Nero

He has my sympathies. Still -

Wouldn't it be nice if Seneca had done the same?

Naughty and not very tactful, especially since the great man was sharing his couch at the time. Everyone roared: I was eating a grape and choked on it, and my own couch-partner had to pound me on the back.

Seneca swelled up like an outraged rooster.

'If that,' he said, 'is a hit at my recent tragedy then it is not particularly funny.'

Lucillius shrugged and raised a beautifully curved eyebrow. While Seneca puffed himself up even more, he turned towards the emperor and held up a languid hand in the classic pose of a gladiator appealing for the verdict. The room erupted, and Seneca looked angrier than ever.

'Oh, come on, Seneca!' Lucius said. 'Don't be such an old kill-joy! It was just a joke.'

'So's his Thyestes,' Lucillius muttered, but loud enough for everyone to hear. There was fresh laughter, in which Lucius joined.

By this time Seneca was coldly furious.

'Perhaps, my dear Lucillius,' he said, turning to the Greek, 'you would be so good as to tell me what precisely is wrong with the play.'

Oh my. A less conceited man would've seen the dangers of such an invitation, but modesty and a true assessment of his own literary abilities had never been Seneca's strong points. Gleefully, Lucillius took the thing apart, and others chipped in. I doubt very much if the old ham had ever had so much valid criticism given him in his life, and if much of it was malicious he'd only himself to blame.

Finally his temper snapped.

'The emperor liked it, at least!' He turned to Lucius, who hadn't taken part in the baiting. 'You told me so when I gave my recital, did you not, dear boy?'

'But of course I did, darling!' Lucius beamed at him. 'Your Thyestes is splendid theatre! Blood and guts by the bucketful! A glorious rant from beginning to end, and so deliciously evil!' He gave a shiver. 'Lovely stuff!'

This wasn't quite what Seneca had been looking for. His face was puce.

'But as poetry, my dear?' Lucillius prompted. 'As literature?'

Lucius's smile widened. 'Oh, as literature the thing's a monstrosity.'

Seneca's mouth fell open. The room dissolved. He said very little for the rest of the evening.

He was still smarting when we shared a litter home.

'I cannot imagine what the emperor sees in some of these so-called writers!' he said. 'Tonight was dreadful, absolutely dreadful!'

'I quite enjoyed it myself,' I said.

Even in the darkness I could feel him glaring.

'I mean no disrespect, Petronius, but you would. There's too much of the anarchist in you for your own good. And for everyone else's.'

'Really?' I said mildly. 'And for everyone else's, eh?'

'Certainly.' He straightened a cushion. 'Don't forget you have responsibilities. The way you pander to the emperor at times is quite appalling. It sets the poor fellow totally the wrong example.'

I was too taken aback to be angry. 'Seneca, don't be ridiculous! As far as pandering to Lucius goes, you could give me lessons any day of the month.'

'That is completely different!' he said stiffly. 'A wayward ruler must be indulged in small things to safeguard the greater. If Nero wants parties and dancing girls…'

'How about dancing boys, dear?'

'…then I am willing to give him parties and dancing girls. But that does not mean I approve, and I certainly wouldn't encourage him, let alone suggest any…refinements. You seem to be doing both.'

'Perhaps that's because I quite like parties and dancing girls myself. And dancing boys.'

'Oh, don't be disgusting!'

'At least I'm not hypocritical.' Although I knew the reason for his foul mood he was getting under my skin, and I had to work to keep the irritation out of my voice. 'Personally I think Nero's done wonders with Rome these last few months. He's shaken some of the dust off and put a bit of colour back into life.'

Seneca snorted. 'Nero is nothing but a spoiled child. Spoiled children, especially if they happen to be rulers, need careful guidance. Like it or not, you are one of the guides, and I'm afraid to say at the moment you are not making a very good job of it.'

'I disagree.' I was getting angry myself now. 'For a start the emperor is not a child. I've said that before. But he is an artist. His priorities may be different from yours, but they're just as valid, and the fact that you can't appreciate them doesn't — '

'Oh, stop being a child yourself!' Seneca snapped. 'This is nonsense! Whatever his artistic pretensions Nero is first and foremost a ruler. He has many good qualities, but he is and always will be mentally unbalanced and over-susceptible to the influence of others, and that, in a ruler, is a recipe for disaster.'

'Accepted, but — '

'There is no but! We are like a chariot, Petronius, with a runaway horse and only a single rein. The last thing we need is some well-intentioned idiot urging the beast on to greater efforts.'

'Oh, what a lovely metaphor, my dear! And so flattering to the emperor and myself.'

'It's valid, damn you!'

'Perhaps it is,' I said carefully; I had never, ever heard Seneca swear before and it was an indication of just how upset he was. 'But what if the horse is going at a reasonable pace in the proper direction, and your idiot has his doubts about his co-driver's right to give orders?'

'Then the man's even more of a bloody fool than I give him credit for!'

There was no more to be said. We finished the journey in hostile silence, and I dropped him off at the Caelian like a hot brick.

29

Ah, well. I suppose it was inevitable we should fall out eventually. Seneca was all head, whereas I've never claimed to be an intellectual. Perhaps that was why I got on so well with Lucius. We were very alike in many ways. We still are.

Incidentally, I'm beginning to realise that telling this story has been a journey for me as much as (hopefully) it has been for you, my reader. I feel, for example, a little more sympathetic towards Seneca than I did when I started (Dion is smiling! Rot you, Dion!), and certainly more than I felt at the time. Perhaps it's the loss of blood, and my powers of judgment are going, or changing. Seneca slit his wrists too of course, in the end, and shared suicide does inevitably engender some sympathy, as if we were members of some exclusive club. If I'd been slower to condemn him as a hypocrite, and he'd been less convinced of his own perfection, we might still never have been friends but I think we could at least have reached a better understanding. But that's enough of maudlin philosophy, my friends. It is not, as they say, my bag.

As it was, after that quarrel in the litter we treated each other with a certain wariness. The only time the barriers were lowered and we found ourselves on the same side was two years later, after the murder of City Prefect Pedanius.

Pedanius was a bastard: a thin, sour-faced Cato who weighed life by the scruple and never forgot an injury. He had a chef called Cycnus who'd saved enough from his tips to buy his freedom. After the deal was made Pedanius went back on it without returning the money. That night Cycnus took his best filleting knife along to his master's bedroom and cut the poor dear's throat. Then he gave himself up. As a self-confessed murderer he deserved all he got, but under Roman law where a slave kills his master every other slave in the household is executed with him. Which meant in this case four hundred innocent men, women and children.

When the news broke there was rioting in the streets and crowds surrounded the Senate House where the case was being debated. Thanks largely to the eloquence of another upper-class paragon named Cassius Longinus, the death sentence was confirmed; and to make sure there was no further trouble from the mob a company of Praetorians were detailed to line the route by which the condemned slaves were taken to execution.