[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent="no" hundred_percent_height="no" hundred_percent_height_scroll="no" hundred_percent_height_center_content="yes" equal_height_columns="no" menu_anchor="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" status="published" publish_date="" class="" id="" link_color="" link_hover_color="" border_size="" border_color="" border_style="solid" margin_top="0px" margin_bottom="0px" padding_top="0px" padding_right="0px" padding_bottom="0px" padding_left="0px" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_position="center center" background_repeat="no-repeat" fade="no" background_parallax="none" enable_mobile="no" parallax_speed="0.3" background_blend_mode="none" video_mp4="" video_webm="" video_ogv="" video_url="" video_aspect_ratio="16:9" video_loop="yes" video_mute="yes" video_preview_image="" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0"][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type="1_1" layout="1_1" spacing="" center_content="no" link="" target="_self" min_height="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" hover_type="none" border_size="0" border_color="" border_style="solid" border_position="all" border_radius="" box_shadow="no" dimension_box_shadow="" box_shadow_blur="0" box_shadow_spread="0" box_shadow_color="" box_shadow_style="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" background_type="single" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_image_id="" background_position="left top" background_repeat="no-repeat" background_blend_mode="none" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset="" filter_type="regular" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0" last="no"][fusion_text columns="" column_min_width="" column_spacing="" rule_style="default" rule_size="" rule_color="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset=""] Britain AD 59 'What about the tribes who are already beaten?' Paullinus was not smiling now. 'I know the theory as well as you do. Shave their moustaches, put them in mantles, give them a bath and the result's civilisation. But only when they're beaten. And the British will never be properly beaten until we control the whole island. That'll be a long hard struggle.' The scars of Roman conquest are still livid, the clash of two disparate cultures a source of bitterness and conflict. The Roman ruling class believe it is their duty to civilise the natives; the British tribes chafe under the conquerors' yoke. Marcus Julius Severinus, a young cavalryman in the Roman army, respects the Britons among whom he has been brought up. Newly promoted to Commander of the 'Foxes', he believes there is more to be gained by co-operation than by brute force. Governor Paullinus does not agree. When he attempts to cheat Boudicca, queen of the Iceni, of her rightful inheritance, he underestimates the wave of rebellious fury that engulfs Roman and Briton alike. Even though the final battle is won, Marcus and his family have to pay a terrible price. [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="The Horse Coin - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] Marcus Severinus crouched low against Tanet's mane, hugging his shield close against the wind. It was cold waiting for the signal; dankly cold, as mid-December afternoons in the Colony most often were. The mist blowing up from the estuary drifted across the parade ground, turning the riders of the second team a hundred yards to his left to ghosts, bringing with it the eerie piping of the marsh birds. Annwn voices, the British called them: the voices of the dead beyond the firelight. Tanet shifted beneath him and he reached down to fondle her ears, quieting her. He glanced towards the distant platform where his father stood with the new governor. Mothers, he prayed, don't let me fumble! Grant me a good Knot! 'Happy birthday, Nero bloody Caesar!' Behind his shoulder the veteran Tirintius leaned over and spat into the half-frozen mud. 'Sweet Mothers alive! For a horse lover the overbred bastard chose a damn silly month to be born in!' Severinus's lips twisted in a grin. 'It's too cold for treason,' he said. 'Treason be damned.' Tirintius edged his horse forward until its muzzle rested against Tanet's flank. 'Riding the Knot's hard enough at the best of times, and with this mist it's murder.' 'We'll manage.' Severinus's grin widened and the strap of his cavalry helmet rubbed against the underside of his jaw. 'Will we so, boy?' Tirintius's teeth flashed behind his own helmet. 'There'll be spears adrift today, you mark me, and with the governor watching that's not good.' He spat again. 'Mind you, give it ten more minutes and the bugger won't see a thing.' Beside the platform the low sun had caught on bronze as the signaller raised his trumpet. 'Here we go,' Severinus said. Tirintius grunted and pulled his horse back. 