Nest of Vipers (42 page)

She began to hum a lullaby.

'
Domina
. . . will you ever call me Attis?'

'But you are not that god any more. If you ever were.'

'Not Attis? Am I a god at all?'

'Of course you are.' She continued to hum.

'Which god?' I asked, looking deep into her night-black eyes. 'Which god am I,
domina
?'

She smiled at me. A mother's smile. 'I am surprised you have not discovered it by now.'

Four days later: the condemned prophet
Stephen is stoned to death by a mob led by
Saul of Tarsus

The dozens of naked minnows stared in stunned and fearful silence as Antonia progressed through the gardens with only a slave to accompany her. This slave, they all realised, was the same slave they had thrown from the cliffs to drown. Burrus regarded them with contempt, marking each and every face for vengeance.

At the far end of the terrace, staring out to sea, the Emperor knocked over his cup. The contents spilled to the ground.

'Curse it,' he muttered.

Antonia picked it up. 'It is a curse. This drink does you no good, Caesar.'

He leaped to his feet. 'It cannot be . . .'

'Yes, it is.' She embraced him. 'I am your old friend Antonia here to visit you.'

He basked in the warmth of her kisses. 'Oh, my friend – it is so good to see you again.'

She let him go and stood facing him sadly.

'What is it? Why are you here to see me?'

'I'm here in warning . . .'

From somewhere Tiberius heard the honking of the geese.

'Sejanus has enacted a conspiracy,' Antonia said, 'and its victim is you.'

The honks became a goddess's voice, from so far away. '
The matron's words alone are heard, the addled heart is ringed
. . .'

He touched the Imperial ring on his ringer and knew that Antonia was his saviour.

Tiberius watched as Antonia poured the last of the Eastern flower into the water far below. There was no more left. The island was now rid of it.

'How do you feel?' she asked him.

'Frightened,' he said with unvarnished honesty. 'I have tried this before, you see – and I have failed.'

'You did not have a friend to help you. Now you do.' She began to lead him away from the cliff and back to the green of the garden, where the minnows stood staring from the grass. 'Is frightened all you feel, Caesar?'

'Fear is much of it,' said Tiberius, 'but it is not all, no. I feel resolved.'

'Good.'

'And inspired. By your loyalty and dignity, Antonia.'

She smiled at him. 'They are two things I will go to my pyre still possessing.'

Tiberius squeezed her hand then looked about him for the Praetorian he trusted. 'Tribune.'

Macro came forward. 'Hail, Caesar.'

'You understand your orders?'

'I do,' said Macro. 'With Caesar's permission I will depart for Pontia right now.'

'It is nearly November. The seas there will be treacherous.'

'Time is imperative,' said Macro, 'and the Prefect's treachery is worse.'

'The gods bless you, Tribune. Free my grandson. Bring him here, where he'll be safe.'

'It will be done, Caesar.' Macro saluted again and left.

When Antonia was satisfied that Tiberius was resting comfortably, she turned her eye to the assembled minnows. 'So then,' she began. 'This is how you appear before your Emperor? Stark naked?'

Little Boots resented her opprobrium. 'It is how he
orders
us to appear,' he replied.

Antonia slapped him in the face. 'It is not how you appear before your grandmother.'

Shocked, Little Boots clutched his cheek.

Antonia strode to where Drusilla and Julilla cowered near Aemilius. 'Face me,' she demanded. Cringing, the girls stepped forward and Antonia gripped them viciously by the ears. 'Put on your clothes! You have the blood of the divine Augustus in your veins – how dare you disgrace it?'

The girls fled inside the Emperor's villa.

Antonia turned to the rest of the children. 'If you are to be fit company for your Emperor and
me
, then not only will you be attired with decency and humility from this day forward, but you will also be attending
school
.'

Clutching his throbbing cheek, Little Boots's look to his friend Aemilius was one of genuine horror.

