David Wishart: Nero

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.

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 President 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).