Nest of Vipers (27 page)

The assembled priests began to chant as the old
popa
swung the first hammer blow to the base of the heifer's head. The beast fell forward on its knees and remained there stunned, its fat, pink tongue lolling through its lips. Another good omen was acknowledged by the assembled men – the
popa
had achieved his task with a single blow. The stern
cultrarius
stepped forward to exchange places with the
popa
, and Nero took advantage of every eye being fixed upon the man's knife as it plunged into the heifer's throat. He rose from his chair and slipped behind the circle of priests.

From the shadows Lygdus watched him go.

If Nero hadn't found the smiling
victimarius
waiting for him in the anteroom, just as he hoped he would, he would have returned to his chair, frustrated certainly, but present for the officiating priest's libations as the dying heifer's blood was collected in bowls. But Nero missed the vows for wellbeing that were asked of the gods, and in doing so he missed something of great importance. Prayers asking for Nero and Drusus's wellbeing were offered before prayers asking for the wellbeing of Tiberius. It was a mistake. Lygdus heard it and stopped in surprise for a moment. Then he stole towards the anteroom and glimpsed inside. The
victimarius
was posed as Lygdus himself had once been posed – on his knees and his hands before Nero.

Nero turned with fright when he saw movement at the door. Lygdus lowered his eyes. 'My young
dominus
is safe,' he whispered. 'No one will see. No one will know.'

The pleasure was too great for Nero, the excitement in the
victimarius
's eyes. He could not leave. He could only smile at Lygdus, who glanced up to receive the young
dominus
's gratitude, briefly basking in it before stealing away.

In the shadows of the great hall Lygdus found me.

'Is he engaged in a shameful act?' I asked eagerly.

Lygdus gave a small nod, looking away from me.

I began making notes on a wax tablet I carried.

'Not yet,' Lygdus whispered.

'Not yet what?'

'We shouldn't spread rumours yet – it is far too soon. Don't you think so, Iphicles?'

I was surprised. 'No time like now.'

'I think we should keep it to ourselves. Gather more information. It will serve us better in time.'

I was not used to hearing opinions from others regarding my great tasks, and the novelty of it made me grant what he'd said a certain wisdom. 'Good idea. But did you hear the prayers?'

He looked grim.

'The officiating priest must be mad to make a cock-up like that. Still, it's been said now and there's no withdrawing it. Run to Sejanus before anyone else beats you to it,' I said. 'He should hear what was said and you should be the one to tell him – it will give him reason to trust you. Run – I will watch over the sodomites.'

Lygdus made the appearance of leaving me there, but stopped and turned round. 'We should let others tell him, Iphicles. If the information comes from us, it will place too much of his attention in our direction. He will begin to
expect
us to tell him things, and that wouldn't be good, would it?'

I confessed this hadn't occurred to me. 'You are right again,' I said, impressed with his fast-developing aptitude for intrigue.

He nodded and was silent for a moment while I smiled paternally at him. Then he whispered, 'Will Nero die for what he does?'

I could not be certain in such uncertain times. In Augustus's day such things would have caused little more than a minor scandal, but now . . . 'Eventually,' I replied. 'As you have suggested, Lygdus, the effect will be accumulative. The safer he feels, the more shameful acts he will certainly go on to commit, and the worse things will be for him in the long run. But you must keep careful watch and then tell everything to me, leaving nothing out.'

Lygdus nodded again.

'He is a
dominus
no different from any other,' I encouraged him. 'Think upon how much you enjoyed Castor's death and then imagine how it will be when we achieve Nero's.'

Lygdus said nothing.

'Everything we do, we do to build a better Rome, a golden Rome, the city foreseen by the goddess –'

'How much better will it be?' he interrupted me. There was something odd about his manner, but in my pleasure at his company I dismissed it.

