David Wishart - Nero

'You're most welcome.' He finished the wine and poured himself another cup. 'The old goat should've known better than to try treason at his age. We're well rid of him.'

'Treason? Seneca? '

'Of course. You're surprised?'

'Naturally I'm surprised! Did he confess?'

Tigellinus smiled. 'He didn't need to. Natalis denounced him.' Natalis, if you remember, was one of the conspirators. 'The old bastard was in it from the start.'

I set my wine down untasted.

'Well, my dear,' I said carefully, 'it was very kind of you to come and tell me all this, but it is getting rather late and — '

'"There can be slain no sacrifice more acceptable to God,"' Tigellinus murmured.

I froze. 'I beg your pardon?'

'I'm not going yet, Petronius. I haven't finished with you. I haven't even begun. You remember these words?'

'No.' It was a lie; I remembered them quite clearly. Seneca had spoken them to me, or to himself, that night in the Vatican Gardens.

'Strange. One of my people said you were with him at the time. You're sure you don't remember?' His eyes were boring into me.

'Oh, yes. You're right, of course. He was commenting on the burned Christian. Not the most tasteful of remarks, but we shouldn't speak ill of the dead, should we?'

Tigellinus laughed. 'A good try, Petronius. But not quite good enough. I thought you prided yourself on being a literary man. Surely you recognised the words?'

I was genuinely puzzled, and not a little alarmed. 'My knowledge isn't as exhaustive as your own, darling. No, I'm afraid I did not.'

'They're from one of Seneca's own plays, his Hercules Mad .' He was smiling broadly now. 'The full quotation goes — and correct me if I'm wrong — "There can be slain no sacrifice more acceptable to God than an unjust and wicked king." You replied — and again I'm speaking subject to your correction — "Indeed."'

We stared at each other in silence. The masks were down. Tigellinus wasn't smiling any longer.

'I told you. He was talking about the dead slave,' I said. 'At least, I thought he was.'

'Your thoughts, my dear, aren't worth a wet fart. I'm interested in words. His were treasonous, and you agreed with them.'

I picked up my wine-cup and drank, proud that my hand didn't shake.

'You said you hadn't come to arrest me,' I said.

'And I added, Not yet . I want you to suffer for a while first.' Tigellinus was grinning again. 'Darling.'

'Why?'

'Because I don't like you. I've never liked you.'

'And that's your reason?'

He shrugged. 'Do I need a better one?'

I shifted on the couch. 'Supposing I kill myself now?'

'You can please yourself. But you'd be a fool if you did. And who knows? You may be lucky. I might die before you after all.'

'Lucius would never believe I was a traitor. I'm not. You know that yourself.'

'He'll believe what I tell him. The poor bastard can't tell reality from fantasy nowadays anyway.'

That was true enough, although I hadn't expected Tigellinus to state the case so baldly. Lucius had always been convinced that despite all evidence to the contrary everyone loved him. Now, with the conspiracy, he was confronted with proof that they didn't, and his world had collapsed around him.

'What do you want, Tigellinus?' I said softly. 'Power? To be emperor yourself?'

He laughed. 'Fuck that! I told you years ago, when we first met. I only want to enjoy myself. Nero understands. He may be stupid in many ways but he knows I'm loyal.' He stood up. Carefully, deliberately, he poured the rest of his wine over the couch and dropped the cup. It smashed on the marble floor. 'A libation to Seneca's ghost. And to yours, Petronius. Don't bother to see me out.'

I lay for a long time after he had gone, staring at the closed door.

The treason trials continued. How many of the fifty-odd accused were actually guilty, and how many were innocent victims of Tigellinus, I didn't know. I wasn't sure even about Seneca. Certainly he was on record as saying that when all else failed it was the good man's duty to kill a tyrant, but then the old ham's actions always had fallen short of his philosophy. Frankly I doubted if he had the guts for revolution. The great surprise was the condemnation of Lucius's and Tigellinus's co-judge Faenius Rufus. Him I have no doubts about at all; Rufus had neither the will nor the energy for treason. God knows what Tigellinus promised Scaevinus if the latter accused him, but it was never paid. Scaevinus and Rufus both died.

Others died, too. Lots of them, including Lucan, Seneca's nephew. I hadn't much time for Lucan, who wore his hair in the old Republican style(despite his flattery of the emperor) and had a grossly inflated idea of his own skills as a poet; but he didn't deserve death on those counts, poor lad, let alone the reason that was given. Relieving himself of a bout of wind in one of the public privies, he had been stupid enough to quote one of Lucius's own lines to the assembled company:

You might have thought it thundered 'neath the ground.

One of Tigellinus's spies happened to be sitting two beams along. He reported the joke back, and Lucan was condemned.

For his help in suppressing the Great Conspiracy Tigellinus was awarded an honorary triumph and had several statues of himself erected in prominent public places, by grateful vote of the Senate. What there was left of it.

Heigh ho.

It is, by the way (to bring us back to the present, which we've almost reached), almost dawn. The slaves are pulling back the curtains and the light of the lamps is beginning to look somewhat pale. Dion (my secretary, remember?) is yawning; he's done marvellously, poor darling, and I'll give him his freedom for this night's work before we make an end. Promise.

Before we make an end. One more page, Dion, or perhaps two. To clear up a mystery.

Who burned Rome? And why?

Oh, yes. I know. No, it wasn't an accident, or at least not completely. Nor was it Lucius, to make room for his Golden House, let alone the poor Christians, out of misguided piety or pure devilment. Other agents were responsible.

What agents, you ask? I found out because Arruntius was drunk. He'd never have told me otherwise.

I'd gone round at Silia's invitation: a house-warming (if that isn't an unfortunate term after the first house has been destroyed by fire) which was also — tacitly — a celebration of Arruntius's having escaped being involved in the Great Conspiracy. We were, of course, in the dining room, rather depressingly decorated in the old-fashioned style with Europa and the Bull plus a Still Life with Dead Pheasants. It had been an excellent meal: spiced seafood dumplings, celery and calfs' brains with egg sauce, and a truly imperial sturgeon cooked whole in wine and fennel. Arruntius had managed to lay his hands on several gallons of vintage Faustinian (I didn't ask how, but I had the distinct impression that it was a bribe for whatever he'd been engaged in at Ostia), and we'd done our best to make a hole in it. Silia had fallen asleep on one of the couches. Arruntius and I were left looking pop-eyed at each other. We were talking about the fire.

'Terrible thing, Titus. Terrible.' Arruntius tried to lift his wine-cup to his mouth and failed. 'A disaster. A complete disaster.'

'Not for Tigellinus, my dear,' I said. 'It left the emperor vulnerable. Exactly where Tiggy wanted him.'

'That's what I mean. Total miscalc-. Miscalc-.' Arruntius belched, then stumbled carefully through the word. 'Miscalculation. All that trouble for nothing.'

I felt suddenly sober. 'Miscalculation?'

'Idea was. Just the poor areas. Get mob on our side.' Arruntius's head was nodding. 'Nero was too popular. Only it got out of hand, didn't it? Shame, Titus. Crying shame.'