The attendant lavatory slave bowed — an ugly boy with deformed ears.
Silius realised with relief that there was no one else inside. 'What good fortune,' he declared to the boy.
The ugly lad smirked. 'Got the throne room all to yourself, domine.'
Silius ruffled the boy's hair and strode past him to select a suitable squatting hole. At least they were clean. The boy had been at work with his brush. Silius made his selection and hoisted himself onto the platform, pulling his toga folds above his hips and untying his loin cloth. Placing his feet in the rests, he closed his eyes and sighed with contentment as relief began to come. When he opened his eyes again, he found the cauliflower-eared boy standing unexpectedly close.
'Are you Gaius Silius?'
Silius hesitated in replying until dignity won out, despite the circumstances, and he confirmed that he was.
The boy was impressed. 'You're the great general, then?'
Silius nodded.
'You beat that bastard Sacrovir.'
Silius shrugged.
'I saw your triumph.'
'Good for you, lad.' He would have got up to leave if his bowels weren't informing him to hold fast for a second act.
'You're the one man in Rome that old Tiberius won't dare charge with treason,' said the boy, laughing. 'Must be nice to feel safe.'
Silius was taken aback with astonishment but the boy just kept laughing. 'What an extraordinary thing to say,' said Silius, a politician first and a general second. 'Those charged with treason deserve their fate — it is no laughing matter. Give me a sponge.'
The boy tapped his nose, as if well aware of a joke behind Silius's words, and went to the bucket of wiping implements, fossicking for a clean one. 'No offence meant, domine,' he said. 'All I mean is that you're in the best place of all because old Tiberius needs you.'
'Yes, well,' said Silius, waiting for the sponge.
'Of course he does — you kept your German army loyal when others fell into mutiny, didn't you?' The ugly lad was remarkably well informed about political and military affairs.
'Give me the sponge,' said Silius, holding out his hand.
The boy held on to it. 'But you did, domine — you kept them loyal. Even Germanicus couldn't have done that.'
Silius looked around the room. They were definitely alone — just himself and an ugly boy of no worth or consequence. What did it matter if he humoured such a slave? 'If the German revolt had spread to my brigades, Tiberius would never have kept his throne, it's true,' said Silius.
The boy's eyebrows raised in awe. 'Really, domine?'
'It would have tipped the balance — too many against him. But I kept my lot loyal and he kept his crown. So you're right, boy,' Silius winked. 'Tiberius really does owe me one.'
The deformed slave giggled and gave him the sponge on its stick. As Silius applied it to his backside, the slave watched him with eagle eyes.
'Don't worry,' said Silius, now wishing the boy would leave him. 'I'll give you a tip in a moment.'
But the boy didn't budge, his eyes glued to the senator.
Suddenly Silius leaped into the air with a shriek. A crackle of flames shot from the latrine hole and he looked down into the sewer with shock. A toy papyrus boat of the type made for children sailed the flowing water below him, laden with blazing leaves.
The ugly lavatory boy stuck his head in the hole and screamed into the sewer. 'Duro, you cocksucker! I'm going to call the vigiles on you!'
He pulled his head out again as Silius rubbed his hindquarters in bewilderment. 'I'm sorry, domine,' the boy said. 'It's that bastard Duro who minds the lavatories further up the cloaca maxima. He thinks it's a great laugh to send his practical jokes downstream to scare off my best customers.'
Silius threw a handful of brass coins at the boy and hurried up the steps.
In the indignity of having the hair singed from his buttocks, Silius lost all recollection of what he'd said to the boy. But afterwards, as more customers came and went, some tipping and others not, the slave with the misshapen ears enjoyed one of the happiest afternoons he had known. What he clutched in his heart was far better than any handful of dupondii he might have collected from a day's arse-wiping.
Silius thought he had thrown him brass but really he had given him gold.
The cream-coloured heifer behaved with perfect docility. The rope around its neck was slack; the beast didn't need to be pulled, moving forward of its own accord, clueless to its fate and with its belly swollen with calf. All the good omens were piling up before the heifer and its unborn had even been offered to the gods. The small group of assembled pontifices cast pleased little nods at each other across the dim hall of the curia regia.
At eighteen, and the youngest of the dozen priests by some years, Nero signalled what he hoped would be read as his own pleasure at the heifer's docile progress, raising his eyebrows at anyone who looked back at him. One of the older priests went to frown, before catching himself and remembering who Nero was, and then attempted to turn the glare into a sort of spasm. Nero came close to laughing, but when his eyes darted to the victimarius who held the heifer's rope, he was startled by the new look the man returned. The victimarius smiled back at him boldly, with none of the unquestioning respect that Nero expected from lesser-ranking men. The man had a knowing smirk that constituted a challenge. Nero was thrown but couldn't pull his eyes away. The man could see through him.
Nero had felt a growing panic in the presence of this victimarius from the moment he had joined the college. His grandfather, Tiberius, as pontifex maximus, had introduced Nero with great solemnity to all those who conducted the sacrifices. But when Nero made his first greeting handshake with this man, a bolt of lightning travelled up his arm. The victimarius had done nothing outwardly provocative but Nero sensed something unsettling to him. With every sacred handshake they had shared since, the lightning bolt had intensified. This man excited him.
Nero stared across the dim hall of the curia and the victimarius 's smile widened. In a gesture so fast it could have been overlooked by anyone else, the man reached to his genitals and gripped them under his tunica, before bringing his hand to where it could be seen again, all the while grinning. Nero felt his pulse surge at the sight. The augur began sprinkling roasted barley grains on the heifer's head and the victimarius hung back, letting his eye leave Nero. Then he stepped down from the altar as the aged popa took his place — the man whose job it was to stun the beast with a hammer. The victimarius disappeared into one of the dark anterooms, without a single glance behind him.
Waiting in the shadows was Lygdus.
Nero was aware of how sacrilegious it was to develop an erection during a meeting of the pontifical college, but it was useless trying to will it away. Crossing his legs in his curule chair only added to the pressure, and he cursed the victimarius for giving him the look he had — the look that had inflamed him. Nero knew for sure now that the man wanted him, having already suspected it for months, and Nero also knew that he would be unable to ignore it any longer. He feared he had sprung free from the confines of his loincloth; only the linen of his striped priest's toga was keeping him from exposing himself — and his secret.
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.