Nero

15

The others were waiting for us by the gatehouse, wrapped in thick cloaks; against the chill, I thought, although I was only partly right. Lucius, too, had put on a thick travelling cloak — he was sensitive to cold — and had found another for me.

I knew Otho and Paris reasonably well, but not Senecio. Nor, on first glance, did I particularly wish to. He was the son of one of Claudius's freedmen; a big, brawny Spaniard with an accent thick as boiled corn-meal and breath stinking of raw onions.

'Who's this?' He scowled at me; evidently the instant dislike was mutual. 'We don't want company, Nero.'

'Oh, don't be silly, darling!' Lucius was fitting on a hat with an extra-large brim, which concealed his features even in the brightly lit forecourt. 'Titus is my guest. Behave yourself, there's a good boy. I won't have fighting.'

'Not yet, anyway.' Paris sniggered. Even covered by a woollen cloak he looked like what he was, the best ballet-dancer and mime artist in Rome. 'Hi, Petronius. Looking forward to your evening out?'

'Of course, my dear.' I was already beginning to have my suspicions about what they had in mind, but I wasn't such a fool as to voice them.

'So what's it to be?' Otho was grinning. 'The Eighth Region?'

'Naw. It's boring, and there's too much extra muscle around the Square.' Senecio had produced a vicious-looking club from the folds of his cloak and was tapping it gently against his palm. 'I vote for Cattlemarket Square. Lots of punters round there, and we could finish up at Mammaea's.'

Lucius turned to me.

'Titus, dear, you decide,' he said. 'Guest's privilege.'

I may have been cabbage-looking, but I wasn't altogether green, and I didn't like the sound of this at all. The Cattlemarket Square area is definitely the wrong part of town, and Mammaea's is the roughest brothel on the Aventine: dangerous enough in daylight, sheer murder after dark.

'Don't ask him!' Senecio spat into the shadows. 'He's pissing himself already. I say Cattlemarket Square.'

'Oh, let Senecio have his fun, Nero.' That was Paris. 'Petronius doesn't care, do you, Petronius?'

'Very well, then.' Lucius gave me a brilliant smile from beneath the shadow of his hat. 'Cattlemarket Square it is. All right, Titus?'

It was very much not all right; but again I was not fool enough to say so. Lucius had the guard unbar the gate and we were on our way.

It was starting to rain, and the streets were dark and deserted; of pedestrians at least, although there were plenty of heavy waggons around making their night-time deliveries. Most were slow as arthritic snails and made enough noise to wake the dead — city-centre residents need cloth ears after sunset — but we'd just turned into Tuscan Street when an empty cart nearly spared us the rest of Lucius's principate. Paris hefted a rotten cabbage. It bounced against the tailgate.

'Bastard!' Lucius yelled after the disappearing cart. 'Mother-fucking bastard!'

Paris muttered something I didn't catch — nor, I suspect fortunately for him, did Lucius — and Senecio laughed. Not a pleasant sound.

By the time we'd reached the first of the streets round Cattlemarket Square Otho and I were trailing the others. I suspected that for all his blade-about-town manners he was as lacking in enthusiasm as I was; prowling the streets looking for trouble and swearing at carters is a young man's game, and Otho could give Lucius and Senecio a good four years. Paris, of course, was older than any of us; but then Paris was the eternal adolescent, and a mad and bad one at that.

'You do this often?' I asked Otho. I kept my voice low.

Otho shrugged. 'When he gets the urge.' I didn't need to ask who 'he' was. 'Which seems to be most nights recently.'

'Why?'

Another shrug. 'Someone has to keep him out of trouble. He is the emperor, after all. As well as being a friend.'

'I meant why does he do it? I grew out of this sort of thing when I was seventeen.'

Otho grinned. 'Didn't we all, dear?'

Ahead of us the others had disappeared into a shop doorway above which I could just make out a crude wooden sign with a painted wine-jar. We caught them up just in time to see Paris produce a crowbar from inside his cloak. He stuck its point between the door itself and the locking bar and heaved. There was a splintering crack and the bar hung loose.

Lucius giggled.

'Drinkies, gentlemen,' he said, stepping past them over the threshold. 'Titus, where are you? I need your advice.'

I hesitated.

'Better go, Petronius,' Otho whispered.

