Defender of Rome

XXI

Poppaea was alone now, and she had never felt more frightened. Cornelius Sulla had been her only link to Petrus and now he was gone. She shuddered as she remembered how Nero had delighted in showing her the avenue of obscene lumps of charcoal that were all that remained of the blazing pyres. He had taken particular pleasure in pointing out Cornelius’s grinning skull and recalling details of his agonies that had brought her close to fainting away. At first she had feared he was singling her out and that at any moment a squad of Praetorians would arrive to arrest her. But this was Nero. He took a perverse pride in the unmasking of the Christian at the heart of his court and the way the one-handed tribune, Valerius, had been duped into achieving it. Another triumph for Torquatus, the master spy. The more her husband revealed, the clearer it became that someone close to Valerius must be a traitor. Nero laughed as he told how the Praetorian commander’s ‘useless louts’ had lost all trace of Valerius and his men as they tracked Lucina Graecina. Yet within a few hours of Valerius’s confronting Cornelius Sulla, the young aristocrat was locked away. The only explanation was that Fabia’s friend was being betrayed by one of his own men.

Her heart quickened as she recalled the glance she had shared with Valerius. She had been aware of him from the moment she and Nero had walked down the stairway into the crowded room, his youth and stern features marking him among the inebriated laughter and pink, grinning faces. She had sensed a power in him that, in its own way, rivalled the power of Petrus. The artificial hand fascinated her, although she would not have noticed it without Fabia’s prompting because he carried it so naturally. She had never witnessed such a magnificent combination of anger and torment as Valerius had shown when the beasts were unleashed on their helpless victims. Here was a man to be taken seriously. A man to be feared. A champion. And she had never needed the services of a champion more.

She had convinced herself that Valerius was the only man who could help her. She told herself he had responded to her mute appeal. But what could he do? Caesar had commissioned him to hunt down the very man who had given her hope. It was impossible.

With that thought came despair. She felt her world crumble; a fracturing of the mind that walked hand in hand with panic-stricken terror. What did a single glance mean? She was deluding herself. No man alive could help her now. Slowly, she walked out to the balcony and leaned across the parapet. Far below she could see the temples and the columns and the basilicas and the figures scurrying between them. She raised her arms and pushed her upper body forward until her toes barely touched the floor and the worked stone of the balustrade cut into her waist. One more inch and it would be finished. One more inch and there would be no turning back. The weight of her head and shoulders would carry her over the edge and she would plunge on to those stones so far below. Her head spun. One more inch. She must have the courage. Just one more inch.

She took a breath.

‘Poppaea?’

The moment was gone.

‘Poppaea?’

She turned and the mask resumed its customary position.

‘I am here, Caesar.’ She allowed a smile to touch her voice as she walked back into the room where Nero awaited her. He was breathing heavily and the shining pink face made her think of a freshly washed pig.

‘I was concerned for you, my love.’

‘And I am grateful for your concern, Caesar, but as you can see it is not necessary.’

‘I’m so pleased,’ he said. His tone told her what was coming next. ‘Because I have a special treat for you tonight.’

He took her gently by the hand and led her towards the room she thought of as his torture chamber.