David Wishart - Nero

None the less, I was polite. It wasn't her fault she was ugly, poor soul.

' Claudia Acte?' I said. 'You're an imperial freedwoman?'

'That's right.' Her voice was pleasant, at least: honey-rich and dark. 'I bought my freedom from the Divine Claudius three years ago. He set me up here.'

I was looking round as she spoke. The flat was hardly what I'd been expecting either, although I suppose one could say any attempt at decoration in a tenement shows eccentricity. The window shutters were brightly painted with flowers and trailing plants, with real plants in earthenware pots and fish-pickle jars full of flowering weeds resting on the sill. Theatrical masks hung from nails on the bare brick walls. I assumed these were part of Acte's stock, but curiously every one was cracked or split, so perhaps they were supposed to be decorative. If so then they were remarkably effective, forming a sort of three-dimensional mural. The room itself, of course, was tiny. Most of the floor space was taken up by a work-bench covered with bits of cloth, coloured threads and pots of glass jewels. On top of all the rest lay a woman's dark blue cloak; obviously part of the costume that Acte had been working on when we arrived. I picked it up and examined it. The material was cheap and very plain, but from a distance it would look quite impressive. Unusually for a stage costume, it was well cut and the stitches were small.

'Electra?' I asked.

She shook her head. 'Phaedra.'

'Really?' I raised my eyebrows. In the Greek myth Phaedra's passion for her stepson had brought the young man to his death. 'Hardly flashy enough for a seductress, I'd've thought.'

'Phaedra was no seductress. She was only a woman who couldn't help herself. That's what makes her tragic.'

My eyebrows went up another notch: one doesn't expect literary criticism from a seamstress.

'It's very well made,' I said. 'Too well made for a play.'

'Actors act better in a real costume. Or one that feels real. Ask anyone in the business and they'll tell you the same.'

'Acte comes from a theatrical family, Titus.' I was probably looking as bemused as I felt, because Silia was smiling.

I laid the cloak back down. 'Your father was on the stage?'

'Sure.' Acte's plump face broke into a not-unattractive grin; her teeth were healthy, white and even. 'Both grandfathers, and their fathers as well. We go all the way back to Thespis, Dad used to say. And Ma played the double-flute.'

'In Rome?'

'Miletus, although we travelled around. My parents sold me to a Syrian merchant. He brought me to Rome.'

'How old were you?'

'Seven or eight. They'd had three bad seasons in a row, so they were cleaned out.' Her voice was matter-of-fact. 'A few years later I got left to the emperor as part of a job lot in the man's will, and that was that.'

'Talk to him about Nero, dear.' Silia was trying on a wire tiara crusted with glass emeralds and examining herself in a small bronze mirror.

Acte picked up the cloak I'd been looking at and rubbed the material gently between thumb and forefinger. Despite their strength her fingers looked surprisingly delicate. 'Lucius? Lucius is a lovely boy. He'd make a good actor if they'd just leave him alone. Maybe even a great one.'

I laughed, then wished I hadn't because she turned on me with eyes sharp as a pair of dressmaker's pins.

'I mean it,' she said. 'And I know, believe me. I've seen the best. We used to talk a lot, before I bought myself out, when his mother wasn't around.' She laid the cloak back down on the workbench. 'Talk theatre. Proper Old Greek theatre, not this modern tat. Euripides. Sophocles. Even Aeschylus. That boy's got the heart for a play, and heart's rare. Everything else comes with practice, but never heart, you've either got it or you haven't. You know he had me crying once?'

'Really?' I was genuinely surprised. The woman looked nail-hard; she would have to be, after the life she'd led.

'Yeah, really. We were talking about Hecuba — Euripides's Hecuba — when he suddenly starts giving me the old woman's first speech. You know it?'

'"Levin of Zeus!"' I quoted. '"Black Night! What fears and phantoms have roused me from my sleep?"'

She nodded. 'That's it. When it's done well it sends the ice up my spine, has done ever since I was a kid and heard my father speak it in the Samos Theatre. I knew then he was good, really good, even if he didn't have the voice. That comes with training, but like I said the heart you're born with, and you can't fake it or hide it.' She faced me, her eyes level. 'That boy's a natural actor, Petronius. As an emperor he's wasted.'

This time I didn't laugh. I didn't dare.

Silia had been listening closely. Now she put down the tiara.

'How would you like to work at the palace, Acte?' she said.

The woman frowned and turned towards her. 'Doing what, for example?'

'Does it matter?'

'Sure it matters. I've done my time as a slave. This place may not look much, but it's mine. I'm my own mistress, I can pay the rent and still eat regular. What more would I want?'

'To help Lucius, perhaps.'

The frown deepened. 'He's the emperor. He doesn't need help from me.'

'Doesn't he?' Silia sat down on the bench. 'Tell me one thing, dear. Do you think he'll make a good job of it?'

'No chance.' Acte shook her head. 'With his temperament he hasn't got a hope.' First theatrical criticism, now a political assessment. Delivered with equal aplomb. Not your average freedwoman, this. I raised my eyebrows again, but Silia didn't seem surprised, either at the answer or at the tone.

'Oh, don't get me wrong. He'll mean well,' Acte went on. 'Like I say, the kid's got a lovely nature. But he's desperate to be liked and he's terrified of making mistakes. He'll do what other people tell him to do just because they are other people and he thinks they know better than he does. Especially older women.'

'People like his mother?' Silia said.

'You said it, lady, not me.' Acte turned away from her, picked up the tiara from the work-bench and began methodically to twist it out of shape. 'I don't name names behind people's backs.'

'But that's who you meant, isn't it?'

Acte's head came up. 'Look!' she said sharply. 'Stop cross-examining me, right? I don't know politics. I don't know anything but theatre and stitching costumes together. Yes, I'm fond of Lucius. I'm sorry for him and I don't like his mother. But that's where it stops. If the people at the top think she's good for Rome then I'd be a fool to say any different.'

'But they don't,' I said. 'Quite the reverse.'

Silia shot me a warning glance. 'No one's trying to put words in your mouth, Acte.'

'Okay. That's fine by me.' The strong slim fingers tugged at the wire. 'So let's keep it that way.'

'You can help Lucius, if you really want to. In fact, dear, you're the only one who can.'

Acte laughed. 'Oh, yeah. Sure. So Afranius Burrus keeps telling me when we split a bowl of porridge together.'

'That's not what I meant at all. Of course not. Lucius doesn't need anyone else telling him what to do. He does need a friend. Someone he can talk to.'

'I told you.' Acte set the tiara down, or what was left of it. 'The boy's an emperor now. Emperors don't ask ex-slaves for advice.'

'Stuff and nonsense!' Silia snapped. 'Your former master Claudius did it all the time!'

'I'm no bum-licker like Narcissus. I fry my own fish in my own pan, lady. And I don't need any favours.'

Silia was becoming seriously annoyed. I knew the signs — the spreading flush, the tight lips, the slight tapping of the left foot. 'I said a friend, dear, not a hanger-on. The poor boy will have enough of Narcissus's sort.'

Acte was quiet for a long time. She picked up the tiara and pulled it carefully back into shape while Silia glared at her. Then, suddenly, she stood up.