I followed Lucius inside. The place was pitch-dark, of course, and we collided.

'Where the hell's the torch?' he complained petulantly. 'Why does no one ever have a torch?'

There was no answer to that, or at least none that needed voicing. We weren't carrying torches because torches make one conspicuous. I felt other bodies squeeze into the narrow space behind us, and I could smell Senecio's oniony breath and Paris's perfume even above the scent of stale wine.

'Never mind, never mind! I've found a shelfful of jars up here.' Lucius had moved away. I could hear him fumbling about behind the stone counter. Earthenware scraped and bumped, then shattered. 'Oh, fuck! Never mind, there are plenty more. Try this one, Titus. See what you think.'

The jug caught me in the chest and I grunted with pain. Paris sniggered.

'Pass it back, dearie,' he said. 'Don't hog.'

'No, no!' Lucius's voice came out of the darkness. 'Titus gets first swig. He's our wine expert. Go ahead, Titus! Blind tasting.'

Paris sniggered again. I broke the wax seal on the jug, removed the bung and took a sip.

'Oh, do come on, darling! I'm waiting!'

There was nothing I could do but give a mental shrug and commend myself to Bacchus.

'Sorrentine,' I said. 'Not much body, I'm afraid.'

'Shit! Give it back here.' That was Senecio. The jug was pulled from my hands and I heard a slow glugging, followed by a hawk and spit. 'The pansy's right. Flat and sour as a Chief Vestal's knockers.' Earthenware shattered on the stone floor and the smell of spilled wine intensified. 'Let's have another one, Nero.'

The emperor obliged. This one was Massic, and rough as only bad Massic can be. It, too, was consigned to oblivion. Lucius chose a third — bad Massic again — and then a fourth, which contained a vicious aberration from Fundi. I'd been served it (or its close relative) once at a dinner party and despite drinking sparingly had had gut-rot and a splitting headache for days afterwards. I broke the jar myself this time, out of pure kindness to humanity.

I must admit, crass though the admission is, that by this point I was beginning to perk up. Also either my eyes had become used to the darkness or the clouds had cleared away, because I could see grey shapes where before everything had been black. I even managed to field the fifth jar when it was thrust at me. I couldn't place this one exactly, but it was the poorest of the lot.

As the flask hit the floor Lucius made a tutting noise.

'This is dreadful,' he said. 'Simply appalling. Whoever owns this place is an absolute boor.'

Mentally I agreed. Five separate wines, and none of them drinkable. The vintner would have been better employed selling lamp oil.

'Move on?' Paris suggested.

'Yes, darling. But first' — Lucius giggled — 'a little quality control. Pass me the crowbar.'

Paris reached past me and set the heavy metal bar down on the counter. Lucius picked it up and hefted it.

'By the power vested in me by the Senate and people of Rome I hereby revoke this wineshop's licence to trade. The stock, such as it is, is forfeit. Mind your heads, darlings!'

I ducked; just in time. The iron bar came back and swept along the shelf of jars. In the narrow confines of the shop the noise was terrific. There was suddenly wine everywhere, the air was full of wine, drenching us and filling our noses with its stench. We began laughing like maniacs, stamping in the puddles and generally making adolescent fools of ourselves. How long that would have gone on for I don't know, because someone suddenly shouted, 'The Watch!'

I'd forgotten about Otho. He had stayed outside, either because he couldn't get in or because he'd wisely decided we needed a look-out. Whatever the reason, I blessed him. Without him we would've been caught like rats in the cellarage; and that would have been too embarrassing for words.

We poured out of the shop and ran, dodging down an alleyway and then several more at random and in quick succession, until we had lost them. Then Lucius slipped on a pile of dog shit and the rest of us piled on top. We picked ourselves up and dusted each other down. I was not feeling proud of myself, and besides I had twisted an ankle. Otho was cursing and holding a bruised shoulder, but the others were giggling uncontrollably.

Then Senecio saw the drunk.

He'd propped himself against a tenement wall by one arm and was being violently sick on to the pavement: a middle-aged man, greying at the temples, no purple-striper but reasonably well-to-do by the quality of his mantle. He had a pair of party slippers tucked under his other arm, and a wilted garland of flowers over one ear. God knows what he was doing alone and torchless in this maze of alleyways, but whatever the reason it was his pure bad luck.

