Nero

19

It didn't take Poppaea long to prove me right. I was kept abreast of her plans by Lucius himself, who was completely disingenuous where his sexual partners were concerned.

'Poppy wants me to marry her, Titus,' he said, setting down a plate (we were in one of the palace dining rooms; I was advising him on the choice of a new dinner service). 'She asked me again last night, and that's the fifth time this month. I mean, honestly, darling, I'd love to indulge the dear girl but how can I? It's so unreasonable!'

'Don't ask me about marriage.' I picked up a mushroom dish from the selection on the table and held it to the light. 'It's the one subject on which I'm not an expert. Not from the inside, at least.'

He laughed. 'Oh, come on, don't be modest! What do you think? I can't divorce Octavia. Mother would be furious, she's always saying how much she likes the little wimp.'

I put the salver down — it would never have done, the decoration was repetitive and hopelessly old-fashioned — and tried to keep my voice light.

'You see the empress often these days?'

'Oh, no! Just now and again. She's a lot less frosty than she was, but Poppy can't stand her any more than Acte can.' He frowned, presumably at the juxtaposition of the two names: Acte still lived at the palace, but he hardly ever visited her now and never mentioned her. 'Titus, I really can't divorce Octavia, can I? I mean, we don't live together and so on, and I've never liked the woman. But she is old Claudius's daughter, and she hasn't actually done anything, has she?'

'No,' I said. 'She hasn't. And,' I added carefully, 'I doubt if she would, either. Forget about her. Octavia's quite content as she is.'

He nodded. 'That's right! That's just what I'm always telling Poppy!' He picked up a delicately-fluted spoon. 'How about these? They'd go very nicely with the soup bowls, wouldn't they?'

'Yes, very nicely.' I moved on to more sensitive ground. 'You say your mother's becoming "less frosty"'.

'Mmm.' He laid the spoon to one side and reached for a fruit dish with a raised boss in the shape of a satyr's head. 'She can be terriblyc ritical, you know, and she's no time for art. But we had quite a cosy little chat the other day about modern painting. She's obviously taking an interest at long last.' He held up the fruit dish. 'He's an ugly-looking devil, isn't he?'

'What?' I was momentarily distracted. 'Oh, the satyr. Yes, he is.'

Lucius giggled. 'He looks a bit like Seneca. Don't tell the old bore I said so.'

'Oh, my dear!' I examined the dish more closely. The satyr glared at me with blank, toad-like eyes. He looked constipated. 'Oh, you're quite right! Especially the expression.'

'Shall we take it? Just for fun. I'll present it to him at the next dinner party as a going-home gift.'

'Good idea.' I took the dish from him and put it by the spoons. 'But to get back to Agrippina — '

He laid his hand on my arm. 'Now, Titus, darling, don't you be silly! I know perfectly well what Mother's trying to do, and it won't work. The poor thing hasn't an artistic bone in her body, however much she pretends otherwise. But it is rather flattering. To think she's taken the trouble.'

'Yes, I suppose it is. The empress' — I was dry — 'is most condescending.'

He giggled again. 'As well as having the finest pair of breasts inRome. Excepting Poppaea's, of course. And your Silia's.'

'But naturally they are the finest! They have suckled an emperor!' I spoke in my pompous Seneca voice; and then I could have bitten my tongue off, because he paled.

'That's right, darling,' he said softly. 'So they have.'

Fortunately at that precise moment Seneca himself arrived. I doubt if I've ever been more relieved.

'Ah, my dear Nero!' The old man was affable and smiling, but I could detect signs of agitation. There was a trace of sweat on his forehead, and the drape of his mantle wasn't quite as impeccable as usual. One was never totally sure of one's welcome when visiting Lucius. 'You sent for me?'

Lucius's face clouded.

'Did I?'

'You did. Less than an hour ago. I came as quickly as I could.' He nodded to me. 'Good morning, Petronius. Choosing silverware?'

'Yes.' Lucius was smiling again. 'Isn't it lovely? Especially this fruit dish with the head.'

