Defender of Rome

IX

Poppaea Augusta Sabina lay back on the padded couch and took a sip of well-watered wine. From the other side of the wide table in the shaded gardens on the Palatine, Fabia smiled at her old friend; two of Rome’s most striking women comfortable in the knowledge that they would never need to rival each other. The tone of their relationship had been set by the manner in which they had been introduced, a manner which tolerated no shyness or embarrassment on either side. They were of a similar age, when giggling girlhood was long past, but the first true challenges of the passing years still lay in the future. As they studied each other they knew they would never appear more beautiful. Had circumstances been different it might have been Fabia who shared an Emperor’s bed and Poppaea who endured any rich man’s company, but circumstances were not and neither of them would ever mention it.

‘It is such a pleasure to be able to speak freely and enjoy another’s companionship just for the sake of it,’ Poppaea sighed. ‘I think palace servants were born with flapping ears. Even when they are not spies they are gossips for whom no secret is sacred.’

‘Even your ladies in waiting?’

‘ Particularly my ladies in waiting.’

‘Then your husband will be told of my visit. I hope it won’t cause you any difficulty.’

Poppaea laughed at her friend’s naivety. ‘Has it ever before? The very thought of our friendship has my husband panting like a little bull at the sight of a tethered cow. He understands that he profits in the bedroom from each little secret you impart.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I even give you the credit for some of the more interesting ideas I introduce myself, because it arouses him to imagine us discussing them together and rehearsing them for his pleasure.’

‘I thought…’

‘Because you are no longer summoned to join us?’

Fabia nodded. It had been months now. At first she had been relieved, but relief had turned to concern and then to outright fear. She had known it could not last, but the rewards of the relationship had been beyond her imagination and it could be dangerous to be discarded by the Emperor. And the truth was that Poppaea created physical desires in her that were just as intense as any inspired by a man. She was certain she aroused the same feelings in the dark-haired woman. She studied her now, long slim legs peeping from the crimson shift as she lay languidly on her side, and imagined her naked and wide-eyed on a bed. The thought produced a liquid sensation and she shifted slightly. She saw a look of understanding in Poppaea’s eyes, resignation too, for without Nero’s sanction there would be no more such encounters. The Emperor’s jealousy extended to anyone, male or female, who took their pleasures where he did not and his retribution would be swift and final.

Poppaea’s tone changed and she lowered her voice. ‘Let this be entirely between us, Fabia. You should regard yourself as fortunate that you do not share his bed. His appetites grow ever more dangerous. Even with your experience and inventiveness I think you would be hard put to it to keep him interested for long. Sometimes, more often than I would like, his passions do not satisfy my needs and I must watch as he plays with his squealing boys and lisping geldings.’

Fabia risked a glance around to ensure no one was within hearing distance. This was dangerous territory. Nero had agents everywhere and she had experience enough of spyholes and listening tubes to know that they were not confined to brothels.

Poppaea saw the look. ‘Do not think me such a fool, Fabia. We are so far away that not even the trees can hear us and I have checked every inch of the grass. Unless the dandelions have ears we may say what we like and that man will never get to hear it.’

That man. Poppaea had harboured an almost irrational fear of Torquatus since Octavia, Nero’s first wife, had been first banished then killed. The conspiracy had cemented the Praetorian prefect’s power on the Palatine. Now he saw Poppaea as his rival for Nero’s affections and trust, and any rival of Torquatus must necessarily check beneath the bed for vipers. Outwardly, Poppaea was like any other rich, spoiled Roman matron — only interested in the latest fashions, hairstyles and palace gossip — but as their friendship developed Fabia had seen a different Poppaea, one torn by doubt and capable of clutching at any passing fancy and making it her life’s passion. Parthian mystics, astrologers from Aegyptus and a smelly, bearded Gaulish ancient who called himself the last Druid had all found refuge in her household at one time or another.

Experience told Fabia her friend was for ever destined to be disappointed. Her fate would always lie in the hands of her husband.