As we walked (or in my case hobbled) towards him he gave one final retch, raised his streaming eyes from the ground, and saw us. He tried to run, but his mantle caught round his legs: not enough to trip him, but enough to prevent escape.

Senecio gripped the sleeve of his tunic. Paris grabbed him from the other side.

'Hey, pal!' Senecio was grinning. 'What's the hurry?'

The man stared at us, his vomit-flecked mouth slack with fear. He tried to pull away, but Senecio and Paris held him fast. Paris was already feeling for his purse.

'Been to a party, eh? Must've been a good one.' Senecio shifted his grip and thrust the man hard against the wall. Between the drunk's feet urine trickled on to the pavement. Paris leapt aside to avoid the spreading pool, and Senecio swore.

'You're a filthy little bugger, aren't you, pal?' he said.

''leathe,' the man said. ''leathe.' Half his front teeth were missing, and his mouth was badly bruised; obviously he'd been rolled already that evening.

Paris's hand came out from the tangled folds of his mantle. It was empty.

'The larder's bare, darlings,' he said. 'We just haven't been lucky at all tonight, have we?'

'Come on, Senecio.' Otho stepped forward and took hold of the Spaniard's free arm. 'Leave the poor bastard alone. He's plastered.'

Senecio sniggered but didn't let go. 'Poor's right. Poor and plastered and pissed. All the p's. Hasn't much going for him, has he?'

Leave him,' Otho said again. 'Let's get on to Mammaea's. The first one's on me.'

Senecio shook his hand off. 'You go ahead. I'll catch you up once I'm done.'

So far Lucius had stayed in the background. Now he came forward. The hat he'd been wearing when we set out had come adrift in our dash through the alleyways, and he was bareheaded.

The drunk looked up and saw him. His bleary eyes widened.

'But you're the — ' he said.

He never finished. Senecio's hand reached under his cloak, his arm came back and thrust forwards once, twice. The man gave a gasp, his eyes opened even wider and fixed themselves on something behind Senecio's shoulder. Then his mouth opened and he vomited blood.

Senecio stepped to one side and the dead man slid to the pavement.

'Look at that,' he said. 'All over my cloak.' He kicked the corpse. 'Bastard!'

The rest of us stood frozen, too shocked to move. Paris was the first to recover.

'It serves him right,' he said. 'He should've kept something back for us. A few silver pieces wouldn't've killed him.'

Senecio laughed as he bent down and wiped the blade of his dagger on the dead man's mantle.

'Filthy bastard,' he said again, this time almost lovingly.

'You didn't have to stab him.' I noticed, even in the half-light of the moon, that Otho's face was grey. 'A beating's one thing, but murder…' He made a curious gesture with his hand, like the sign to ward off bad luck. 'Murder's different.'

'I'd no choice.' Senecio straightened and put the dagger away. 'He recognised the emperor. That's right, isn't it, Nero?'

I glanced at Lucius. He was staring at the corpse, his eyes bright and fixed, and he was breathing heavily.

'Nero?' Senecio said again. His voice had lost its certainty.

There was no response. We might not have existed, as far as Lucius was concerned.

'That's enough excitement for the night, Senecio,' Otho said quietly. 'Sod Mammaea's. Let's go back.'

Paris was looking at the emperor.

'Perhaps we should,' he said.

We were already turning when Lucius let out a yell. He raised his foot and began kicking the dead man — ribs, face, head, back and groin. Even Senecio, I think, was appalled by the sudden violence of the attack. It was as if Lucius intended to kick the corpse into a lump of anonymous flesh.

Paris and Otho grabbed him and wrenched him away. By this time Lucius was screaming obscenities at the top of his voice, and any moment I expected — half wished for — heads to appear at the tenement windows, or the Watch to come charging round the corner; but tenement-dwellers mind their own business after dark, and the Watch has more sense than to patrol the alleys.

'Get that cloak round his face!' Paris hissed.

Otho wound Lucius's cloak round the emperor’s mouth and nose and pulled it tight. The muffled curses gradually died away, and Lucius slumped against the other man's chest. Otho slackened his grip and made sure Lucius could breathe normally again.

It took us an hour to get him back to the Palatine. He said nothing all the way, not one word; made no sound at all, in fact. His face looked as slack and empty of life as the dead man's had, and he stumbled from foot to foot as if he had been drugged.