Two days later: the nascent cult of Christ
proclaims Stephen its first martyr

Staring out to sea from the island's best vantage point, high up on the rocks, Lygdus saw a ship on the horizon. He watched its progress for a moment before he knew with certainty what sort of vessel it was: an Imperial trireme. The day had come. Resolute, he picked his way from his perch and along the beach and up the path again towards the island's single dwelling.

Tending the vines in a wide straw hat, Nero read the expression on the eunuch's face and discerned what the news was without Lygdus even needing to say it. 'So then.'

Lygdus could only nod, anxious of what he might do if he spoke. His emotions were in danger of overwhelming him.

Nero took off his straw hat. His face showed no fear.

Lygdus fell to one knee. 'Give me your courage,
domine
,' he pleaded.

Nero touched his shoulder and made him rise again. 'Courage brought you here in the first place, Lygdus. If you had not heard Macro's pillow-talk and acted with true courage by coming to Pontia, I would not have had the luxury of acceptance. To know your own fate in advance is a gift in situations like this. It has let me prepare for it.'

'But it is wrong.'

Nero didn't disagree. But in the long months spent alone on this island he had learned one true thing about himself: he was his mother's son. 'I have no fear at what is ahead, only gratitude that this waiting will end.'

'Oh
domine
–'

Nero shook his head. They had spoken of what the final moment must be and it could not include tears. Side by side, they left the vines and entered the small villa. Two swords lay in readiness before the wax mask of Nero's murdered father.

'Thank you,
domine
,' Lygdus whispered, 'for the privilege of being your slave.'

'You were never my slave,' said Nero. 'From the beginning you have been nothing less than my friend.'

As the two friends took the swords in their hands, the faintest refrain of a song kissed the air: '
The one near sea falls by a lie that comes from the gelding's tongue
. . .'

It came too late. The words fell unheard.

The Imperial trireme had docked at Pontia's tiny wharf. Macro waited at the prow, watching the progress of two of his men as they made the return trek from the lone villa. They were distressed; he could tell it from a distance.

'Where is he?' Macro demanded of them when they reached the dock again. 'Where is the Emperor's grandson? We have come here to free him.'

The Praetorians saluted. 'We must report a tragedy, Tribune. Nero is dead, along with a eunuch. They have fallen on swords.'

'But Nero was alive! We saw him tending the vines on the hill as the ship neared the dock.'

'His blood is still warm, Tribune, but his life has expired. He is dead.'

Macro feigned horror convincingly enough for his unsoph isticated men. 'This makes no sense. Why would he kill himself before he'd heard what we have to tell him? His liberty had been granted!'

The Praetorians had no answer.

'The poor lad,' said Macro, as if it now came to him. 'I see what it was. He'd become so maddened in his exile that he believed we were here to kill him.'

The Praetorians nodded, moved. This was likely so, they agreed.

'Lament my fate, boys,' Macro said. 'It falls to me to break this tragedy to the Emperor.'

On his public horse Sejanus rode at walking pace up the graceful slope of the Palatine. The hillside poplars had turned gold in the crisp autumn sun, and the majestic Temple of Apollo slowly came into sight. In excellent spirits Sejanus turned to the cohort behind him. 'There it is!'

The Praetorians were all cheers. Sejanus dismounted his horse to ascend the Temple steps with the full body of guards behind him. A brigade of
vigiles
, the civic police, was posted at the great iron doors.

'Hail, Prefect,' said the superior officer.

'This is irregular,' said Sejanus. 'Why are you
vigiles
here?'

The civic officers looked at each other. 'Nothing irregular about it for us, Prefect,' said the superior. 'This is where we're always posted. It's the Temple of Apollo. And a great day of honour for you, Prefect, if you'll accept our congratulations for it.'

Sejanus disliked
vigiles
. They were undisciplined street rabble, in his view. 'You are not required. The Praetorian Guard will do duty here today. Take your men and go.'

The
vigiles
didn't move. 'If you'll forgive me, Prefect,' said the superior, 'we will not go. This Temple has been our patch since it was built. Augustus himself posted us here. You Praetorians have your little duties and we have ours. This is one of them.'