'It is my belief now that the Great Mother intended Tiberius to be the first king only to make the people appreciate the qualities of the second king all the more. For every glaring fault that Tiberius has, and for every cruel injustice that he brings, Little Boots's rule, when you and I take him to the throne, Lygdus, will be so much more glorious in contrast.'

'Is that what the prophecy actually said?'

A tiny cry of doubt rang sharply in my heart, making me lose my thoughts for a moment.

'Iphicles?'

The cry came again, unintelligible and devoid of meaning – except for the sensation of doubt itself. Why was I feeling it?

What did it mean?

'Is that what the prophecy actually said, Iphicles?'

I recovered my wits. 'Thrasyllus said that the second king would wear his father's crown. Little Boots's father was Germanicus – a man more loved by Rome than any other. When Little Boots reigns, his father's glory will become his own – that's what the words mean.'

'Will he make the slaves free?'

I was thrown. 'Is that what you want, Lygdus?'

'With all my heart.'

I was moved to hear this; I, who had never desired anything but to be close to those I served. But I knew that a Rome without slaves would be a Rome left in ruins. We slaves
were
Rome, and to free us would be to lose us. Mass emancipation would never happen, no matter how golden the king. 'Your wishes will be answered,' I lied to him as I would to a child. 'Keep praying to the Great Mother.' With time I hoped that Lygdus would appreciate the true joys of slavery and forget his dreams.

The eunuch nodded, giving the appearance of digesting all I'd said, and I felt a rush of unexpected feeling for him that must have shown in my face.

'What is it, Iphicles?'

I shook my head, embarrassed. 'You . . . you are doing very well at this, Lygdus,' I whispered. Then I darted into the shadows. I briefly saw his bulk illuminated in the light of a lamp before I reached the door to the street outside and was gone.

I knew what I felt for him – of course I did – it was pride. But that same pride wouldn't let me speak of it. I, the slave Iphicles, who had willingly sacrificed my manhood to my
domina
, sacrificed my hopes of fathering children too. But the Great Mother had rewarded her Attis. Lygdus was my apprentice, yes – my assistant in destiny – but he was more than this. He wasn't yet seventeen. He was raw, unsophisticated and had so much more to learn. I was his teacher, and it was my duty to be so if destiny was to be achieved. But it was also my joy – the joy a father felt. Cybele had blessed me a thousand times over. She had given me a son in Lygdus.

But my son, once I had gone, returned to his task of keeping watch over Nero. He discreetly pulled the door closed, keeping his vigil on the other side. He didn't care if Nero had seen him do it – in a way, he hoped he had. The more Nero came to believe that Lygdus was a very special slave, the more Lygdus had hope that he would one day become one.

As the eunuch waited, he crouched in the shadows, making a solemn, sacred vow. He muttered an oath to all the gods, a furtive pledge of betrayal that he intended, at all costs, to keep hidden from me.

'Nero is the son of Germanicus too,' he whispered to himself.'Sometimes I think you forget that, Iphicles.'

Tiberius's eye was on the large silver bowl that sat on the floor in an alcove, beyond the tapestry that hung behind his ivory curule chair. And although Tiberius occupied the chair and had his back to the tapestry and the alcove and the bowl, Sejanus knew that it was still where Tiberius's eye was aimed, if only within his churning, tortured heart. Tiberius hoped that by hiding the shameful bowl from view and filling the room with witnesses, he would be better able to resist what the bowl offered. But Sejanus knew better.

Sejanus's own eye was at the peephole in the heavy bronze doors, which Tiberius was yet to realise allowed a viewer to look outside the receiving room or to look in. From the other side of the doors Sejanus stared at Tiberius intently, waiting for the old man to reply to him. He knew the Emperor had heard what had been asked – Sejanus had seen the words strike Tiberius like a pebble thrown at the surface of a pond. The ripples of understanding slowly spread to the water's edge.

'Civil war?' said Tiberius.

'She has a faction, Caesar. She gathers more supporters to her side every day,' said Sejanus from outside, through the join of the doors.

