David Wishart - Nero

'I'm sure she won't,' I said.

'No.' He wasn't looking at me now, but staring fixedly into the brazier. 'No. Poppy'll be a marvellous mother. Marvellous.'

I didn't answer. The silence lengthened, and I sat very still. Lucius's eyes were still fixed on the flames. He seemed to have forgotten that I was there.

Suddenly he blinked and sat back.

'I'm sorry, Titus,' he said. 'I was wool-gathering. What was I saying?'

'That Poppaea Sabina would be a marvellous mother.' I tried a smile and hoped that it didn't look too false. 'I don't doubt that she will.'

'Of course not!' He grinned. 'Of course she will! Now that's enough seriousness for one day. Where can I get hold of these lemon things you mentioned?'

I told him — there is a shop in the Velabrum which specialises in luxury fruits — and we began chatting in a more relaxed way than we had for months. When I left we were almost back on our old footing. Almost, but not quite; as Arruntius had said, there'd been too many deaths and too much grief for that. I might still sympathise — Lucius and I were too similar in nature for sympathy ever to vanish — but I couldn't bring myself any more to like the poor darling, even allowing for this new mellowness of his. And without liking friendship is impossible.

In any case, Lucius never did have his chance of becoming a family man, because four months later the baby was dead.

She died of a fever, still at Antium, and Lucius was totally devastated. It didn't endear him any further to the old guard in the Senate.

'The way he went on you'd think he was a woman!' Arruntius complained bitterly to me after the senatorial deputation had offered their official condolences at the palace. 'Tears, torn clothes, the lot! In public, too! I was disgusted, Petronius, simply disgusted! But that's these nancy-boy actors all over, they've no sense of proportion. Jupiter, the little basket wasn't even a boy!'

I didn't agree. Lucius's grief may have been theatrical, but it was real. Certainly he was less guilty of hypocrisy than Arruntius and his senatorial cronies, who immediately declared Claudia a goddess.

I was at the palace offering my own condolences when the news arrived.

'You see, Titus?' Lucius said, giving me a ghastly smile (he hadn't slept or eaten for four days, and his private room was even more of a pit than usual). 'They think I'm a child myself, to be kept sweet with nonsense. How could the poor mite possibly be a goddess just on their say-so? It's silly.'

'Then tell them it's silly. Use your veto.'

He shrugged. 'Why bother? It wouldn't do any good. They're despicable and there's an end of it. Anyway, I'm finished with them. From now on they can take me as I am or leave me alone.'

This sounded ominous, but I didn't pursue the matter.

'How's the empress?’ I said.

'Taking it very badly. What mother wouldn't?' He hid his face in his hands. I thought he was going to cry but it was only tiredness: he was slumped against the back of his chair. 'We'll try again of course, but not immediately. The poor girl's inconsolable. Absolutely inconsolable.'

Privately I doubted it: Poppaea's powers of resilience were considerable, and she'd never struck me as the maternal type.

'Is she coming back to Rome?' I avoided the awkward pause.

'In a few days, yes. After the embalmers have — ' He stopped. His shoulders began to shake and he raised his hands again. This time there was no question about the reason. I wondered whether to leave, but that would have been impolite, so I sat in silence until he'd finished and blown his nose into a napkin. 'We'll bury the child in the family mausoleum. I've never seen a goddess buried before. What are the rites, do you know?'

'No,' I said quietly.

'It doesn't matter. We'll leave that up to the Senate as well. They'll be…impressive, I'm sure. We can trust them for that much.' He fell silent, staring into space, until I thought he'd forgotten me. Then, suddenly, he laughed; a harsh sound with no humour in it.

'I was just thinking, my dear,' he said. 'Old Julius is a god. My great-great-grandfather Augustus is a god. Even poor old idiot Claudius is a god. The Senate was responsible for all of them. Maybe the slimy bastards have got some sort of power after all.'

I said nothing.

'So if little Claudia really is a goddess, then what does that make me? Can a mortal father a goddess and still be only mortal? Come on, my dear, you call yourself an educated man. What's your answer? The father would have to be divine himself to begin with, surely?'

I held my breath. He was sounding (and looking, for that matter) far too much like his Uncle Gaius for my liking, or for the good of Rome. One reigning god-emperor had been enough in a generation; we didn't want two. Mentally I cursed the Senate for a pack of interfering, shit-stirring fools. If we were witnessing the birth of another Caligula then they'd only themselves to blame.

He must have noticed the look on my face, because he stopped laughing.

'Titus,' he said gently. 'It was a joke.'

I let the breath out slowly. If Lucius hadn't been aware of the tension before he was aware of it now. He was looking grave; very grave indeed.

'You thought I was serious, didn't you?' he said. Wordlessly, I nodded. 'But I told you, dear, the whole thing's silly! You can't dignify it by any other term, it's just silly!'

'I know that.'

His clenched fist came down hard on the chair-arm; I was surprised that the wood didn't break.

'Then stop treating me like a fool!’ he snapped. ‘You're as bad as the bloody Senate! I'm as mortal as you are!'

'You're sure, dear?' The flippancy was out of place, of course, but I was too relieved to care.

Lucius didn't smile. 'I'm not mad, Titus,' he said. 'I'm no god, and if it's left to the Senate I never will be. Not that I care, because being human's difficult enough. It's more than these fuckers can manage half the time, anyway.'

Being human is difficult enough.

I thought about that on the way home. I still think about it. Leaving the question of madness to one side (I'd've been surprised if he'd admitted to that ), what exactly did he mean? Oh, the first part is clear enough: when he goes — however he goes — it's unlikely the Senate will deify him, at least not willingly. But the bit about finding it difficult to be human, that I don't understand at all. Perhaps he was only talking about quality of life. When Rome burned and he began his splendid new palace — we’ll come to that part of my story soon — he remarked in my hearing, 'At last I can live like a human being.'

That would make sense, and of course it would fit with his character. But then again there was something else, something else….

Oh, I don't know, and I never will, now. But I left him feeling…well, unsettled is the word. Perhaps I would have felt better if the poor dear had gone divine on me after all. It would've made things much simpler.

I'm getting philosophical again. Stop it, Petronius, you old fart! Have another slice of pheasant!

Lucius had meant what he said about being finished with the Senate. Over the next twelve months relations were stretched to breaking point. Poor silly Petronius, of course, was caught in the middle. I could see what Lucius was after for Rome and to a certain extent — personalities aside — I sympathised. On the other hand I also understood the attitude of Arruntius and his cronies. You can't change eight hundred years of conditioning just by telling people they're wrong and then ignoring them. Not unless you're asking for trouble; and that was just what Lucius was doing.

That June, I was in the garden at the back of the house deciding where to put a statue I'd just had made when a slave came out to say that Thrasea Paetus had dropped by.