That night Nero stared from his palace window over the city of a million people he ruled, centre of an Empire of forty million and more. The thought, as always, sent a thrill of panic through his breast and he had to hold on to the balcony. So many people. So much wealth. So much power. All his to command.

So why did they taunt him, all these millions? He could hear them inside his head, a tumult of voices that never left him alone. Nero does nothing. Nero has achieved nothing. Nero gives us songs but what has he given us to ensure he is remembered? Nero sits in a palace built by other men, looking out on a city built by other men. Caesar, Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius. Who is this Nero who dares to stand alongside them and call himself their equal? They taunted him and he had no answer.

The thought began a chain reaction in his stomach and he vomited over the balcony, a choked, retching spew that dribbled in strands from his mouth. Tears filled his eyes. He knew the taunts meant his mother would visit him tonight and that made the panic return. At first, in the dreams, she had been beautiful, as she had been in life, but lately that had changed. She had begun to disintegrate before his eyes: hair falling in hanks from her skull, parchment skin breaking open to reveal rotting flesh, eye sockets filled with wriggling, milk-white tadpoles. Still, he could have endured it if only the whispers would stop. He had explained why he had to have her killed. It had been his time, not hers. Didn’t she understand that he could not live in her shadow? Why not take out her anger on those who had been as complicit as he, or Seneca, who had stood silent as the decision was made? They were to blame, not him.

The moonlight fell on the giant table he had commissioned, the scale model of Rome with the moveable buildings; a single beam of white light fell directly on the Forum. A sign. A sign from his mother? A sign from the gods? He studied the wooden city and decided it was a deceit. This glory of Rome was nothing but a sham. Poverty and filth and degradation hidden beneath a veneer they liked to call civilization. With one hand he swept buildings from the table, sending the wooden blocks clattering across the mosaic floor and leaving a vast empty space in the centre of the city. The breath caught in his throat. It was perfect.

He would build a new Rome.

‘Caesar?’

The fury rose in him like a flame. Not now. Not when I have just begun to understand. He turned, ready to bring his hand across her face, and was only prevented by the concern in the round, frightened eyes. He touched her silken hair instead, running the strands through his fingers. She stood as tall as he, lithe and slim as a dancer, with the face of an Assyrian queen.

‘Poppaea? You startled me.’

‘I was concerned for you, lord,’ she said with the little girl’s pout she knew made him burn. A gossamer robe of the palest blue did nothing to hide her heavy, pink-tipped breasts or the shadowy secret of her sex. He felt his desire stir. So different from Octavia, who did her duty. She tried to hide it from him, but he knew Poppaea revelled in what other men would call his depravity, but he was moved to call his pleasure. When she offered herself to him the offer was unconditional. Everything she had was his to be taken as and when he desired. He dropped his hand to caress her breast through the thin material and watched the nipple harden, then took the ripening bud between his fingers and squeezed it so she gasped.

‘I wanted a boy today, but I could not have him. It vexed me.’

‘Then punish him, lord.’ Her voice was a husky whisper.

‘I cannot punish him.’ He slipped his hand to her other breast and felt her breathing quicken. ‘For he is a Hero of Rome.’

‘You are the only Hero of Rome, lord.’ Her body moved against his now, soft and urgent.

‘Will you reward your Hero of Rome, Poppaea?’ His voice could have belonged to a ten-year-old. He dropped his head to her breast and she gave a low moan.

‘Yes, lord.’

‘How will you reward him, Poppaea?’ The desire was thick enough to clog his throat. ‘Will you be his boy?’

She turned away hiding her face and dropping the robe so the silken flesh of her body turned silver in the moon-shadow. Slowly she bent forward over the table so he could take her in the way he chose. ‘Yes, lord,’ she whispered. ‘I will be your boy.’

When he moved over her he wasn’t sure whether she cried out in pain or pleasure.

Later, when she was gone but he could still smell the raw scent of her on himself, he stood at the window again.

Was she betraying him?