the ancient authorities themselves, who more often than not had their own axes to grind (and their own knives to bury).
Nero committed suicide in 68, two years after the story closes; those interested will find the details in Suetonius's Nero 47 - 50. The Emperor's almost-final words were, 'What a loss I am to the arts!' ('Qualis artifex pereo!')
Tacitus's account of Petronius, however, is short enough to give in abbreviated form, and it may be interesting to compare it with my purely fictional version. The first name Gaius (represented only by the letter C in the text) is probably a copyist's error:
I should perhaps say a few words about Gaius Petronius. He spent his days asleep and his nights working and at his pleasures; so gaining a reputation not as others do by energy but by its opposite. Nonetheless, he was not considered dissipated or profligate, but a voluptuary of some refinement. He was unconventional in speech and actions and manner, and people liked this, ascribing his unconventionality to a straightforward character. Yet as governor of Bithynia and later consul he showed himself an able and active administrator. Having reverted to a dissolute (or ostensibly dissolute) lifestyle he was admitted into Nero's circle of intimates as his Adviser on Taste; and the Emperor would consider nothing enjoyable or refined unless Petronius approved it. This brought him the hatred of Tigellinus, who considered him a rival and indeed a superior where the science of pleasure was concerned. Accordingly, he accused him of collusion with Scaevinus [a member of the Piso plot], bribing one of his slaves to incriminate him. Petronius was allowed no opportunity to defend himself, and most of his slaves were arrested.
At the time, Nero was in Campania. Petronius, on his way to meet him, got as far as Cumae, where he was stopped. He did not hesitate, [but] instead of throwing himself into death headlong he slit his wrists so that he could die at leisure by applying tourniquets and slackening them off. Meanwhile he talked with his friends, but not seriously or like someone who wants to be remembered for his strength of character, and listened while they recited not dissertations on wisdom or immortality but frivolous songs and light verses. He dined splendidly and had a nap, so that even though his death was forced it might appear natural. In his will he did not, as most did, flatter Nero or Tigellinus, but wrote down an account of the Emperor's crimes, giving the names of his male and female bed-mates and the details of any novel obscene practice involved. This he sent to Nero under seal.
Nero was unsure how information on his night-time activities could have become public knowledge; but then he thought of Silia, a senator's wife who had been a recipient of the imperial favours and was a close friend of Petronius's. She was accordingly exiled for failing to keep her mouth shut. (Tacitus Annals XVI 18/19).
The Tacitus extract reveals one important liberty I have taken with historical facts: my story ignores Petronius's governorship and subsequent brief consulate, both of which belong in the early 60s. This was necessary, of course, for the sake of the plot: the former would have taken him out of Rome and away from events for at least a year, and the latter identified him a little too closely for my liking with the establishment. The only other major historical anomaly I am guilty of (as far as I know!) occurs in Chapter Five with the introduction of Junia Calvina. Junia was actually in exile at the time and remained so until after the death of Agrippina; but I needed her as a character.
One more confession, of lesser importance: the real Arruntius's first name was Paullus, which would have caused confusion on the introduction of St Paul. He was not (again as far as I know) the real Silia's husband, and 'my' Arruntius's character and inclinations are complete inventions.
Finally, my thanks to Roy Pinkerton of Edinburgh University (who is certainly not responsible for any remaining factual errors); to my wife Rona; and to Teresa Roby and her staff, for being so patient over books from their respective libraries.
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Nero Page 24