'Thank bloody Jupiter! Hey! Try not to fall off, all right?' The trumpet sounded. Severinus steadied himself as the line of horsemen behind him shifted with a rattle of shield on shield as their ranks closed. His left hand dropped to the holster that lay against Tanet's flank, pulling out one of the javelins, transferring it to his right and checking that the others would not snag. The mare began to fidget, and he pulled her in sharply. Two heartbeats to go; one... The trumpet blared again. Heart pounding, he crouched low in the saddle and dug in his heels. Tanet sprang away from the line, reaching for the gallop. Gripping her sides with his knees, he glanced over his left shoulder. The chaser from the other team was fifty strides behind and closing, his javelin raised; too far yet for a cast, but like Tirintius Pontius had been one of his father's best, and when he did throw he wouldn't miss. Severinus slackened his left rein, freeing his shield arm. Pontius rose, his body moving back then forward. The javelin came straight and hard. Severinus twisted round to meet it, raising his shield, and the blunted point thudded against the boss, jarring every bone in his arm from wrist to shoulder. One down. The next would be more difficult. The turn was only a few strides ahead. He crouched even lower, his chest hard against the horns of the saddle, right knee poised to drive into Tanet's ribs, both eyes on the chaser. Two strides from the mark he saw Pontius lift. The javelin struck as he hit the turn, his knee jammed against the mare's flank, bringing her round. Its six-foot shaft caught the shield-rim's leading edge with a screaming slither of wood on metal as it shot past his exposed neck... Close! Far too close! Severinus was sweating as he pulled hard on Tanet's left rein, his knee still pressed against her side. He threw himself backwards and the mare's hindquarters dropped. She twisted round, her hooves scattering clods of earth. Digging both heels in, he gave her her head and sent her flying towards where the first of the targets sat his horse, waiting. Two strides to wipe the sweat from his eyes; another three, to bring him into range... Matching his movements with Tanet's and bracing his thighs against the saddle-horns, he rose and threw. The first javelin struck the target's shield-boss square, the second, two breaths behind it, a hand-span within the rim. Then he was past. Two hits, both clean: not bad, not good. Tirintius would score three at least. He might even... Something flickered at the edge of his vision. Mothers! Fool! He whipped round and raised his shield a heartbeat before the second chaser's javelin slammed into it. The force of the blow knocked him sideways and he caught at the saddle-horn to steady himself, his knees locking against the mare's ribs. Careless! Careless and stupid! At least Tanet had not broken stride. Raising his hand, he wiped the sweat away and glanced ahead. The second target was almost in range: old Verus, his shield already raised. Severinus shook his head to clear it and reached into the holster, touching the shafts in their dividing pockets. Four more, but there would only be time for two; three if the Mothers were kind... He pulled the first clear, rose and threw, already reaching for the second, then a third. One and two hit clean a hand-span from the boss, three was snatched, but Verus shifted into its path and it clipped the edge of the shield-rim to count for a third. Then he was past, breathing hard, tugging on the right rein. His knees and his heels slackened their grip, allowing Tanet to slow, and he brought her in a long arc round the platform to the right to take up his final position at the Knot's end. He was shaking. Well, he hadn't disgraced himself at least: five hits. Five! While his breathing slowed, Severinus watched the others of the troop, strung out behind him, complete their own runs. Some managed six hits, but the mist was closing in. Most of the tail-enders - and there were good riders among them - managed only four. Five javelins on the mark was the best run he'd ever made. His father would be impressed. More important, so might Paullinus. [/fusion_modal][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent="no" hundred_percent_height="no" hundred_percent_height_scroll="no" hundred_percent_height_center_content="yes" equal_height_columns="no" menu_anchor="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" status="published" publish_date="" class="" id="" link_color="" link_hover_color="" border_size="" border_color="" border_style="solid" margin_top="0px" margin_bottom="0px" padding_top="0px" padding_right="0px" padding_bottom="0px" padding_left="0px" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_position="center center" background_repeat="no-repeat" fade="no" background_parallax="none" enable_mobile="no" parallax_speed="0.3" background_blend_mode="none" video_mp4="" video_webm="" video_ogv="" video_url="" video_aspect_ratio="16:9" video_loop="yes" video_mute="yes" video_preview_image="" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0"][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type="1_1" layout="1_1" spacing="" center_content="no" link="" target="_self" min_height="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" hover_type="none" border_size="0" border_color="" border_style="solid" border_position="all" border_radius="" box_shadow="no" dimension_box_shadow="" box_shadow_blur="0" box_shadow_spread="0" box_shadow_color="" box_shadow_style="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" background_type="single" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_image_id="" background_position="left