Tiberius made to wave his hand in a gesture he intended to be dismissive, but the effort was too much for him and his hand flopped at his side.

'It's what she plans, Caesar – the streets are full of it.'

'Your spies are paid to tell you these things,' Tiberius muttered. 'Hasn't it occurred to you that this only encourages them to fabricate?'

Sejanus felt the hurt in his heart at this but said nothing, waiting.

Inside the room two of the youngest choirgirls began to cry softly. 'Stop that,' Tiberius said. The girls did.

The petrified choirmaster attempted to speak without raising his head from the floor where he had prostrated himself before Tiberius's curule chair. 'Caesar?'

'Stop that,' said Tiberius again. He turned slowly around in his chair until the rich, golden tapestry filled his vision. It was beautiful.

'But if the choir could just
sing
for you, Caesar . . .' the choirmaster tried to say.

Tiberius slapped his hand on the chair's arm and a slave shuffled forward with an iron rod in his hands. 'Hit him,' said Tiberius.

The slave struck the prostrate choirmaster twice on the legs, and the hapless man bit back his pain as the forty assembled children of the Patrician Youth Choir bit back their own cries of fear and distress.

The room stayed in tomblike silence. Tiberius rose unsteadily from his chair and fell to his knees before the tapestry.

'Civil war can be avoided, Caesar,' Sejanus said from the other side of the door, still watching Tiberius through the peephole.

The reminder that Sejanus was still there snapped Tiberius from the tapestry. 'How?'

'By removing the ringleaders.'

'Who are they?'

'I have made a list,' said Sejanus. He began to slip a sheet of papyrus under the door. 'And I have detailed some other matters –'

'More tall tales from spies, you mean.' Tiberius watched the papyrus curl under the door – as did the frightened children of the Patrician Youth Choir. But he didn't move to read it. 'I will not have my daughter-in-law attacked, Sejanus,' he said, as his eye returned to the tapestry. 'Grief has made Agrippina unstable – she isn't well. She no longer knows her own mind.'

Another wave of hurt crushed Sejanus. 'But she plots against you, Caesar. I have the evidence. She is a danger to you.'

'She no longer knows her own mind.'

Sejanus said nothing for a time. Then he said quietly, 'She is innocent – a figurehead for the sedition of others.'

Tiberius ran his hands along the rich embroidered fabric. 'She is a widow worthy of Rome's respect.'

'You will see that I have not even listed her,' said Sejanus. 'You have no reason to fear for her, Caesar.'

'Good. Very good . . .'

Another child began to weep from the choir. The slave with the iron rod tensed himself, expecting to be called for further disciplinary measures. But Tiberius only brushed aside the tapestry from the wall.

'Why don't you sing something?' he said over his shoulder.

The children gaped at each other in bewilderment. From the floor in front of the curule chair the prostrate choirmaster dared to raise his head a fraction. 'What would please you, Caesar?'

Tiberius gazed into the alcove. 'Something pretty . . .'

The choirmaster looked to the rod-wielding slave to see if he would be beaten again, but the slave seemed as confused as he was. The choirmaster stood gingerly, his legs black with bruises. 'Choir,' he called to the frightened children, 'let's start with number fourteen.'

The children haltingly began to sing as a tiny voice inside Tiberius willed him not to move a muscle of his hand, even though he let it hover in the air. The tiny voice then willed him not to go any further, even though his hand began to circle and descend. The tiny voice then told him he was weak and effeminate if he intended giving in to his cravings, and that if he went any further it was clear he lacked the resolve of the Fathers.

The tiny voice was familiar – a voice Tiberius knew and loved – yet he hadn't heard it in many long years. It was the voice of his dead brother.

'Shut up! Just shut up!' Tiberius screamed as his fingers made contact with the rim of the large silver bowl.

The children snapped into silence.

'Who told you to stop?' Tiberius turned on them. 'Sing!'