Nero

3

Not that Lucius had to wait another two years for his adult mantle, oh no. Crown princes never do, especially those with pushy mothers. He put it on nine months before his fourteenth birthday (the earliest legal date); and while the ten-year-old Britannicus was quietly edged to the sidelines his jug-eared, spotty elder stepbrother was showered with public honours. A lesser woman might've been satisfied with that much, but not Agrippina. The poor Idiot was browbeaten into replacing anyone likely to support his real son's interests with men of her own choice. Most of them were nonentities. One was different.

I first met Afranius Burrus, the new Commander of the Praetorians, at a party to celebrate my cousin Turpilianus's appointment as City Judge. A staid affair, and not my style at all: darling Turpy wouldn't be seen dead at a decent party, let alone at a far more enjoyable indecent one, and a thoroughgoing orgy is simply wasted on the man. He wouldn't even let me bring Silia because, and I quote his very words, 'Your relationship with the lady, Titus, isn't altogether honourable.'

Oh, Serapis! I especially liked the altogether, and so did Silia when she heard. Turpilianus, as you may have guessed, is a prig, or possibly a prick, of the first water. You can choose between the terms yourself, if you like, but I know which I prefer. Burrus on the other hand was straight as a builder's rule…

Oh dear, oh dear! Coming from me that does sound so terribly disapproving, but it's most emphatically not meant to be. I've always had a high regard for people who practise virtue rather than preach it, and Burrus was one of them. I liked him from the start, which was more than I can say for Lucius's other mentor Seneca, who was a preacher if I ever met one. If anyone could have hauled Lucius by his silly jug ears on to the straight and narrow it was Burrus. It was a sad pity he died.

We were couch-mates at the party. I discovered early on in the evening that he collected old Greek pottery, and we had a most enjoyable argument that kept just on the right side of acrimony: he liked Corinthian ware, I find it gaudy. Neither of us was prepared to give an inch and we both enjoyed ourselves immensely. That broke the ice, although Burrus could talk intelligently to anyone and on most subjects; a skill unique in my experience among professional soldiers, even those who come late to the profession as he did.

To keep the conversation going I asked him how he was getting on with his young pupil.

'It's too early to say.' Burrus spread his large hands and shrugged. 'But I'd be better pleased if the empress would keep her nose out of the boy's business.'

'Really?' I was surprised, not at the sentiment (everybody by that time was gut-sick of Agrippina) but at the fact that Burrus had expressed acritical view to a comparative stranger. It was my first experience of the man's refreshing bluntness. Also of his good sense.

'Really. He's a fine lad with a lot of promise (where had I heard that one before?) but he's no will of his own and he's soft as a girl.'

The slaves were serving dessert. I had ours serve me some cold stewed quinces (God knows where Turpilianus had got them from or what they cost, but they were excellent) while I told Burrus the racetrack story. He nodded.

'I wasn't there myself that day but I'll believe you. That's young Nero all over. Too nice for his own good, and can't leave go of the tit.' He frowned, perhaps remembering belatedly the need for tact. 'No offence to the empress, of course.'

'Of course not,' I said. 'Perish the thought. A truly remarkable woman and a most caring mother.'

'A paragon.' He matched me dryness for dryness. 'All the same the best thing she can do now is step back and let us get on with the job. Then we might knock some of those fancy ideas out of the lad's head before they get a proper grip. Start to make a man of him.'

I scented a piece of juicy gossip. 'Fancy ideas?'

'His obsession with chariot driving, for one. Oh, I know. Every lad worth his salt since Romulus has wanted to be a charioteer. I wanted it myself. But by eight or nine years old any normal boy's grown out of it. Nero's almost fourteen, and he's still obsessed, he even plays with toy chariots in his room. It isn't natural.' He stirred the quinces round with his spoon. 'Besides, it's not respectable.'

There spoke the true antique Roman. I helped myself to a handful of dates rolled in honey and poppy seeds from a passing tray. 'His father liked chariots too. Perhaps they're in the blood.'

Burrus's frown deepened. 'Yes, well, the son keeps it in proportion, thank Jupiter. So far, at least.' Ahenobarbus's driving had been notorious; on one occasion he had intentionally ridden down a child on the Appian Way. 'But then there's this Greek business, and that's worse.'

I pricked up my ears. 'Greek business?'

We were interrupted, infuriatingly, by the wine slave, a most unprepossessing Gaul with bare legs like hairy tree-trunks. I had him fill our cups to the brim: City Judge or not, Turpy was stingy as hell, and although he served good wine it was well watered and sparse as desert dew.(They say he served beer to his guests when he governed Britain a dozen or so years later. I can believe it. He and Britain were made for each other.)

When the cups were full Burrus waved the man away. 'Don't mistake me, Petronius,' he said. 'I've got every respect for the Greeks. We owe them for every scrap of culture we've got. But when all's said and done it's us Romans who'll civilise the world. The Greeks are past their prime. Decadent. Men like you and me, we take them or leave them, and with a pinch of salt. We don't think they're the gods' only gift to humanity.'

That was another thing I liked about Burrus. He automatically credited one with his own standards. I took my inclusion as the compliment he meant it to be.

'And Nero does?' I said.

'Nero does. Speaks the language like a native. Even thinks like them, from what I can see. But that's not the half of it.' He glared into his wine cup and added quietly: 'The boy sings.'

Oh, Serapis! This was gossip and to spare! In my surprise and delight I almost swallowed a date whole. A singing crown prince was something new in the world.

Seeing my expression (and misinterpreting it completely) Burrus gave a sour nod. 'That's right. Appalling, isn't it? Sings and plays the lyre. Composes poetry. Writes playlets. You name it, he does it, everything bar press flowers. A proper little Greekling. He turns my stomach at times, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.'

'But this is serious!' I was trying desperately not to laugh; it would've offended him terribly.

'Of course it is.' Burrus took a swallow of wine. 'Maybe I'm misjudging the boy, but it's worrying all the same. I've had him out on the exercise ground with a training sword and he's got no more idea of fighting than flying. No fire, no aggression, nothing. He's like a pudding. You see what I mean about fancy ideas? They're all right in a dilettante like you, Petronius, no offence meant…'

'None taken. I appreciate your frankness.'

'…but not in an imperial. Rome'll never stand for it.'

Just then there was a stir at the top end of the dining-room: cousin Turpy was getting up to make a speech. We listened respectfully to the new City Judge's orotund phrases and I marvelled at what, seemingly, Rome would stand for from those she called to high office.

Jupiter knows how long he spoke, but I must have nodded off. When I woke up the slaves were clearing the tables and surreptitiously finishing off the wine (not much of that, to be sure). Burrus, along with most of the other guests, had gone home, and I had the most almighty crick in the back of my neck. Unobtrusively I slipped out, having wrapped a few more of the dates up in my napkin for later; and, the night being less than half spent, went in search of more congenial company.

That little conversation had been quite an eye-opener. In principle I agreed with everything Burrus had said (or most of it, anyway). Of course I did. But all the same young Nero Caesar sounded quite interesting. At least the lad promised to be different.