Nero

25

Seneca was right, although the ease with which the affair blew over was sickening. Lucius stayed in Naples until September. The Senate and provinces sent message after message congratulating him on his narrow escape from assassination. Agrippina's statues went to the lime-kilns, her name was chiselled from the public monuments, and her birthday was included in the calendar of unlucky days. All no more than the dreadful woman deserved, of course, but still distasteful.

To celebrate his return, Burrus organised a show of gladiators in the Taurian Amphitheatre on Mars Field.

'Seneca's not happy about it, and the emperor won't be either,' he told me privately when the arrangements were made. 'Neither of them are what you'd call fans.' That was putting it mildly: one thing Lucius did share with Seneca was his irrational hatred of blood sports. 'But it's for the best, Petronius. The mob need a bit of blood to get them back on our side. And there's nothing wrong with a good clean sword-fight. The lad'll just have to grit his teeth and play the Roman.'

When I saw him in the tunnel leading to the imperial box Lucius already looked a little green, even beneath the carefully applied make-up. He was with Poppaea and Burrus, who were pointedly ignoring each other, talking to a man with thick curly black hair bound at the back in a horseman's queue. Seneca was not present.

The emperor looked up and saw me.

'Ah, here's my arbiter! Titus, come over here and let me introduce you to Tiggy!'

The other man turned. Even with hindsight I believe our mutual dislike was immediate. He had the coarse features and large teeth of a southern Italian peasant, and he was trying not to scowl as he held out his hand.

'Ofonius Tigellinus,' he said.

'Titus Petronius.' I took the hand. It was as big as a shovel-blade, and almost as hard. His grip nearly cost me my four fingers. 'Delighted to meet you.'

Lucius was eyeing us with amusement.

'Tiggy breeds the finest racehorses you've ever seen,' he said. 'And he's marvellous fun. I'm sure you'll be great friends.'

'I don't doubt it,' I said. Tigellinus gave my hand a final painful squeeze before releasing it.

'If you're ready now, sir, we'll go up.' The harassed official who was orchestrating the day's arrangements stepped aside.

'Oh, all right!' Lucius frowned. 'If we must I suppose we'd better. Let's get it over with, darlings.'

Trumpets blared as we entered the box. For a moment I was dazzled by the sun shining straight into my eyes, and then the roar of the crowd hit me like a fist. The amphitheatre was packed to capacity. Even on this relatively cool day I could smell its distinctive odour of human sweat and animal dung, faintly overlaid with a miasma of stale blood. I noticed that both Lucius and Poppaea were holding scented handkerchiefs to their noses.

The emperor waved to the crowd while we sat. I was between Burrus and Tigellinus. Burrus and I exchanged nods. He was looking iller and older than ever. Lucius took his place in the ornate president's chair, with Poppaea beside him. The trumpets blared again, the gates to the side of the arena swung open and the cheering swelled to an ear-hurting howl as the fighters emerged.

Burrus had done us proud. There were fifty of them, top-grade specimens muscle-heavy or sleek as leopards. They lined up facing the box in their matched pairs and gave the traditional formal salute.

Tigellinus was grinning. His elbow caught me a painful blow in the ribs.

'Some nice stuff here,' he whispered. 'Better than the broken-winded hacks we get down south.'

The gladiators filed out, leaving the first two pairs — heavily-armed Fish-men against Skirmishers — alone on the sand. As the gates closed the four men gave another salute and then crouched facing each other.

'This should be good,' Burrus grunted. 'Two sets of brothers. According to the trainer their families hate each other's guts.'

The taller of the Skirmishers lunged, his light spear darting towards an opponent's chest. The Fish-man leaped back, pulling his oblong shield round to protect his ribs, then chopped viciously sideways with his short sword; but the Skirmisher was already away, moving like a dancer to the edge of the arena. The crowd yelled.

Meanwhile the second of the Fish-men had drawn blood. As his brother had moved back he had rushed forward past his opponent's guard and thrust at the man's stomach. The edge of his sword slid across the outside of the retreating Skirmisher's thigh, laying it open to the bone. The man stumbled and almost fell.

'Got the bastard!' Tigellinus muttered.

'Wait!' That was Burrus.

The wounded Skirmisher brought his shield round hard, catching his opponent's sword-arm a sickening blow on the wrist just where the protective armour ended. The Fish-man's sword thudded on to the sand and a spear drove into his throat beneath the rim of the visored helmet. Blood jetted. The Fish-man crumpled to his knees in a clatter of ironware.