top" background_repeat="no-repeat" background_blend_mode="none" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset="" filter_type="regular" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0" last="no"][fusion_text columns="" column_min_width="" column_spacing="" rule_style="default" rule_size="" rule_color="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset=""] I, Titus Petronius Niger, aesthete, author and erstwhile Adviser on Taste to Nero Claudius Caesar (the gods rot the little bugger) have reached a climacteric in my existence; I might say two climacterics, for although autobiography and suicide aren't normal bedfellows they're both pretty final, and I've no intention of rushing either to oblige anyone; certainly not by poking a sword through my own gut, which may be the traditional recourse of the Roman gentleman but is, in my view, hopelessly crude, not to say extremely messy and hell on the upholstery. No. I will bleed to death in comfort, like a civilised being. If done in a leisurely fashion by tightening and loosening the wrist-tourniquets (as I will do it), opening one's veins allows one to hang up one's clogs at a decent pace. If I really have to die before my time (and needs must, ho hum, when the emperor drives, even when the emperor is poor loopy Lucius) then I intend to savour every minute of the process. Even if it kills me... History has not been kind to Emperor Nero: the one fact that everybody knows about him is that he fiddled while Rome burned. Outlawed by the Senate and deserted by most of his friends, he died a suicide, his last words, infamously, being: 'What a loss to art!' But what elements of nature and nurture combined to make such a notorious character? An entertaining view is presented by Titus Petronius, Nero's pleasure-loving Adviser on Taste, through whose eyes we see the tumultuous, and ultimately tragic, life of the emperor. Nero emerges as a well-intentioned but mentally unstable young man out of sympathy with the society he rules; a sensitive and talented artist who is also capable of sexual perversions, incest, matricide and acts of appalling sadism. [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Nero - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] A piece of advice before we start. Don't believe those fools who preach that death is a friend, or worse, like Paullus and his crew of fanatics, the happy gateway to a better and fuller existence. It's nothing of the sort. Death, gentle reader, is nothing but a necessary bore, and you can tell it I said so. There, now. I, Titus Petronius Niger, aesthete, author and erstwhile Adviser on Taste to Nero Claudius Caesar (the gods rot the little bugger) have reached a climacteric in my existence; I might say two climacterics, for although autobiography and suicide aren't normal bedfellows they're both pretty final, and I've no intention of rushing either to oblige anyone; certainly not by poking a sword through my own gut, which may be the traditional recourse of the Roman gentleman but is, in my view, hopelessly crude, not to say extremely messy and hell on the upholstery. No. I will bleed to death in comfort, like a civilised being. If done in a leisurely fashion by tightening and loosening the wrist-tourniquets (as I will do it), opening one's veins allows one to hang up one's clogs at a decent pace. If I really have to die before my time (and needs must, ho hum, when the emperor drives, even when the emperor is poor loopy Lucius) then I intend to savour every minute of the process. Even if it kills me. Dion is smiling. Dion is my secretary and, currently, my right-hand man. That, my dears, should you need such things pointing out to you, is a pun, albeit one in execrable taste. What you are reading now is all Dion's work, and Titus Petronius Niger is merely a voice: refreshed, let it be said, by the fine wines and exquisite delicacies which lade the groaning table beside his couch. Nevertheless, when the time comes for us to part I will endeavour to sign my own name across the page before I finally dispense with the tourniquets and allow greedy nature to run (oh, my!) her liquid course. A disagreeable prospect, you will admit; but then we have a long way to go together first. Oh, yes, my gentle friends. Lucius's men will not arrive to inspect my corpse before morning. The night is still young, these Baian crayfish are excellent, and Dion is supplied with plenty of ink and paper. So. What exactly is this great work that we're embarked on? Not, as you might expect, a hatchet job on the man responsible for my death, the quondam Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, whom history will remember (unless she's lucky enough to forget him altogether) as Nero Claudius Caesar, Rome's fifth emperor (not counting old Julius), darling of the muses and