Sejanus thrust his face at the other man. 'Do you even realise what is happening inside here today?'

'Yes, Prefect,' said the superior. 'You are receiving the
tribunitia potestas
from the Senate, which holds an extraordinary session in this Temple on the same day every year. It is a day of honour for us – we're posted here to guard the Senators – and it is a day of honour for you, Prefect, to be so highly awarded. As I said, allow us to offer our –'

'Stand aside and let me and my men enter the Senate meeting,' Sejanus demanded.

The officer stood aside but his men grasped their swords. 'Please enter with our best wishes and congratulations, Prefect. But your Praetorians may not follow you. This is our turf and they must leave it now.'

It was only Sejanus's keen anticipation of the high honour within that stopped him from arresting the man as a traitor, and all the
vigiles
with him. He turned to his own junior officer. 'Secure my horse, but take yourselves back to the barracks.'

There were groans of disappointment but Sejanus raised his hand. 'I will return in time. Pour some wine for me in readiness.' The guards grumbled until the junior officer initiated a cheer. Sejanus saluted them off before looking the
vigiles
' superior officer hard in the eye. 'I will remember this,' he said.

'I don't doubt it,' said the officer, once the Temple door had closed securely behind Sejanus.

Inside, escorted by four
vigiles
to an anteroom, Sejanus learned that Senate protocol dictated he must wait until called. Sejanus bridled at this, too, but the men were sympathetic. In the bestowing of great honours, they told him, Senators traditionally strived to make the glory reflect upon themselves. Sejanus could well be waiting for some time while his achievements were lauded by the august body. When he was eventually called, Sejanus could be sure that the Senators would have worked themselves up into such a congratulatory frenzy that the applause would bring him near to deafness and the backslapping would likely cripple him. Sejanus laughed at their humour – a rare thing – accepted a cup of wine and sat down in the anteroom alone.

He could half-hear the proceedings being conducted – dull administrative matters. But when his ears pricked at the first mention of his name, Sejanus found himself struck by nerves. For his entire life his Achilles heel had been the mystery of his birth. That he was Roman was not doubted but his parentage was a mystery. His earliest memories were of the Greek physician he had been apprenticed to from the time he could walk. He knew no birth father. When he was a child, some people had called him
slave
for this, but he had never been treated as one.

When Sejanus was twelve, the physician's downfall had caused him to be thrust before Tiberius. He had seen then what his life could be. The grieving general and future Emperor had a need for him, a need that Sejanus could ensure did not go away. It never had. Tiberius's need had led his loyal 'son' to the very cusp of true greatness. Everything Sejanus had strived for – all he
deserved
– was so close.

Yet with the august body of highborn men now lauding his name, Sejanus felt the familiar twinge of doubt. When he stepped out to receive his honour, would the congratulations be real? Or would he look behind the Senators' eyes and see them calling him
slave
in their hearts?

Sejanus removed a little vial from beneath his cuirass and loosened its stopper, sipping the contents. The effects of the Eastern flower were instant. He took another sip, letting the wave of pleasure wash over him, before downing the rest. His nerves vanished, and with them his doubt. He felt invincible once again. His imminent
tribunitia potestas
felt truly earned.

A pleasant buzzing filled Sejanus's ears, as though the anteroom had grown into a garden and bees now flitted among the flowers. The Senators' words floated in the air like specks of pollen, some reaching him, some not. He heard a letter from Tiberius being read out by the leader of the house. Sejanus stood. The Emperor's words reached him, but not their meaning.

'. . . my former friend . . . murderous plotting . . . family of Germanicus . . .'

The great temple fell into silence. Sejanus guessed his cue. He stepped from the anteroom and into the midst of the Senators, saluting and smiling.

Emboldened by the lack of Praetorians, the highborn men surged forward to order the
vigiles
to arrest him.

The ugly lavatory slave shook with terror. He covered his ears, which, although deformed, still heard the shrieks of violence clearly. The screams in the Forum dulled, replaced by a worse sound: the voice of the long-dead Senator.

