M. Scott - Rome - The Emperor's spy

She was taller than most Romans, with long hair arranged in coils to her shoulders. Outwardly, her chiton was modestly cut, of pale yellow linen, belted with silver rope and extending down to her ankles, but the modesty was overcome somewhat by the translucent nature of the silk from which it was fashioned, which served admirably to enhance the curve of her hips, belly and breasts. Her neck was slim and fine as a swan’s, held with the internal grace of the astoundingly beautiful. The skin of her face was fine as new-fired clay and her features carried the almost-Greek symmetry of the true Roman aristocrat. Her toenails were dyed a deep orange. Threads and chains of gold, silver and diamonds adorned ankle, wrist, neck and hair. On a lesser woman, they would have seemed vulgar.

Pantera bowed, but did not meet her eye. So far, he had counted thirteen among the emperor’s retinue. There was still no sign of Nero, even in disguise.

From behind Pantera’s back, one of the guards rang a small bell. Silver chimes wove through the garden, resting here and there on the spring blossom.

Beyond the mulberries the eunuch sent Icarus crashing mournfully to earth. There was a moment’s pause before the garden rang to enthusiastic applause, such as might have been offered to Rhemaxos, the Thracian singer currently wooing Rome with his exquisite songs.

But it had not been Rhemaxos who had sung, not even close, and thus the applause gave its own warning even as the high, thin voice reached out to Pantera.

‘You are early; good. We like that in a man. You may present yourself to us. It is long past due.’

Schooling his face to mild astonishment, Pantera stepped through the screening flowers and saluted, as if he were still attached to the legions, and thus owed this man his allegiance as his supreme commander.

‘You enjoyed my singing?’ asked Nero, emperor of Rome and all her provinces.

‘It was singularly exceptional, my lord.’

Nero might have sung like a eunuch, but he was older than the coin images made him out to be, less portly, more lightly graceful on his feet. His face was round, but still built on the strong bones of his ancestors, so that it wasn’t impossible to imagine him a scion of Augustus’ line.

Like the bodyguards, he was fully dressed, although not overly so, given that he was to grace the races later in the day. His toga was of linen, brilliantly white, with porphyry deep around the hem. A diadem of artfully cut diamonds lay on his thick, unbrushed curls, which took some courage: in Rome only women wore such gems in their hair. His body was freshly oiled, scented with mint and citrus and something else that Pantera recognized but could not name. The mix blended pleasingly with the camomile and lavender of the garden.

His eyes were sloe-dark, hidden by half-lowered lids dusted in blue powder. He pursed his lips. ‘Sebastos Abdes Pantera,’ he said. ‘Named for Augustus, my honoured forebear, and for the leopard, for which you are famed. They say you are broken and will never mend; that you are prone to bouts of unruled anger during which you might kill a man out of hand. Is it true?’

He tested men, of course; it was his nature. And he was an actor, who could sense acting in others as a serpent senses blood.

For both of those reasons, Pantera, bowing, spoke the truth. ‘I would like to believe it not true, lord, although I may yet be proved wrong. Did Fabius Africanus tell you that?’

Surprise purred among the courtiers. To Pantera’s left, a woman gave a short, astonished gasp.

The emperor laughed, lightly, not unlike the silver chimes of the bell. ‘How refreshing. Few people have the courage to ask questions of their emperor. It was Akakios who said it, actually. He had it from Suetonius Paullinus, who used to be governor in Britain. The legate, Africanus, told us that you called on your god when you were dying, and that you are given to Mithras.’ That, too, was a question.

‘Each of these is true, lord.’

‘We are a god also. We, too, can save lives.’

‘I am sure of it, lord.’

‘We could make you worship us, calling on us as you did on Mithras.’

‘Of course.’

All humour had gone. Slow death hung a hand’s clap away. In Britain, they had crucified him, using ropes instead of nails because the death took longer. If Pantera let himself think about that, ever, at any point of the day or night, he broke into the kind of sweat that covered horses after a race.

Not thinking of it now was hard, but necessary. Aerthen stood exceptionally close.

From the citrus grove, the Empress Poppaea said, as if to her slave, ‘For myself, I have always found love to be sweeter when it is freely given.’

‘How immensely wise.’ Nero smiled at his empress. The threat of death moved away. Released from a diverting tension, the ladies and gentlemen of the emperor’s retinue murmured to each other in low voices. In the citrus grove to Pantera’s left, the tall, bitter-faced man moved, subtly, using the sound as cover.

Nero saw it. The black eyes flickered there and back to Pantera. Thoughtfully, the emperor said, ‘We hear you had a different name when you lived amongst the tribes in Britain.’

He should not have known that. Nobody should, except the men and women of the Dumnonii who were safely dead. Pantera bowed again, hiding more than just his eyes. ‘Among the Dumnonii, I was Hywell, lord. It means hunter.’

‘A leopard who is also a hunter. Very good. You were their hunter, and yet you hunted them on our behalf, striving to bring us Britain as your prize, just as, six years ago, you gave us first blood against Parthia at great risk to yourself. We commend you and would find ways to repay the debt we owe. To that end, we wish to visit the chariot yards before the races and require that you be our bodyguard. Are you armed?’

‘Lord, no. I would not so profane your presence.’

‘Then that must be rectified.’ Nero clapped his hands. By a miracle of training, or of chance, the songbirds fell silent.

The tall figure moving to Pantera’s left also fell still. Without turning, Nero said, ‘Akakios, fetch for our leopard weapons to suit his needs. A knife, I believe, balanced to throw? And perhaps a second, longer blade?’

With palpable courage, the bitter-faced man stepped forward, saying, ‘Lord, may I ask… With greatest respect, is this safe? I do not question your wisdom, only desire to protect your hallowed person.’

‘Yes?’ Nero put his index finger to his cheek and tilted his head in an actor’s parody of contemplation. His gaze switched to Pantera.

‘Will you kill us, Leopard-who-is-hunter? Or assault our person?’ His voice was deeper than it had been; more like a woman’s, less like a boy’s.

‘No, lord, I will not. I give you my word.’ Pantera did not bow now. It mattered that his eyes be seen.

‘Your word, sworn on the slain bull of Mithras?’

‘If you request it, lord.’

‘Not yet. The offer is enough.’ With a wordless wave, Akakios was sent for weapons.

Summoning a slave to remove the diamonds from his hair, Nero began to walk towards the vestibule. The four Ubian guards jumped to present arms, two either side. What they lacked in legionary crispness, they made up for in their sheer bulk, and the ease with which they swung their long cavalry swords. They smiled for their emperor, showing corded necks, thick as bulls’.

‘Come,’ said Nero. ‘We would have you walk in our company.’

Pantera moved swiftly to catch up. Together he and his emperor passed over the black and white chequered mosaics, between the multicoloured visions of Apollo on his lyre. The god, he noticed now, had a thatch of thick black curls amongst which diamonds nestled.