self-styled theatrical genius. Oh, and of course the world's most illustrious pyromaniac; I doubt if history will forget that little nugget of scandal. Certainly Lucius - I'll call him that, by the way, since it's all the nomenclature the poor dear deserves - provides scope and to spare for character assassination, and at present, as you'll readily understand, my feelings towards him aren't exactly friendly. All the same, I can't bring myself to hate the lad, however much of a monster he's become; in fact if truth be told I feel more sorry for him than anything else (a sentiment that would have the crack-brained old Jewish humbug Paullus nodding in approval). After all, it isn't altogether poor Lucius's fault that he's in the wrong job, and he has tried his best. Being three tiles short of a watertight roof hasn't helped much, either. So, my dears, this is no kick in the imperial teeth. Call it a most lamentable comedy. Or possibly a mirthful tragedy. And because Lucius is who he is, and I am who I am, there will also, I'm sorry to say, be a fair amount of dirt to be dug... Dion is frowning, and I don't much blame him. Dion may be a slave, but the lad is no mean judge of style, and I am rambling. Petronius, you bore, you grow inelegant. Stop it at once and begin your tale. Heigh ho and off we go. End of prologue. Let me introduce you to my coy mistress Silia. 1. AD 50 We met in the Danaid Porch. Perhaps you know it, part of Apollo's temple on the Palatine? Its statues of the forty-nine married ladies who killed their husbands on the wedding night have made it the most popular place of assignation in Rome for (let's not be hypocritical about this) would-be adulterers and adulteresses like ourselves. She was standing with her maid studying the artwork, I was lurking beside one of the pillars a few feet away, studying her breasts. By any standards she was beautiful: late twenties (my own age), dark hair carefully coiffeured and masked by the thinnest of veils, a perfect profile and a body richly curved beneath an impeccably arranged Coan silk mantle. She had seen me, of course, in her turn, and we watched each other covertly for a while, sizing each other up as one does on these occasions. After a decent interval I moved in for the kill. She glanced directly at me and remarked to her maid: 'A poor thing, Lalage, isn't she? Condemned to eternal torment just for getting rid of a boring husband.' An invitation if I ever heard one. The maid giggled. I moved closer. 'Your poor thing would hardly have had enough time to be bored, lady.' I leaned across and set my hand next to hers on the statue's cheek, noting as I did so the ring on her third finger. 'Hours, at most.' She smiled at me. Her teeth were pearls. 'Oh, that's quite enough time for it,' she said. 'Husbands are like tunnyfish, darling, they go off terribly quickly. Especially if they aren't fresh to begin with.' We both laughed. In that exchange the contract had been, so to speak, proposed, drawn up and signed by both parties. Negotiations in the Danaid Porch are like that, short and sweet and to the point, with no time wasted on inessentials. Patting the stone face in farewell, she turned to her maid. 'Lalage, walk behind us, please,' she said. 'And not too closely, there's a dear.' We made love in her bedroom, on top of a silk coverlet thickly embroidered with gold and purple beasts: it had come from China along the spice route, and must have cost a fortune. I taught her the lips and tongue trick I'd learned from a courtesan in Damascus (once, or so she told me, the mistress of Herod Agrippa himself. If so then the Jewish king had taste); she provided me with a delightful variation on the Alexandrian String of Pearls which she claimed to have invented - no mean feat, if true. All in all a pleasant and exhausting afternoon, and highly educational. Afterwards we bathed in rose water, and Lalage brought us cups of snow-cooled wine and a dish of dried figs. Then I watched while Silia dressed and the maid repaired her hair. 'You will stay for dinner, won't you?' She was holding still as the girl applied Egyptian cosmetic to her eyelashes with a fine brush. 'Gnaeus won't be back until late.' 'Gnaeus?' 'Don't be obtuse, dear. My husband.' 'Oh.' Oh yes, of course. The ring on the finger, the skull at the feast. The inevitable skull. One can no more avoid the Gnaeuses of this world than one can expect a Suburan cookhouse not to have cockroaches in the kitchen. 'Tell me about Gnaeus.' 'He's a darling,' Silia said, flicking the lashes to dry them and inspecting the effect in the mirror. 'You'd like him.' 'No doubt. But mutual compatibility wasn't exactly what I had in mind.' She laughed. 'Titus, dear, don't look so worried. We have an arrangement. Besides, he's into boys at the moment. Or rather one boy in particular. A pretty little thing called Theorus.' 'Oh, that Gnaeus!' I had the man placed now: Gnaeus Arruntius, a paunchy middle-aged roué who'd been one of Caligula's set. Not a bad sort, although badly gone to seed since he'd helped the conspirators ventilate the godling's belly nine years previously and given us all over to idiot Claudius. He had, if I remembered rightly, an appalling taste in hair oil. 