Seneca picked it up and examined it carefully. I could see he hadn't noticed any resemblance. 'Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Very nice. Most unusual.'

'Oh, I remember!' Lucius snapped his fingers. 'It was about my tax idea!'

Seneca stiffened. I could understand why: hitherto Lucius had taken very little interest in the minutiae of government, and fiscal matters especially bored him solid. Our whole plan of campaign was directed to keep him out of public affairs.

'Your "tax idea",' he said. His voice was expressionless.

'Yes. It's simply marvellous.' Lucius waved us both on to couches. 'Sit down, please. Both of you. I can't possibly explain this to you standing up.'

I sat. Seneca lowered himself gingerly, as if he were afraid his couch would bite him. Lucius remained on his feet.

'Comfy?' he asked.

'Perfectly.' Seneca's face was a study. 'Now. What tax idea is this?'

'You know the problem we have with tax farming?'

'Yes.' Tax farming was the bane of the Treasury officer's existence. In the interests of economy, the collection of taxes was farmed out to private concerns. The result was a system administratively cumbrous, riddled with corruption, totally arbitrary and the cause of constant complaints from provincials.

'Well, I just thought, why not scrap the whole thing?'

I was watching Seneca carefully. The poor darling went three distinct shades of green. There was a terrible silence.

'I beg your pardon?' he said at last.

Lucius was pacing the floor. 'It's simple. Ditch the lot. The indirect ones, I mean. Import-export duties, port dues, everything. We don't need them, silly fiddling things.'

'But where,' Seneca said carefully, 'is the money going to come from? The shortfall to the Treasury would be crippling.'

'But don't you see, there wouldn't be a problem!' Lucius beamed. 'Make trade free and you'll double the market overnight. Not to mention the administrative savings. It's brilliant!' He turned to me. 'What do you think, Titus?'

'Alas, I'm no economist, my dear. Not in your exalted class.'

'Don't smarm, you pig. Seneca?'

'It's…an interesting idea.' The old fraud looked glazed, and I didn't blame him. 'Certainly…radical. Whether it would work in practice is another matter.'

'But you'll put it to the Senate?'

'I will' — Seneca swallowed painfully — 'put it to the Senate. If you insist. All the same, my dear fellow…'

'Oh, I do insist!' Lucius was still beaming. 'And it is brilliant, whatever you think. Scrap indirect taxes and everybody wins, everybody's happy, except the tax monopolies, and these crooks can take a running jump to themselves.'

'I hope you don't mind me asking, dear boy, but did you…' Seneca shifted uncomfortably on the edge his couch. 'Was this your own idea, or was it…ah…suggested to you?'

'Oh, it's all mine.'

'The Lady Poppaea didn't…I mean no disrespect, you understand, but I was just wondering whether she or someone else might just have…'

Lucius was watching him squirm with a most intelligent smile on his lips.

'No, she didn't,' he said abruptly. 'Although she did remind me that I'm the emperor, and that perhaps I should be doing a little more…emperoring.' He turned away. 'Now I'm not pushing, Seneca, but I really do think it's a splendid idea, and I'd be very grateful if you'd pass it on to the Senate.' He paused: another dazzling smile. 'Tell them it's your own suggestion, if you like.'

I thought Seneca's sudden fit of coughing would finish the old devil.

He cornered me later outside, as we were waiting for the litters.

'I don't like it, Petronius,’ he said. ‘I don't like it one bit.’

'The emperor's tax plan?'

'Oh, no. I thought he was quite good over that. It's totally unworkable, of course, but you have to give the lad credit for good intentions. And the present system does need drastic revision. No. I meant this new…independence of mind.' His litter arrived and he climbed in with difficulty. 'That worries me. Oh, and you may have been right about Poppaea. I suspect I've rather misjudged her.'

I was so surprised that I almost forgot to hand him the fruit dish I was carrying for him. Seneca never admitted he was wrong. Never. I also forgot to mention the bit about Agrippina's breasts. They, to my mind, were even more significant. But by the time I remembered Seneca had gone.