David Wishart: Nero

At that point the slave came back to say that dinner was served. I can't say I enjoyed it.

I was going over my accounts in the study a few days later when my head slave edged his way round the door.

'Yes, Crito?' I said. No answer. The man was shifting nervously from foot to foot. 'Well?' I stared at him. 'Is it a visitor?''

'No, sir.'

'What, then?'

Crito cleared his throat. 'I wanted…that is, sir, I was wondering whether…If you could possibly…' He stopped dead.

I put my pen down. I'd had him for twenty years and never seen the old dear so much as blush. Even at parties.

'Don't tell me,' I said. 'The cook's screwing one of the kitchen girls on the doorstep and the neighbours are complaining.'

' No , sir!' That was more like his usual style. 'I wished to ask you a favour. On a personal matter.'

'All right.' I indicated a chair. 'Sit down and let's hear it.' He hesitated. 'Crito, sit! You're making me feel nervous, dear.' He sat as if the chair seat had spikes. 'Now what's all this about?'

'Will you be seeing the emperor soon?'

Normally I'd have told him to mind his own business, but I bit my tongue. 'I might. Why?'

'Then, sir, I was wondering if perhaps you might consider talking to a…friend of mine first. At least, not a friend exactly, more of a…' He stopped again. He was bright red.

This was getting more intriguing by the minute. A lover? Crito was over sixty and ugly as sin. The idea was obscene. 'More of a what?'

He ducked the question. 'Someone I respect very much, sir.'

'Does this paragon have a name?'

'Yes. Of course. His name's Paullus.'

'And he wants me to put something before the emperor?' I was beginning to understand. This Paullus was obviously a slave or a freedman in trouble who'd asked Crito for help. And it must be serious for Crito to come to me.

'Yes, sir. But not for himself. For all of us.'

'For all of who?' I was lost again.

Crito squirmed in his chair and turned an even deeper red.

'The city's Christians, sir,' he said.

. .

I got it out of him at last. Lucius, so the rumour went, was about to blame the fire on Rome's Christian community to which, seemingly, my head slave belonged. I didn't know much about the cult, apart from the fact that it was a Jewish heresy currently popular among the domestic slave population, but I was surprised that Crito was an initiate. At his age and with his intelligence I'd have thought the old dear would have had more sense.

'So who is this Paullus?' I asked. 'A slave? Or a freedman?'

'Neither, sir.' Crito spoke with a curious pride. 'Paullus is a citizen.'

'He's what?' The name was Latin, of course, but that meant nothing. I hadn't expected citizenship, though. 'A Roman?'

'No, not a Roman, sir. A Cilician, from Tarsus.' Crito was fidgeting again.

'And what exactly does this gentleman want me to do?'

'I'd rather he told you that himself.' That was said politely but firmly, in the tone Crito used for turning away unwanted guests. I knew from experience that he wouldn't budge an inch further.

I gave in.

'All right. I'll be seeing the emperor in two days' time. Bring this Paullus of yours round tomorrow and we'll — '

'He can't come here, sir. He's under house arrest.'

That stopped me. House arrest wasn't usual, not for an ordinary citizen. 'What the hell for?'

'Rabble-rousing.'

I laughed. Crito had the grace to blush; he'd never, so far as I knew, been in trouble with the law in his life, and he'd no time for criminals. This Paullus must be special indeed.

'So you want me to go to him, do you? Crito, my dear, I'm sorry, but really — '

' Please, sir!' He was almost crying. 'It's desperately important!'

'Oh, don't worry, I'll go! It sounds like fun.' I put the wax tablets into the desk and locked it. 'Where does this rabble-rouser live?'

'He has a house near the Praetorian Camp.'

Another surprise; I'd expected the Aventine or the Trans-Tiber region. First citizenship, now money. 'A good address. All right. Order up the litter. We'll go there now.'

The house wasn't a grand one but it looked comfortable enough from the outside: an old property behind a mud-brick wall on a pleasant tree-lined street. Someone must've been looking out for us because the door opened even before Crito knocked. The door slave stood aside to let us in.

'Welcome,' he said. 'Go straight through. He's in the garden.'

He . Not the master . The slave kissed Crito on both cheeks, which was also unusual. But, as I was about to find out for myself, it was an odd household altogether.

I followed Crito through the house and into the garden at the back. It was a pleasant place, simple but carefully looked after with a fig tree against the wall, rose bushes and terracotta pots of basil, thyme and rosemary. The small courtyard was full of people. Two of them, I noticed, were Praetorians. They were sitting on a stone bench chatting to each other quite naturally, as if they were at home and off duty. Only when they saw me did they stand up and come to attention.

In the shade of the fig tree sat a man in his sixties, dressed in a simple woollen tunic; smallish, balding, unremarkable in any way, except that he managed somehow to be the focal point of the garden. As we came out through the porch he looked in our direction. His eyes were sharp under massive eyebrows.

'Crito!' he said. 'God be praised!'

He was speaking Greek; good Greek, too, with an educated accent. I began to revise my opinions. He stood up. The younger man who'd been standing next to his chair — a slim, serious-looking man in a finer tunic than his — bent over and whispered in his ear, but he waved him aside.

'No, Loukas, I'm fine. Don't fuss, we have a guest.' The crowd parted respectfully to let him through. 'Welcome, sir. It's good of you to come. Justin, my friend, a little wine for the gentleman, please.'

The last request — it wasn't an order — was in Latin. The door slave who had followed us out smiled and left.

Paullus — this had to be Paullus — took my arm. Standing he was even shorter than I'd thought, scarcely the height of my shoulder. His legs were bent, almost crippled.

'My Latin's dreadful, I'm afraid,' he said. 'We'll speak Greek, if you don't mind.'

'Not in the slightest.' Someone had brought another chair and set it down under the fig tree. We sat. The conversation carried on around us, but I had the distinct impression that everyone was listening. Justin came back with a plate of grapes and the wine; one cup only. When he handed me it I noticed a huge discolouration on his lower leg. It was old, and looked like a burn: some childhood accident, perhaps. I sipped. A country wine with a hint of myrtle, and not at all bad.

'Now, sir.' The keen eyes turned towards me. 'You're wondering why I asked Crito to bring you here.'

'He says the emperor intends to blame the fire on the Roman Christians.'

Paullus nodded. 'Yes. We don't know for certain, but it's likely.’

'Is he right?' The old man's calmness annoyed me. 'Did you start it?'

'No.'

That was all. If I'd expected a tirade I was disappointed. At the same time the simple denial was vastly more impressive.

'So what will you do if he does accuse you?' I was intentionally blunt.

'Nothing.'

I frowned. This conversation wasn't going at all as I'd expected. 'But you're the cult's high priest, are you not? You've a responsibility to your people?'

'I'm no priest, sir, high or otherwise.' He smiled. I noticed that there were answering smiles from those around, and even some laughter. 'Just a common-or-garden sinner, worse than most if anything. And ours isn't a cult.'