'Good stuff!' Tigellinus's hand pounded the rail. 'Didn't I tell you, Petronius? Straight in and no messing!'

I agreed; the fight was shaping up very nicely indeed.

Half the crowd were on their feet, screaming. The victorious Skirmisher drew out his spear and raised it high above his head; just as the first Fish-man turned and buried his sword to the hilt full in his unprotected back.

'Oh, well done!' Burrus said. 'Jupiter, what a fight, eh? Two clean deaths in five minutes!'

Tigellinus's eyes were alight. 'The stupid bastard never knew what hit him!'

I looked past him to the imperial couple. Poppaea was sitting stiff as a statue, her hand clenched in her lap. Lucius had turned away. He was looking greener than ever.

It was one against one now. The remaining Fish-man's helmeted head swung slowly round towards his remaining opponent, who stood waiting several yards off. They stared at each other while the crowd yelled above them. Then the Fish-man dropped his own sword, stooped and picked up his brother's. He moved forward at a lumbering run.

The Skirmisher danced away, keeping a ten yards' distance. There were some boos, but most of the crowd shouted encouragement, knowing it was in the lighter-armed man's interest to tire his opponent out. Clearly the Fish-man realised what was happening, because he stopped and waited.

'That fellow's no fool,' Burrus grunted. 'Nor's the other one. This is going to be a long hard slog after all.'

I settled back to watch as the two fighters circled each other. The Skirmisher darted forward, but his spear point scraped against the iron facing of the Fish-man's shield and the heavy short sword hacked at the shaft. The Skirmisher spun away, moving towards the other man's blind side.

'Time for drinkies.' Tigellinus produced a leather flask of wine, unstoppered it and drank. He passed it to me without wiping the top. 'You want some?'

I shook my head. Tigellinus shrugged and took a second, longer swig. Below us, the two fighters were still circling each other. The crowd was getting restless. Someone to my left, in the strong tones of an Ostian bargeman, yelled: 'Get on with it!' Whether he was shouting at the Fish-man or the Skirmisher, I didn't know. Perhaps he didn't know himself.

Suddenly the Skirmisher made his move. He had slowly been retreating backwards, enticing his opponent towards him and gradually increasing his speed. Now he darted left and lunged at the gap between the Fish-man's mailed sword-arm and the edge of his shield. The Fish-man's sword flashed up and down, catching the spear shaft a foot above the head and severing it cleanly. Then, as his opponent tried to regain his balance, he swung his shield round and with all his force smashed its massive iron boss into the man's side. The Skirmisher screamed and fell, dropping both spear and shield and clutching his shattered ribcage.

I expected — everyone expected — the Fish-man to wait for the life or death verdict from the emperor, but he didn't. Throwing aside his own shield, he dragged the screaming man by the hair across to where his brother lay. There he pulled his head back as far as it would go and slit his throat above the corpse. The crowd yelled its approval.

Lucius was on his feet, white-faced and swaying like a drunkard.

'Bastard! Fucking barbarian bastard!' he screamed.

Poppaea and Burrus gripped him by the arms and pulled him down; although I doubt if anyone noticed that. Not the Fish-man, who had his helmet off and was waving his bloody sword aloft in triumph. Not the crowd: they were shouting themselves hoarse and throwing fruit, coins, nuts — anything that came to hand — into the arena. Tigellinus was laughing quietly to himself and sipping from his wine flask.

Between them, Poppaea and Burrus got the emperor settled as the Fish-man made his triumphal tour of the arena and raised his sword a last time in salute to the imperial box. Slaves with hooks dragged off the dead fighters while others scattered fresh sand over the pools of blood. The second set of gladiators marched through the gates.

Instead of returning their salute, Lucius turned to Burrus. He was pale-faced and shaking. His finger stabbed towards the spot where the three corpses had lain, and the baying crowd beyond.

'That's your Rome!' he hissed. 'That's the peak of your fucking so-called civilised Roman society! Well, you can stay and watch the other murders if you like. I'm going home!'

We stared at him in silence. Burrus's expression was unreadable. As slaves sprang to open the door of the imperial box, Lucius paused. He was still trembling, his face now purple with fury. 'Oh, and once this shambles is over I want to see you at the palace! All of you! Seneca as well!'