Nest of vipers eor-2

by Luke Devenish

  'That's good then, isn't it?' said Little Boots, his eyes shining at the thought.

  'Well, yes,' I had to agree. 'Good for what you and I must achieve with even greater secrecy than Sejanus, domine,' I added.

  He dismissed my caution. 'I want to be the second prophesied king right now, Iphicles. I'm sick of waiting. There are things I want to do to Rome.'

  'You're too young right now. You don't know enough yet.'

  'There have been kings in Egypt younger than me.'

  'And they were murdered for it.'

  That quietened him for a moment. Then his eyes were shining again. 'Who's going to be murdered next in Rome? My big brothers, do you think? Nero next? Or Drusus?'

  'It's a terrible thing to hear you hope for their deaths so casually,' I said.

  He was incredulous, pointing an accusing finger at my sleeping domina. 'You helped her kill more people than I can count on my hands — and all just to put my grandfather Tiberius on the throne.'

  'Be quiet,' I hissed. 'Your grandfather was prophesied, too.'

  'He's not much of a king.'

  'Little Boots!'

  He was unrepentant. 'I bet you talked about your murders all the time — especially with that hunchback witch who used to mix up all the poisons.'

  'Quieten down. You only know these dreadful things because I told you when I was ill and raving, domine.'

  'I nursed you back to health.'

  'Yes, yes, and I'm very grateful.'

  'That was when you told me I was a god — and that you were one too.'

  Not for the first time, I regretted how much I had told Little Boots in my illness. 'My divine state is no business of yours.'

  ' My divine state is. The old soothsayer said I was divine too. I was there when he said it, remember?'

  I threw my domina 's ointment down and stalked across the room to grip him hard by the shoulders, shaking him. 'Now, listen. Perhaps you will be divine but you are not divine yet — you are only a boy, and not a very nice boy either, and certainly not a boy who is worthy of a throne.'

  He stared in shock at me.

  'You will wear the crown that was meant for your murdered father — it was prophesied — but your father was loved by all of Rome. It breaks my heart that he was not the chosen one — he deserved to rule — and it certainly broke my domina 's heart. Your father would have been a good and honest king, but it was not to be and that's all there is to it. So…' I stared hard at him. 'Will you be loved, Little Boots?'

  He went to answer but I shook him again. 'Not if you carry on like this, you won't. You must look in your heart, domine, and think hard on how the people will love you. Nothing is guaranteed. If you gain the throne tomorrow, you'd still be "the prophesied" but you wouldn't last a minute. Not one minute.'

  I released him and he was silent for a long time. 'I'm sorry,' he said at last. 'You are right, Iphicles.'

  It was a concession from him — not something I received very often. Affection overcame me and I hugged him. 'You'll be a glorious king one day, Little Boots,' I whispered. 'Just let your loving Iphicles help you become it.'

  He kissed my cheek.

  'Now. Your older brothers,' I said, breaking the hug. 'The first thing for you to learn is that even though they're marked for death, we must never disrespect them or make jokes about it. If we do, they'll learn of it, and then we'll be the first ones they visit when they come back as shades.'

  'Do the ghosts of all the others haunt you, Iphicles?'

  'No,' I answered truthfully. 'I loved and respected all those I led towards death, but I did what I did because prophecy demanded it — and because my domina demanded it. I did nothing for pleasure or excitement or revenge. All those who died would have learned the reasons for my actions when they went to the Underworld — and it would have helped them rest, knowing why they had to die. Plus I always spit the beans.' My decades-long habit of spitting mouthfuls of black beans during Lemuria — the festival of the dead — always proved very effective against ghosts. 'I advise you to try spitting them too, Little Boots.'

  He nodded again.

  'Your older brothers' deaths will not be easy to achieve,' I went on. 'Your poor mother has got them so surrounded by loyal slaves and protectors that poison could never be administered.'

  'I'll help get it through,' Little Boots suggested.

  I slapped his hand. 'You will not.'

  'You can get it through, then,' he said. 'You're a very cunning slave.'

  I slapped his other hand. 'And end up being fed to the bears? Some good I'll be to you then.'

