David Wishart - Nero

'She was there!' he whispered. 'She was there, in the corner! Looking at me!'

He stumbled across the room towards us. Behind him a frightened slave held up a cloak as if it were a bird-catcher's net. We were both on our feet by now. Seneca was the first to move. He grabbed the cloak from the slave and wrapped it round Lucius's shoulders. Meanwhile I filled a cup with wine and held it ready.

'It's all right,' I said quietly, as I would have done to a terrified child. 'It's all right, Lucius. You've been dreaming. It was just a dream.'

Lucius turned his blank gaze in my direction. 'But I saw her! Standing in the corner! Her hair was loose and blowing in the draught from the window, and her belly…'

He made a horrible cutting and sagging movement with his hand across his own stomach, and I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Then he turned his head away and was violently sick on the floor. The room suddenly stank of vomit and stale poppy juice mixed with wine.

'My dear boy.' Seneca spoke firmly. 'The empress is dead.'

'You think I don't know?' Lucius's head swung towards him, his mouth flecked with sick. 'She said I'd killed her! How could she lie to me likethat?'

'It was a bad dream.' Seneca's hand was on his shoulder. 'Nothing but a bad dream. Now go back to bed, my dear fellow, and — '

'No!' He lurched over to the nearest couch and collapsed onto it, his face buried in his hands. 'It wasn't a dream! I saw her! I saw her and she lied and lied and her eyes burned me, they burned! How could she say those things? I'd never hurt Mummy, never, no matter how bad she was!' Suddenly he sat up. 'Maybe she isn't dead after all. Maybe it's all a mistake. Seneca!' He grabbed the old man's wrist. I could see his fingers whiten and I wondered that the bone didn't snap. 'Make her dead! Please! Make her dead!'

'Nero,' Seneca said quietly, but with great firmness, 'listen to me, my boy. She's dead already. You've had a nightmare, that's all. It's very late. Go back to bed and sleep.'

I motioned to the slaves — there were three of them now, wide-eyed as owls. Gently, as Seneca prised the emperor's fingers from his wrist, they eased him to his feet and half-carried, half-walked him towards the door.

When he had gone we looked at each other. Then Seneca shook his head, and left without another word.

I didn't sleep much myself that night. Yes, it was a dream. Of course it was. It couldn't have been anything else.

The strange thing was that I'd been present when Anicetus had made his report, and he hadn't given any details of the murder to Lucius. Certainly he had not told him that he had stabbed the empress in the belly.

Seneca was right, although the ease with which the affair blew over was sickening. Lucius stayed in Naples until September. The Senate and provinces sent message after message congratulating him on his narrow escape from assassination. Agrippina's statues went to the lime-kilns, her name was chiselled from the public monuments, and her birthday was included in the calendar of unlucky days. All no more than the dreadful woman deserved, of course, but still distasteful.

To celebrate his return, Burrus organised a show of gladiators in the Taurian Amphitheatre on Mars Field.

'Seneca's not happy about it, and the emperor won't be either,' he told me privately when the arrangements were made. 'Neither of them are what you'd call fans.' That was putting it mildly: one thing Lucius did share with Seneca was his irrational hatred of blood sports. 'But it's for the best, Petronius. The mob need a bit of blood to get them back on our side. And there's nothing wrong with a good clean sword-fight. The lad'll just have to grit his teeth and play the Roman.'

When I saw him in the tunnel leading to the imperial box Lucius already looked a little green, even beneath the carefully applied make-up. He was with Poppaea and Burrus, who were pointedly ignoring each other, talking to a man with thick curly black hair bound at the back in a horseman's queue. Seneca was not present.

The emperor looked up and saw me.

'Ah, here's my arbiter! Titus, come over here and let me introduce you to Tiggy!'

The other man turned. Even with hindsight I believe our mutual dislike was immediate. He had the coarse features and large teeth of a southern Italian peasant, and he was trying not to scowl as he held out his hand.

'Ofonius Tigellinus,' he said.

'Titus Petronius.' I took the hand. It was as big as a shovel-blade, and almost as hard. His grip nearly cost me my four fingers. 'Delighted to meet you.'

Lucius was eyeing us with amusement.

'Tiggy breeds the finest racehorses you've ever seen,' he said. 'And he's marvellous fun. I'm sure you'll be great friends.'

'I don't doubt it,' I said. Tigellinus gave my hand a final painful squeeze before releasing it.

'If you're ready now, sir, we'll go up.' The harassed official who was orchestrating the day's arrangements stepped aside.

'Oh, all right!' Lucius frowned. 'If we must I suppose we'd better. Let's get it over with, darlings.'

Trumpets blared as we entered the box. For a moment I was dazzled by the sun shining straight into my eyes, and then the roar of the crowd hit me like a fist. The amphitheatre was packed to capacity. Even on this relatively cool day I could smell its distinctive odour of human sweat and animal dung, faintly overlaid with a miasma of stale blood. I noticed that both Lucius and Poppaea were holding scented handkerchiefs to their noses.

The emperor waved to the crowd while we sat. I was between Burrus and Tigellinus. Burrus and I exchanged nods. He was looking iller and older than ever. Lucius took his place in the ornate president's chair, with Poppaea beside him. The trumpets blared again, the gates to the side of the arena swung open and the cheering swelled to an ear-hurting howl as the fighters emerged.

Burrus had done us proud. There were fifty of them, top-grade specimens muscle-heavy or sleek as leopards. They lined up facing the box in their matched pairs and gave the traditional formal salute.

Tigellinus was grinning. His elbow caught me a painful blow in the ribs.

'Some nice stuff here,' he whispered. 'Better than the broken-winded hacks we get down south.'

The gladiators filed out, leaving the first two pairs — heavily-armed Fish-men against Skirmishers — alone on the sand. As the gates closed the four men gave another salute and then crouched facing each other.

'This should be good,' Burrus grunted. 'Two sets of brothers. According to the trainer their families hate each other's guts.'

The taller of the Skirmishers lunged, his light spear darting towards an opponent's chest. The Fish-man leaped back, pulling his oblong shield round to protect his ribs, then chopped viciously sideways with his short sword; but the Skirmisher was already away, moving like a dancer to the edge of the arena. The crowd yelled.

Meanwhile the second of the Fish-men had drawn blood. As his brother had moved back he had rushed forward past his opponent's guard and thrust at the man's stomach. The edge of his sword slid across the outside of the retreating Skirmisher's thigh, laying it open to the bone. The man stumbled and almost fell.

'Got the bastard!' Tigellinus muttered.

'Wait!' That was Burrus.

The wounded Skirmisher brought his shield round hard, catching his opponent's sword-arm a sickening blow on the wrist just where the protective armour ended. The Fish-man's sword thudded on to the sand and a spear drove into his throat beneath the rim of the visored helmet. Blood jetted. The Fish-man crumpled to his knees in a clatter of ironware.

'Good stuff!' Tigellinus's hand pounded the rail. 'Didn't I tell you, Petronius? Straight in and no messing!'