David Wishart: Nero

I kept my voice matter-of-fact. 'Bassus said it started by accident. In the oil shops near the racetrack.'

'So it did. Accident. Pure accident. But we kept it going despite the fucker.'

'"We"?'

His eyes opened for a moment and he grinned at me.

'We,' he said, and winked.

I remembered the gangs who'd roamed the burning streets stopping the rescue attempts in the emperor's name. And the senior consul, the arch-aristocrat Crassus Frugi who had been, conveniently, out of Rome at the time. Things could've been a lot worse if Bassus hadn't been so efficient, or less ready to take responsibility.

'The second fire,' I prompted. 'The one that started on Tigellinus's estate. That was the Senate's doing as well?'

He nodded, and held a shaking finger to his lips. 'Not the whole Senate,’ he said. ‘Just the best of us. But don't say a word, Titus. Not that it matters any longer. It didn't work, and we're all dead anyway. Bastard wriggled out of it.' His head settled on the swelling back of the couch. 'Bastard wriggles out of anything. Even a knife. Shame. Still, give him enough rope and he'll hang himself eventually.'

I stayed very still, until Arruntius's eyes were closed and he was snoring softly. Then I got up and left.

So there you are. Believe it or not, just as you choose. Perhaps it was just the wine talking, and the whole thing was an accident from start to finish. In a way I hope so; I wouldn't like to think that any member of the august Roman Senate would put his personal hatreds above the lives of thousands of his fellow-citizens, let alone countless millions in property, even if it wasn't wholly premeditated. But if it is true then the conspirators deserved all they got, and I've less sympathy for them than I do for Lucius. Or even for the animal Tigellinus.

The sky through my dining room windows is turning red. The Praetorians will be here shortly to check that the emperor's orders have been carried out. Briefly, then.

Poppaea died; pregnant, she was kicked in the stomach by Lucius in a blind fit of rage after he had accused her of conceiving the child by another man. She'd never proved to be the danger Seneca had thought her, and Tigellinus had taught Lucius to trust no one but himself. She was buried in Augustus's mausoleum — not burned in the Roman manner, but embalmed like an Egyptian queen. I wasn't invited to the ceremony: Tigellinus had already persuaded Lucius that I wasn't worthy of the honour.

Not present either was Gaius Cassius Longinus, a descendant of the Cassius who'd killed Julius Caesar. Lucius's reasons (or Tigellinus's, rather) rapidly became clear: Cassius was accused of fomenting a fresh conspiracy with poor Junia Calvina's nephew. Among others implicated was one Titus Petronius Niger, erstwhile friend of the emperor. Lucius signed the order for my death, I am told, while selecting costumes for an up-and-coming concert tour of the Greek city-states. I doubt if I caused enough distraction to make him hesitate between the silver or the gold spangles.

So. Here we are, at the end. Dion looks relieved, as indeed he should: the poor darling's right hand must be aching. The plates and the wine jugs are empty. No more fig-peckers. No more wine. All gone.

Ah well.

Silia should be in Marseilles by now, beginning her own exile. That, I am afraid, I cannot forgive Lucius for. He may be a killer and a madman, but I never thought he was spiteful; although perhaps that, too, is Tigellinus's fault. Arruntius survives, but then Arruntius would. Tigellinus, of course, is thriving, and emperor in everything but name.

There's a lesson there, no doubt, if I had the time and the energy to learn it.

Perhaps mad old Paullus was right, and Lucius is cursed. If so then it's a pity. He meant well enough, in the beginning, whatever happened later. And I'd far rather see Lucius's future for Rome than Paullus's. Whatever his faults, the emperor has good taste. He ought to: I trained him to it myself. And wholesomeness left to itself can be so terribly boring.

The sun has cleared the horizon. We've timed things well.

Dion, the pen, please.

And then, my dear, the tourniquets.