  Little Boots turned petulant. 'I want my brothers murdered now, Iphicles — they're standing in my way!'

  'What have I just been saying to you? Respect and patience.'

  He tried not to look sulky, even though he was, and I retrieved my domina 's wooden phallus from its chest, wrapped in its silk shroud. 'Keep going on like this and Sejanus will think of poisoning you next,' I told him.

  'He wouldn't — '

  'He will in time, if he wants the throne — and what else would he want? You're an obstacle in his path, just like your poor brothers are.'

  Little Boots was on the verge of tears. 'But I don't want to die..'

  'Don't worry,' I said. 'Your poor mother keeps you protected too — Sejanus will never be able to poison you either.'

  'But you have to give me extra protection, Iphicles.'

  'Then you should stop sneaking out of bed at night.'

  Chastened, he shut up. I was right, of course. He would become Sejanus's target. It was inevitable.

  'So who will it be then?' he whispered to me after a few minutes. 'Who will Sejanus murder next?'

  I smeared the special ointment on my domina 's phallus and was ready to put it to its purpose. 'You know the answer to that,' I said. 'If you don't, then you're even sillier than you'd have me believe.'

  He stuck out his bottom lip, but I could tell that he knew the answer.

  'So our job is to see if we can help Sejanus in his next murder without being discovered ourselves. And then we'll help him with the one after that, and then the one after that. And then, when everyone with the blood of the Claudii in their veins has been killed off except you, we will kill Sejanus himself and you'll be king. Simple.' There was nothing simple about it, of course. Six decades of such carnage had taught me that. But at least we had prophecy on our side.

  Little Boots smiled, feeling happy. 'I'll go back to my bed and see if my dreams can give me clues.' With that he vanished into the gloom.

  Alone again with my domina, I began my nightly ritual of easing the smeared phallus inside her to maintain her endless sleep. I congratulated myself at how my approaching divinity had brought me such cleverness. My domina would never wake up — I could promise it — and when we were eventually reunited upon Olympus I knew she would forgive me for everything I had done — and everything I would do. It was from her Claudian womb that four great kings had been prophesied to spring. The glories of their reigns were and would be entirely for my domina. Her son Tiberius, the first of the four, had been placed on the throne by Livia herself. But she had been naive to think the other three would owe their ascendency to her efforts alone. After all, no one had received greater schooling as her apprentice than I.

  If it hadn't been the day of young Hector's death, perhaps I would have had my wits better about me. I was distracted, my mind on Little Boots and the prophecies and Rome. I wasn't paying attention to my domina 's slender hands. Livia was lost with Somnus in her dreams, her body no longer hers to control, and yet, impossibly, as I gently wielded the implement that kept her in this state, her useless fingers, so long lifeless by her sides, slowly began to curl into tight, hard fists.

  She no longer slept as soundly as I intended.

  Sejanus squatted on the floor among the ruins of the wedding banquet, his head cradled in the hands that had broken the neck of his young son-in-law. It was no surprise to him to hear Castor's voice —
barely a whisper — seep inside his ear, as it always did when fate brought him low. He had been expecting it — almost hoping for it; how could Castor resist the urge?

  'My father calls you "the partner in my labours",' Castor's voice whispered, and Sejanus imagined his enemy's lips speaking from just behind his ear. It was almost as if he could have turned and kissed them if he wished — or bitten them off.

  'My father's partner,' Castor's voice repeated. 'How consoling that must be. Clutch it as you clutch the pretty Praetor's insignia he gave you, Sejanus, and take comfort from these things. They're all that will ever comfort you. You can be his partner, after all, but not his son, and never his heir.'

  Sejanus stiffened, but he wouldn't open his eyes. He wouldn't acknowledge Castor's voice as the phantom that it was. It suited Sejanus at times like this to think of the phantom's whisperings as real.

  'What a blow the boy's death must have been to your hopes of marrying into my family,' Castor's voice went on. 'It's best if you give up that dream now.' Sejanus imagined the sound of Castor breathing deeply through the nose, then stopping abruptly, as if detecting a thing he disliked. 'No matter how many Claudian princes you marry your brats to, you'll never scrub the stink of the kitchens from your hair.'

