David Wishart - Nero

'I liked the support group,' I said, sipping my wine. 'Very impressive.'

'He didn't need them.' Acte was still radiant. I'd never seen her look so proud.

Lucius bent and kissed the top of her head.

'Perhaps not,' he said, 'but they did well, didn't they? Some of them were sailors I got off a boat from Alexandria, lovely boys. I may keep them, just for fun.' There was a movement by the door. Lucius glanced up and frowned. 'Oh, hell, here come the bum-faces! Stand by your beds, darlings!'

I turned round. Seneca was pushing his way through the crowd as quickly as his dignity would allow.

'Oh, my dear fellow!' He reached us and embraced Lucius. 'Well done! My heartiest congratulations!'

'Thank you. Where's the other…where's Burrus?'

'He sends his congratulations too.' Seneca's smile enveloped us all. 'Petronius. Silia. Acte, my dear, delighted to see you again.'

'You enjoyed the performance, then?' Lucius was smiling back.

'Certainly.'

'How much? Tell me.'

Seneca's smile froze. 'Do forgive me, Nero,' he said. 'I don't quite understand you.'

'It's an easy question, darling. Just how much did you enjoy my singing?'

'Very much.' He hesitated. 'Very much indeed.'

'Very much isn't enough.' Lucius hadn't raised his voice, but the room was suddenly still. 'Not enough by far.'

Seneca wasn't smiling now. He looked at me for support.

'What Annaeus Seneca is saying, sir' — I put on my best pompous voice — 'is that he enjoyed your singing as much as a bum-faced old fart with no ear for music can enjoy such a sterling performance.'

It was as if a string that had been wound too tight had suddenly snapped. The emperor blinked, and hugged me.

'Oh, Titus!' he said, grinning. 'Isn't he terrible, Seneca? Imagine calling my chief adviser a tone-deaf bum-faced old fart! Whatever next?'

'Not at all, my boy.' I could see that the old man was desperately trying to regain his composure. For a moment he'd been frightened, and I didn't blame him. 'He's quite right. I never have appreciated music properly. But I do enjoy it, as far as lies within my power.'

'Then that's all we can expect, isn't it? It's not your fault you've got a tin ear. Or that you and Burrus are a pair of bum-faced old farts. So long as you try.' People were sniggering around us. As if he were onstage, he held up a hand for silence. 'We really will have to educate them, won't we, Titus? Seneca and Burrus both.'

Seneca thanked me, later, as we were leaving the building. I laughed it off as nothing, but we both knew that the emperor had given his two advisers a clear and final warning.

I was afraid that Lucius would go too far too quickly after his victory over the Roman philistines. In fact he acted very sensibly.

'Some people were terribly upset about the games, Titus.' We were in the Greens' stable at the racetrack ten days later: Hermippus had a new team to show off. 'I mean, I know it's silly but there you are. The next day in the Senate House it was like talking to a row of mummies. Apronianus was biting his cheek so hard I thought he'd draw blood.'

We moved down the row.

'At least it was his own cheek,' I said. 'And presumably the facial variety.'

'Oh, come on, darling!' Lucius sniggered. 'I'm serious! They were terribly complimentary to my face, of course, but they don't like what I'm trying to do one bit. Do they?'

'No,' I said. 'They don't. They don't like it because they don't understand it.'

He stroked the nearest horse's nose; it was a gelding of pure Spanish blood and must've cost the Greens a fortune.

'Exactly. Bloody Romans. Well, I'm afraid they'll just have to lump it. I've decided to put on another festival next year. A proper Greek one thistime.'

I wasn't unduly surprised. The Youth Games had been tremendously popular with everyone but the hard-liners. We'd come a long way since Cincinnatus at his plough, and it was about time we acknowledged the fact.

'You'll be taking part, naturally?' I was politic.

The horse in the stall next door whickered and nuzzled Lucius's arm. He took an apple from the basket by the wall and held it out for the pink lips to grasp.

'No. No, I don't think so,' he said. 'I've scratched that particular itch for the time being, and it causes too much bad feeling. There'll be no ballet-dancing, either, for obvious reasons.'

I nodded. Greek festivals were solemn religious occasions, and ballet-dancers an insalubrious lot: Mysticus, one of Paris's colleagues, for example, had recently caused a scandal by his part in the deaths of two purple-stripers at a party. One heart failure in coitu I could have understood — the gentlemen concerned were septuagenarians, after all, and Mysticus was an energetic soul — but two in one evening was careless.

Lucius had taken more apples and was moving along the line of horses. They were from Sicily, black as midnight with not a white hair among them. I thought of Tigellinus.

'Aren't they lovely?' he said. He patted the last black head. 'This one's the best. Brontes. A real hundred-racer, you can see. I wouldn't mind driving him myself.'

'Why don't you?'

'The farts again. I can't afford to offend them too much, Titus, and I have made my point.' He called the groom over and wiped his hands on the towel which the man held out. 'Actually I was meaning to ask you about another idea of mine.'

'Oh, yes?' I said guardedly.

'Don't look so worried. It's nothing special. What do you think of having regular poetry evenings?'

'You mean recitations?'

'Gods, no! Something on the Greek model. Where people can come to supper and give whatever they're working on an airing, so everyone can chip in with comments and suggestions.'

'I think it's an excellent idea. Who would you invite?'

'Anyone. Everyone. Even Seneca, if he'll promise to behave.'

'Burrus?'

'That old goat wouldn't recognise an anapaest if it reared up and kicked him, darling.' I laughed. 'I'm serious. He has his talents, but literary criticism isn't among them. What do you think of the idea, though? Really?'

'I've told you. It's excellent.'

'Good.' He patted Brontes's neck. 'I thought you'd like it. We'll start at once.'

I enjoyed Lucius's literary evenings, but they led to my first little tiff with Seneca. The prime cause was Lucillius, a podgy Greek who wrote epigrams. He was giving us a few of these after supper one evening, and the last went something like this:

Thyestes ate his own child: poor old fellow,

He has my sympathies. Still -

Wouldn't it be nice if Seneca had done the same?

Naughty and not very tactful, especially since the great man was sharing his couch at the time. Everyone roared: I was eating a grape and choked on it, and my own couch-partner had to pound me on the back.

Seneca swelled up like an outraged rooster.

'If that,' he said, 'is a hit at my recent tragedy then it is not particularly funny.'

Lucillius shrugged and raised a beautifully curved eyebrow. While Seneca puffed himself up even more, he turned towards the emperor and held up a languid hand in the classic pose of a gladiator appealing for the verdict. The room erupted, and Seneca looked angrier than ever.

'Oh, come on, Seneca!' Lucius said. 'Don't be such an old kill-joy! It was just a joke.'

'So's his Thyestes ,' Lucillius muttered, but loud enough for everyone to hear. There was fresh laughter, in which Lucius joined.

By this time Seneca was coldly furious.

'Perhaps, my dear Lucillius,' he said, turning to the Greek, 'you would be so good as to tell me what precisely is wrong with the play.'

Oh my. A less conceited man would've seen the dangers of such an invitation, but modesty and a true assessment of his own literary abilities had never been Seneca's strong points. Gleefully, Lucillius took the thing apart, and others chipped in. I doubt very much if the old ham had ever had so much valid criticism given him in his life, and if much of it was malicious he'd only himself to blame.