'
If the German revolt had spread to my brigades, Tiberius would never have kept his throne
. . .'

He heard his own response – '
Really
, domine?' – and remembered the malicious intent he had hidden.

'
It would have tipped the balance – too many against him. But I kept my lot loyal and he kept his crown. So you're right, boy, Tiberius really does owe me one
. . .'

'It's not fair!' the ugly slave cried out. 'It's not fair! I hardly got anything for it. Just a few silver coins. That doesn't make me one of
them
!'

He tried to shut his eyes to squeeze the voice from his head, but it intensified his guilt. He ripped his hands from his ears, only to hear the Forum screams louder than before. Every person who had profited from accusations of treason was being dragged across the flagstones to their deaths. Men or women, it made no difference; freeborn or slave. Children would see no mercy either. Hundreds of Sejanus's clients had already been beheaded, and they were the lucky ones, having been caught and dispatched by the
vigiles
in the very first wave of reprisals.

But those who had hidden or fled were less fortunate, having to face the rage of the mob, which now flung them into fires or ran them through with spears before their heads were lopped off. A list of any and all persons remembered by victims of Sejanus as having prospered from accusations of treason was being compiled. Years of court records were being raked for every trial witness. How long, the ugly little lavatory slave wept to himself, would it be before they got to his name and read his lowly occupation?

He flew down the flight of steps into the toilet room, slamming the iron gate behind him while fumbling for the key. He tried to stretch through the bars and lock the gate behind him, but the key would only turn from the outside, the need never having been foreseen to lock it from within. He couldn't reach. The key slipped from his sweat-dripping fingers, clattering on the steps. 'No!' He had to throw open the gate again to retrieve it.

How long until they remembered him? How long until his name joined the list? 'Hurry!' he screamed at himself. 'Hurry!' He had the key at the lock once more but still it would not turn. He nearly pissed in his fear. Then he thought of another way to save himself. If they found the building locked, they would guess he was cowering inside anyway. But if he left the gate wide open, just as it always was, the mob would find the lavatory empty. They would never guess where a skinny slave could hide.

He stumbled into the room and saw the very seat the long-dead Senator had taken. It had the widest of all the openings, and the one best suited to a man of broad stance. It was the best hole to slip through. The ugly slave mounted the foot rests and slipped his legs into the gap, ready to drop to the sewer. But shooting flames suddenly burned the hair from his legs. He shouted with pain. A little papyrus boat was in the water below him, loaded with burning leaves. The slave dropped, crushing the burning vessel in the water beneath him.

'You fucking cunt, Duro!' he screamed into the blackness of the
cloaca maxima
. 'It's the last time you do it to me, hear? The last fucking time!'

'You're right about that.'

The lavatory slave span around. Duro, the slave from the lavatory at the Forum's opposite end, was holding a knife.

'It's the last of anything for you, cocksucker.'

The ugly slave's corpse spilled into the Tiber along with the rest of the filth from the
cloaca maxima
. There it joined the scores of other dead – masters and slaves, magistrates and criminals, gladiators and
mangons
, prostitutes and
praetors
– all those in Rome who had, in any way, however miniscule, profited from Sejanus's reign.

Fearful of the screams from the streets, but forbidden to look out to determine what was causing them, Tiberia stood timidly at the door to her grandmother's room. Antonia, supervising the packing of her possessions, didn't see the girl.

'Grandmother?'

Antonia acknowledged her but didn't stop. 'So much to do, child. And time so precious.'

'Grandmother, please –'

Antonia saw the confusion in Livilla's daughter's face and came over at once, thinking she knew what troubled her. 'We have talked of this, Tiberia,' she said, kissing her granddaughter, 'and I know how it pains you, but the Emperor needs me.'

'Yes, I know,' Tiberia tried to say.

'I can only stay in Rome for as long as it takes me to pack up my household. Then I must return to Capri permanently. My guidance is needed. The Emperor's hand is so burdened.'