  Sejanus opened his eyelids only once he had imagined the phantom leaving the hall. In his mind's eye he saw his enemy's retreating wedding tunica, still stained by grapes and fruit. Then his thoughts wandered to the things that Castor didn't see, and didn't know, and would never know until it was all too late.

  These were a comfort to him, even if nothing else was.

  Apicata could tell who it was at the other end of the corridor by perfume alone. Livilla reeked like a whore's funeral, drenched in more gladiolus oil than anyone else at Oxheads. Apicata paused in her progress for a moment and waited, assuming a respectful expression. When Livilla drew near, headed in the opposite direction, Apicata made a little show of waiting for her to say something. But Livilla said nothing, as Apicata well knew she would, so she stepped into her path.

  'Lady Livilla, didn't you see me here in the dark?' Apicata said. She could feel the look of contempt on the patrician woman's face — not that she cared.

  'I saw you clearly enough,' said Livilla.

  'Do you look well tonight? I would be so pleased to know.'

  There was an odour to Livilla that lay somewhere beneath the cloy gladiolus. A raw, salty smell. Fetid. Apicata's nose wrinkled as she tried to determine it.

  'I look very well indeed,' said Livilla. 'My husband tells me I am glowing like the sun.'

  'Does he? How nice for you,' said Apicata, smiling. She decided that this was where their discourse should end and she made to move on.

  But she had unleashed something within Livilla. 'Don't you want to know why?'

  With such an invitation Apicata wasn't sure how she could resist. 'Has something happened?'

  'I am with child.'

  Apicata was taken aback. 'What a wonderful thing,' she said, 'and after so many barren years since the birth of Tiberia. Your husband must have given up hope of ever getting a son.'

  Livilla remained silent, but Apicata knew she was sneering. The buried stink of her grew, as if Livilla's heartbeat was racing. The smell was sour in Apicata's nostrils. 'How many months have passed?' she asked.

  'Nearly eight,' said Livilla.

  Apicata failed to stop the look of shock that took her.

  'I'm quite advanced,' said Livilla, with pleasure in her voice at Apicata's expression. 'The augur promises me that the skies indicate a boy.'

  It was Apicata's turn for silence. If Livilla was so visibly with child, then why had no one told her of it before now? Why had her own husband, Sejanus, not bothered to report it?

  'Do you wish to feel my son?' Livilla whispered into Apicata's darkness. Before Apicata could decline, Livilla snatched at her hand and placed it on her full, taut belly. 'The augur is right, isn't he? You can tell I'm carrying a boy.'

  Apicata smelled the fecund stink of sex. Livilla was moist in her loins — an obscenity in a woman carrying child. The foul, rank odour of Livilla squeezed Apicata by the throat. She murmured the words of a curse in her mind. This child would never see adulthood and its father would fall, taking the bitch Livilla with him, she vowed. Apicata used this inner malice as a shield, a source of quiet strength. 'I believe you are right,' she said at last. 'It is the feel of a boy. I wish an easy birth for you.'

  'Thank you,' said Livilla.

  Apicata removed her hand, nodded and smiled, then made to continue her passage down the corridor. Livilla said nothing more. After several steps Apicata sensed that Livilla hadn't moved from where they had stood together — she could hear no movement in the opposite direction. Apicata continued a little further before she stopped again. She could hear nothing at all of Livilla behind her. Apicata slowly turned around. She knew that Livilla must still be standing there — and she knew that Livilla would be looking right at her.

  'You think you're untouchable?' Apicata whispered low under her breath.

  'I don't think it — I know it,' Livilla said.

  Apicata gasped at the patrician woman's blind arrogance. Then she laughed. 'Only my husband, Sejanus, is untouchable,' she whispered, 'because only my husband strives to rid Rome of traitors. Only my husband has dedicated his life to this task in his undying love for the Emperor. And only my husband can say that the hands of vile ambition can never, ever bring him down.' She waited for any sound at all to come from Livilla's direction.

  'I don't doubt your words,' Livilla said.

