David Wishart - Nero

I took my courage in both hands.

'What exactly is it,' I said, 'that you want me to do?'

He smirked like a schoolboy. 'Oh, nothing very dreadful. Just take a little walk with me.'

I breathed again. It seemed that I had misjudged the lad.

'What kind of a walk?'

'Just a walk around Rome. With me and Otho and Paris and Senecio. We've been doing it every night for a month now. You'll love it, I'm sure.' He stood up suddenly, and I surreptitiously wiped my sweaty hands on my mantle. 'Just a little walk through the streets.'

'What, now?' No one in his senses walks in Rome for pleasure at night. Nor, for that matter, in the daytime.

'Yes, dear, now. It'll be quite exciting, I promise. Only…' He paused.

'Only what?'

His smile was dazzling.

'Only don't tell Mother. It's our little secret.'

The others were waiting for us by the gatehouse, wrapped in thick cloaks; against the chill, I thought, although I was only partly right. Lucius, too, had put on a thick travelling cloak — he was sensitive to cold — and had found another for me.

I knew Otho and Paris reasonably well, but not Senecio. Nor, on first glance, did I particularly wish to. He was the son of one of Claudius's freedmen; a big, brawny Spaniard with an accent thick as boiled corn-meal and breath stinking of raw onions.

'Who's this?' He scowled at me; evidently the instant dislike was mutual. 'We don't want company, Nero.'

'Oh, don't be silly, darling!' Lucius was fitting on a hat with an extra-large brim, which concealed his features even in the brightly lit forecourt. 'Titus is my guest. Behave yourself, there's a good boy. I won't have fighting.'

'Not yet, anyway.' Paris sniggered. Even covered by a woollen cloak he looked like what he was, the best ballet-dancer and mime artist in Rome. 'Hi, Petronius. Looking forward to your evening out?'

'Of course, my dear.' I was already beginning to have my suspicions about what they had in mind, but I wasn't such a fool as to voice them.

'So what's it to be?' Otho was grinning. 'The Eighth Region?'

'Naw. It's boring, and there's too much extra muscle around the Square.' Senecio had produced a vicious-looking club from the folds of his cloak and was tapping it gently against his palm. 'I vote for Cattlemarket Square. Lots of punters round there, and we could finish up at Mammaea's.'

Lucius turned to me.

'Titus, dear, you decide,' he said. 'Guest's privilege.'

I may have been cabbage-looking, but I wasn't altogether green, and I didn't like the sound of this at all. The Cattlemarket Square area is definitely the wrong part of town, and Mammaea's is the roughest brothel on the Aventine: dangerous enough in daylight, sheer murder after dark.

'Don't ask him!' Senecio spat into the shadows. 'He's pissing himself already. I say Cattlemarket Square.'

'Oh, let Senecio have his fun, Nero.' That was Paris. 'Petronius doesn't care, do you, Petronius?'

'Very well, then.' Lucius gave me a brilliant smile from beneath the shadow of his hat. 'Cattlemarket Square it is. All right, Titus?'

It was very much not all right; but again I was not fool enough to say so. Lucius had the guard unbar the gate and we were on our way.

It was starting to rain, and the streets were dark and deserted; of pedestrians at least, although there were plenty of heavy waggons around making their night-time deliveries. Most were slow as arthritic snails and made enough noise to wake the dead — city-centre residents need cloth ears after sunset — but we'd just turned into Tuscan Street when an empty cart nearly spared us the rest of Lucius's principate. Paris hefted a rotten cabbage. It bounced against the tailgate.

'Bastard!' Lucius yelled after the disappearing cart. 'Mother-fucking bastard!'

Paris muttered something I didn't catch — nor, I suspect fortunately for him, did Lucius — and Senecio laughed. Not a pleasant sound.

By the time we'd reached the first of the streets round Cattlemarket Square Otho and I were trailing the others. I suspected that for all his blade-about-town manners he was as lacking in enthusiasm as I was; prowling the streets looking for trouble and swearing at carters is a young man's game, and Otho could give Lucius and Senecio a good four years. Paris, of course, was older than any of us; but then Paris was the eternal adolescent, and a mad and bad one at that.

'You do this often?' I asked Otho. I kept my voice low.

Otho shrugged. 'When he gets the urge.' I didn't need to ask who 'he' was. 'Which seems to be most nights recently.'

'Why?'

Another shrug. 'Someone has to keep him out of trouble. He is the emperor, after all. As well as being a friend.'

'I meant why does he do it? I grew out of this sort of thing when I was seventeen.'

Otho grinned. 'Didn't we all, dear?'

Ahead of us the others had disappeared into a shop doorway above which I could just make out a crude wooden sign with a painted wine-jar. We caught them up just in time to see Paris produce a crowbar from inside his cloak. He stuck its point between the door itself and the locking bar and heaved. There was a splintering crack and the bar hung loose.

Lucius giggled.

'Drinkies, gentlemen,' he said, stepping past them over the threshold. 'Titus, where are you? I need your advice.'

I hesitated.

'Better go, Petronius,' Otho whispered.

I followed Lucius inside. The place was pitch-dark, of course, and we collided.

'Where the hell's the torch?' he complained petulantly. 'Why does no one ever have a torch?'

There was no answer to that, or at least none that needed voicing. We weren't carrying torches because torches make one conspicuous. I felt other bodies squeeze into the narrow space behind us, and I could smell Senecio's oniony breath and Paris's perfume even above the scent of stale wine.

'Never mind, never mind! I've found a shelfful of jars up here.' Lucius had moved away. I could hear him fumbling about behind the stone counter. Earthenware scraped and bumped, then shattered. 'Oh, fuck! Never mind, there are plenty more. Try this one, Titus. See what you think.'

The jug caught me in the chest and I grunted with pain. Paris sniggered.

'Pass it back, dearie,' he said. 'Don't hog.'

'No, no!' Lucius's voice came out of the darkness. 'Titus gets first swig. He's our wine expert. Go ahead, Titus! Blind tasting.'

Paris sniggered again. I broke the wax seal on the jug, removed the bung and took a sip.

'Oh, do come on, darling! I'm waiting!'

There was nothing I could do but give a mental shrug and commend myself to Bacchus.

'Sorrentine,' I said. 'Not much body, I'm afraid.'

'Shit! Give it back here.' That was Senecio. The jug was pulled from my hands and I heard a slow glugging, followed by a hawk and spit. 'The pansy's right. Flat and sour as a Chief Vestal's knockers.' Earthenware shattered on the stone floor and the smell of spilled wine intensified. 'Let's have another one, Nero.'

The emperor obliged. This one was Massic, and rough as only bad Massic can be. It, too, was consigned to oblivion. Lucius chose a third — bad Massic again — and then a fourth, which contained a vicious aberration from Fundi. I'd been served it (or its close relative) once at a dinner party and despite drinking sparingly had had gut-rot and a splitting headache for days afterwards. I broke the jar myself this time, out of pure kindness to humanity.

I must admit, crass though the admission is, that by this point I was beginning to perk up. Also either my eyes had become used to the darkness or the clouds had cleared away, because I could see grey shapes where before everything had been black. I even managed to field the fifth jar when it was thrust at me. I couldn't place this one exactly, but it was the poorest of the lot.