David Wishart: Nero

'The palace?' I was surprised: the Senate only meets in the Senate House or in some other public, consecrated place. 'Why the palace?'

Persicus leaned forward so that the slave could scrape his back.

'You may well ask,' he grunted. 'The Bitch is feeling her oats.'

'Bitches don't eat oats, dear.'

'Oh, ha ha!' He was scowling. 'Very funny, Petronius.'

'I try. I can even ask the same question twice if I don't get an answer the first time. Why the palace?'

'Because even with the Idiot gone Agrippina still thinks she's the bloody co-head of state, that's why. Only being a woman she isn't allowed into the Senate House.'

This was even more surprising. 'Agrippina was at the meeting?'

He shook his head. 'No. But there was a curtain at the far end of the room and I'll bet you a dozen of Faustinian to a cup of vinegar she was on the other side of it.'

'Naughty.'

'It's worse than naughty. It's insulting.' He stretched his neck sideways and winced as the scraper's blunt edge caught his right ear-lobe. I expected him to cuff the slave but he didn't; the lad — a pretty enough thing in a sulky way — evidently had other talents which made up for his clumsiness. 'Jupiter knows why Nero allowed it.'

'He knew?'

'Of course he knew. How could he not? Still, she's got what she wanted, the lad's emperor. Maybe she'll draw her claws in now and let him get on with things.'

I sat back against a pillar: I'd had my scrape earlier, and I quite enjoy watching others suffer. Persicus turned over. The slave poured oil onto his chest and rubbed it in exactly as if he were basting a chicken; I wondered if Persicus had promoted him out of his kitchen. 'How was he himself?' I asked.

'Nero? Oh, Nero did fine. More than fine. A bit nervous, but that's understandable. At least he can string a sentence together without tripping over his tongue or spraying you with spit like the Idiot. What's more, he talked straight sense. Believe me, that's another thing that hasn't been too common lately.'

All this sounded most promising. Persicus was an honest, conscientious man (well, fairly honest and conscientious) who said what he thought. And he spoke for the best of the Senate.

'So you think he'll do?'

'He'll do. So long as he can shake himself loose from the tit.' The point of the scraper snagged a rib, and he winced. 'Jupiter! You watch what you're doing, you little bastard!'

If the boy had been mine I'd've sent him arse over tip into the pool, 'other talents' or not, especially since he only smiled in apology. He had nice teeth, though.

'Will he? Shake loose, I mean?'

'You pray that he does, boy! Pure sweetness and light, that's our future, if he lives up to his promises. No secret trials, no corruption, no favourites. No fuck-all of what we've been used to these last thirteen years.' Persicus grinned suddenly. 'Hey! Smile, Petronius! You're on the threshold of the Golden Age!'

'Oh, my dear! I've heard that one before!'

'This time it could be true. We'll have another god on the team. Maybe he can swing it, if he doesn't trip over himself as usual.'

'Oh, and who's that?'

'Guess.'

I laughed. 'Claudius? You're deifying Claudius? '

'Got it in one, boy. And don't spread it around either because it's not official yet.' He sat up. The incompetent bath slave collected the tools of his trade and ambled off, drawing more than one appreciative glance from the loungers by the cold plunge. 'The Bitch wants to build him a temple on the Caelian. Only thing is, the engineers have to lick the hydraulics problems first.'

I frowned. 'What hydraulics problems?'

Persicus chuckled, his eyes on the boy's retreating buttocks. 'How to make a cult statue that shits itself and drools at the same time. What else would they be?'

Golden Age or not, there were ominous signs that Agrippina had no intention of pulling her claws in. First to go was Narcissus, Claudius's all-powerful secretary and the empress's principal opponent. Not many tears were shed for him: the old fraud had been feathering his nest at public expense for years, and being an ex-slave and, worse, a Greek he was persona definitely non grata with the Senate. However, towards the end of the month when I went round to Silia's to pick her up for a birthday party I found her friend Junia Calvina doing a Niobe all over the marble floor.

'I'm sorry, dear.' Silia had her arm round the sobbing girl's shoulders. 'I can't go. Junia's had a bit of bad news.'

A bit of bad news was putting it mildly; Junia was large and cheerful, and not normally given to hysterics. I sat down on a folding chair while she continued to deliquesce and Silia explained. The two had been shopping for trinkets in the Saepta when a young fool by the name of Passienus had come up and commiserated with the girl over the death of her brother who, as far as she knew, was alive and well and governing Asia. Junia had promptly gone to pieces, and Silia had been obliged to ferry her home and feed her doughnuts.

'It wasn't Passienus's fault, Titus.' The waterworks were slowing by now, but Junia's plump face was flushed and puffy. 'Not really. He thought he was being ever so kind and daring because Marcus was poisoned by imperial agents.'

'He was what? '

'P-poisoned. By agents of the emperor.'

I couldn't believe my ears. It was too melodramatic for words. Marcus Silanus was one of the most ineffectual men I'd ever met, and about as dangerous to the state as a pet rabbit. If the situation hadn't been so serious I'd've laughed. 'The emperor had him killed? Lucius did?'

'Don't be silly, dear.' Silia was still patting Julia's hand. 'The men were acting on orders from Agrippina.'

'They admitted that?'

'Of course not. But they implied it. And Agrippina's practically co-ruler these days, as you well know.'

I still didn't believe it. 'Julia, you're certain? That it was an official killing?'

'Oh, yes.' She dabbed at her shiny nose with a handkerchief. 'They murdered him quite openly, at a dinner party.'

'But why on earth should Agrippina want to kill your brother?' I was being tactful: a more natural question would've been, 'Why on earth would she bother?' Marcus Silanus had all the rage and fire of an under-cooked blancmange.

'Because we're descended from Augustus, of course.' The handkerchief came up again and Junia blew. Hard. The walls echoed. 'That horrible woman's jealous.'

'Ah.' I sat back. Of course. That explained everything. Now she'd got her son on to the throne Agrippina was eliminating other possible claimants. The fact that she'd begun with poor Marcus Silanus, who couldn't have mounted a decent rebellion to save himself or drummed up enough support for the presidency of a glee club, didn't augur well for the future: Silanus wasn't by any means the only descendant of Augustus around.

The Bitch was feeling her oats right enough.

'You go on to the party, Titus.' Silia looked up. 'We'll be fine here.'

'No, darling.' I shook my head. 'I'm not especially bothered. Honestly.' I wasn't. The couple who were giving the birthday bash (they were both men, filthy-rich business acquaintances of mine) had as much culture as my door slave. Less: he could count and read, and he didn't wear cheap make-up. I moved over to the couch next to Junia and poured a cup of wine from the flask on the table.

'There's only Decimus and me in the family left now.' Junia was sniffling in earnest again. 'Plus little Lucius, of course.' Lucius was her nephew, Silanus's son and heir. 'We'll be next, I just know we will.'

'Don't be silly, Junia!' Silia snapped. 'Agrippina may be a nasty piece of work but when all's said and done she's only the emperor's mother. She can't tell him what to do, he won't allow it. Nor will the Senate.'