Nero

46

The treason trials continued. How many of the fifty-odd accused were actually guilty, and how many were innocent victims of Tigellinus, I didn't know. I wasn't sure even about Seneca. Certainly he was on record as saying that when all else failed it was the good man's duty to kill a tyrant, but then the old ham's actions always had fallen short of his philosophy. Frankly I doubted if he had the guts for revolution. The great surprise was the condemnation of Lucius's and Tigellinus's co-judge Faenius Rufus. Him I have no doubts about at all; Rufus had neither the will nor the energy for treason. God knows what Tigellinus promised Scaevinus if the latter accused him, but it was never paid. Scaevinus and Rufus both died.

Others died, too. Lots of them, including Lucan, Seneca's nephew. I hadn't much time for Lucan, who wore his hair in the old Republican style(despite his flattery of the emperor) and had a grossly inflated idea of his own skills as a poet; but he didn't deserve death on those counts, poor lad, let alone the reason that was given. Relieving himself of a bout of wind in one of the public privies, he had been stupid enough to quote one of Lucius's own lines to the assembled company:

You might have thought it thundered 'neath the ground.

One of Tigellinus's spies happened to be sitting two beams along. He reported the joke back, and Lucan was condemned.

For his help in suppressing the Great Conspiracy Tigellinus was awarded an honorary triumph and had several statues of himself erected in prominent public places, by grateful vote of the Senate. What there was left of it.

Heigh ho.

It is, by the way (to bring us back to the present, which we've almost reached), almost dawn. The slaves are pulling back the curtains and the light of the lamps is beginning to look somewhat pale. Dion (my secretary, remember?) is yawning; he's done marvellously, poor darling, and I'll give him his freedom for this night's work before we make an end. Promise.

Before we make an end. One more page, Dion, or perhaps two. To clear up a mystery.

Who burned Rome? And why?

Oh, yes. I know. No, it wasn't an accident, or at least not completely. Nor was it Lucius, to make room for his Golden House, let alone the poor Christians, out of misguided piety or pure devilment. Other agents were responsible.

What agents, you ask? I found out because Arruntius was drunk. He'd never have told me otherwise.

I'd gone round at Silia's invitation: a house-warming (if that isn't an unfortunate term after the first house has been destroyed by fire) which was also — tacitly — a celebration of Arruntius's having escaped being involved in the Great Conspiracy. We were, of course, in the dining room, rather depressingly decorated in the old-fashioned style with Europa and the Bull plus a Still Life with Dead Pheasants. It had been an excellent meal: spiced seafood dumplings, celery and calfs' brains with egg sauce, and a truly imperial sturgeon cooked whole in wine and fennel. Arruntius had managed to lay his hands on several gallons of vintage Faustinian (I didn't ask how, but I had the distinct impression that it was a bribe for whatever he'd been engaged in at Ostia), and we'd done our best to make a hole in it. Silia had fallen asleep on one of the couches. Arruntius and I were left looking pop-eyed at each other. We were talking about the fire.

'Terrible thing, Titus. Terrible.' Arruntius tried to lift his wine-cup to his mouth and failed. 'A disaster. A complete disaster.'

'Not for Tigellinus, my dear,' I said. 'It left the emperor vulnerable. Exactly where Tiggy wanted him.'

'That's what I mean. Total miscalc-. Miscalc-.' Arruntius belched, then stumbled carefully through the word. 'Miscalculation. All that trouble for nothing.'

I felt suddenly sober. 'Miscalculation?'

'Idea was. Just the poor areas. Get mob on our side.' Arruntius's head was nodding. 'Nero was too popular. Only it got out of hand, didn't it? Shame, Titus. Crying shame.'

I kept my voice matter-of-fact. 'Bassus said it started by accident. In the oil shops near the racetrack.'

'So it did. Accident. Pure accident. But we kept it going despite the fucker.'

'"We"?'

His eyes opened for a moment and he grinned at me.

'We,' he said, and winked.

I remembered the gangs who'd roamed the burning streets stopping the rescue attempts in the emperor's name. And the senior consul, the arch-aristocrat Crassus Frugi who had been, conveniently, out of Rome at the time. Things could've been a lot worse if Bassus hadn't been so efficient, or less ready to take responsibility.

'The second fire,' I prompted. 'The one that started on Tigellinus's estate. That was the Senate's doing as well?'

He nodded, and held a shaking finger to his lips. 'Not the whole Senate,’ he said. ‘Just the best of us. But don't say a word, Titus. Not that it matters any longer. It didn't work, and we're all dead anyway. Bastard wriggled out of it.' His head settled on the swelling back of the couch. 'Bastard wriggles out of anything. Even a knife. Shame. Still, give him enough rope and he'll hang himself eventually.'

I stayed very still, until Arruntius's eyes were closed and he was snoring softly. Then I got up and left.

So there you are. Believe it or not, just as you choose. Perhaps it was just the wine talking, and the whole thing was an accident from start to finish. In a way I hope so; I wouldn't like to think that any member of the august Roman Senate would put his personal hatreds above the lives of thousands of his fellow-citizens, let alone countless millions in property, even if it wasn't wholly premeditated. But if it is true then the conspirators deserved all they got, and I've less sympathy for them than I do for Lucius. Or even for the animal Tigellinus.

The sky through my dining room windows is turning red. The Praetorians will be here shortly to check that the emperor's orders have been carried out. Briefly, then.

Poppaea died; pregnant, she was kicked in the stomach by Lucius in a blind fit of rage after he had accused her of conceiving the child by another man. She'd never proved to be the danger Seneca had thought her, and Tigellinus had taught Lucius to trust no one but himself. She was buried in Augustus's mausoleum — not burned in the Roman manner, but embalmed like an Egyptian queen. I wasn't invited to the ceremony: Tigellinus had already persuaded Lucius that I wasn't worthy of the honour.

Not present either was Gaius Cassius Longinus, a descendant of the Cassius who'd killed Julius Caesar. Lucius's reasons (or Tigellinus's, rather) rapidly became clear: Cassius was accused of fomenting a fresh conspiracy with poor Junia Calvina's nephew. Among others implicated was one Titus Petronius Niger, erstwhile friend of the emperor. Lucius signed the order for my death, I am told, while selecting costumes for an up-and-coming concert tour of the Greek city-states. I doubt if I caused enough distraction to make him hesitate between the silver or the gold spangles.

So. Here we are, at the end. Dion looks relieved, as indeed he should: the poor darling's right hand must be aching. The plates and the wine jugs are empty. No more fig-peckers. No more wine. All gone.

Ah well.

Silia should be in Marseilles by now, beginning her own exile. That, I am afraid, I cannot forgive Lucius for. He may be a killer and a madman, but I never thought he was spiteful; although perhaps that, too, is Tigellinus's fault. Arruntius survives, but then Arruntius would. Tigellinus, of course, is thriving, and emperor in everything but name.

There's a lesson there, no doubt, if I had the time and the energy to learn it.

Perhaps mad old Paullus was right, and Lucius is cursed. If so then it's a pity. He meant well enough, in the beginning, whatever happened later. And I'd far rather see Lucius's future for Rome than Paullus's. Whatever his faults, the emperor has good taste. He ought to: I trained him to it myself. And wholesomeness left to itself can be so terribly boring.

The sun has cleared the horizon. We've timed things well.

Dion, the pen, please.

And then, my dear, the tourniquets.