  Apicata remained where she was for what seemed like an eternity. Then, when Livilla's retreating footsteps told her the conversation was done, Apicata used her nose to return to the place where Livilla had stood. She dropped and held her face an inch from the floor. The juice of Livilla's sex had run down her legs, falling to the floor like raindrops.

  'She is a slut,' Apicata whispered to herself, 'the lowest and filthiest of sluts. She's on heat like a she-wolf while she carries an innocent in her belly.'

  Apicata stayed where she was for some minutes, crouched low and inhaling, willing her hatred to empower her.

  Livilla felt in darkness for the crack in the wall and found it — then gently pushed forward. At once the sounds and scents of the Emperor's night-time garden caressed her as the hidden door invited her outside. The air was warm and tinged with honey, but she was not there to admire the flowers. The garden was her thoroughfare, the secret path she took to her secret devotions. Livilla intended worshipping her god tonight.

  She felt the thrill of anticipation and the longing for pleasure. Her god would need his comforts, she told herself. His spirits had been brought very low, and she, his most loyal acolyte, would be assiduous in her ministrations. The libations she would make would heal her god, replenish and inspire.

  Livilla entered the little grotto that lay behind the secret door, throwing a backward glance into the corridor as she went to pull the door closed behind her. She thought she heard a footfall and listened. But there was nothing. The scented breeze lured her into the garden.

  Her shoes in her hand, she tripped lightly along the path, which led to a gate opening onto the street. Her god's attendants were already waiting patiently as Livilla's thighs rubbed together, slick and pungent. She had been suffering in an unbearable state of arousal all day, all through the wedding and the calamity that followed. Her senses had been addled by it. She had spoken like an automaton to Claudius and Sejanus of her sorrow at what had happened, but her emotion had been false. All she could think about was her god and the pleasures she would gift to him. She brushed her sex with her fingers, as if by accident. Her bead was hard and full.

  The attendants nodded a greeting to Livilla while they held the heavy gate open just enough for her to glide through to the litter. She thought she heard another footfall and a shiver shot along her spine. She threw a glance behind her but the only noise to be heard was f
rom the velvet wings of a bat.

  'There is no one there, Lady,' one of the attendants whispered, knowing what she feared.

  She smiled at him, thankful, but she had a recollection of a moment like this before, when she had passed through the same gate and looked over her shoulder to see the face of her little daughter, Tiberia, staring back. The girl had vanished like a ghost on that occasion and Livilla had later wondered what she had really seen. Had it been her own guilt?

  She dismissed all notions of shame and remorse from her mind. Why should there be guilt in worshipping a god?

  'Hurry, Lady,' the slave whispered.

  Livilla stepped forward and the gate clicked closed behind her. The garden was gone. She reclined upon the litter cushions and felt the hard, swollen bead in her sex again as the curtains were drawn around her, protecting her from Rome. Still she sensed the eyes that remained hidden behind the wall — eyes that knew her and knew her secrets. Knew what she really was.

  She had been seen — of course she had — by eyes that would say nothing of what they saw for now. They were not her daughter's eyes, nor the sightless orbs of Apicata. These were the eyes of another. Eyes that loved her like a child. Eyes that loathed her like coming death.

  When the castrated slave Lygdus returned to the great house, he clutched his domina 's secret to his heart, with no inkling of how he might use it. He had seen her slip from her bedroom and had not intended to trail her as far as the Emperor's garden. But when she failed to notice him and he followed further, Lygdus became intoxicated by the tiny amount of power this gave him. She did not know he was there. She did not know he knew. He had stealth.

  But the castrated boy failed to see the other set of eyes that watched from the banks of flowers. So absorbed was Lygdus in his little victory over his mistress that he missed the soothsayer. The aged Thrasyllus still sat where he had been since the wedding, half-hidden by leaves and shadows.

  The old man found his mouth filling up with words just as the slave slipped away. The soothsayer wanted to call out and stop him — some of the words concerned Lygdus, after all. But he let him go. Lygdus was not the goddess's intended recipient. The words the Great Mother, Cybele, gave Thrasyllus to impart were meant for another: she who was so long asleep. Thrasyllus closed his eyes and let the words come.