'Indeed.' Silia held her cheek out for the maid to powder, and the air was suddenly full of the delicious scent of perfumed talc. ' I really can't imagine what he sees in Theorus. The child's a pain, and he's costing poor Gnaeus a fortune.' 'So I've heard.' I sipped my wine and savoured its hint of myrtle. 'But then boys always do, my dear. Even to hire one's pricey.' Silia laughed. 'Oh, I know! It's an absolute scandal!' Her freshly made-up eyes sparkled. 'Speaking of which, Smaractus has some nice little Syrians just in.' 'Does he, now?' That was interesting: Smaractus's was one of the city's oldest-established houses, with a name for quality. 'Since when?' 'They arrived this morning. We could have one later if you're not too tired.' 'You promised me a meal.' 'I don't think we have much for dessert.' 'You'd have to hurry, madam. The dinner's nearly ready.' Lalage was packing away the cosmetics. 'It's sows' wombs with crackling, spare ribs and trotters.' 'Ah, well, maybe some other time.' Silia sighed. 'The best ones'll have gone by now anyway.' To tell the truth, I wasn't too disappointed. I find Syrians overrated and consequently overpriced. Hiring one, as I would have felt obliged to do if Silia had insisted, would have been a chore rather than a pleasure and spoiled what promised to be a charming evening. Besides, the String of Pearls gives one an appetite. I was looking forward to the sows' wombs; indeed, at that moment I could have eaten a horse. Served perhaps with caraway-oregano sauce, with just a touch of lovage to give it depth. We'd polished off the main course and were tucking in to the nuts and fruit when Silia's husband walked in. I almost swallowed my wine-cup. Silia was marvellous. Not an eyelid did she bat.' 'Gnaeus, dear,' she said with a smile. 'I thought you had a late meeting.' 'We broke up early. Blaesus's gout was playing him up.' Arruntius stretched out on the third couch. I'd been right about the hair oil. The scent put me in mind of perfumed goat-sick. 'Evening, Petronius. You've just dropped by, have you?' Not trusting my voice, I nodded and buried my face in my wine. Arrangement or not, the situation was acutely embarrassing. I was well and truly caught, and genuinely complacent husbands are rare as Arabian truffles in November. Silia passed him a plate of cinnamon cakes. 'Titus and I were just discussing the imperial adoption, darling,' she said smoothly. A lie, of course, but a plausible one: the whole of Rome was talking about our new princeling. 'Lucius Domitius is such a nice boy. Or I suppose we should call him Nero Caesar now.' Arruntius ignored the cakes and selected an apple. His heavy jaws closed on it with an audible crunch. He chewed and spoke between swallows. 'Nero's all right. Wet as hell, mind, but a nice enough lad. It's his mother I can't stand. Agrippina's a horror. God knows why Claudius married her. You'd've thought the old idiot would've learned his lesson.' We were alone, of course, but I still glanced over my shoulder to make sure no-one was listening. Arruntius noticed, and laughed. 'Come on, Petronius! I'm no traitor, and I'll say what I like in my own house. The woman's pure poison. We were better off with Messalina. At least with her we knew where we stood. Or lay, rather. Am I wrong?' Claudius's last wife had been executed two years previously for adultery. Her eventual successor Agrippina was presently engaged in devouring the emperor as a female spider devours its mate. Arruntius wasn't wrong, but all the same he'd spoken a bit too frankly for my taste. I drank my wine and said nothing. 'Mind, it's the other kid I feel most sorry for.' Arruntius was digging between two teeth with a fingernail for a fragment of apple peel. 'Young Britannicus.' Britannicus was Messalina's - and Claudius's - nine-year-old son. 'With a stepmother like that the lad's in trouble. Deep trouble.' 'You think so?' I said. 'I'll give him two years. Maybe three. Certainly he'll never put on his adult mantle.' Arruntius spoke quite dispassionately; we might've been talking about the Blues' chances at the next racetrack meet. 'A pity. He's the best of the bunch.' 'Gnaeus.' Silia had been listening to all this with perfect equanimity. 'Do have a cup of wine, dear, and be a little more civilised. I'm sure Titus appreciates politics just as little as I do.' Arruntius set the apple core down with a smile. 'All right, darling,' he said. 'Perhaps we could talk about Titus himself.' He turned to me. 'Just why did you drop by, Petronius?' Oh, Priapus! The front door was miles away, I wasn't particularly fast on my feet, and besides I had for the past hour been getting quietly but thoroughly stewed. My brain (and other parts of me) went suddenly numb. 'I...ah...' While I stammered incoherently Arruntius leaned over and punched me gently in the ribs. 'Joke, boy,' he chuckled. I subsided in some confusion. Silia was watching with grave amusement. 'And how is Theorus, darling? she said, slitting a pear. Arruntius settled back on his couch with a grunt. 'Thriving,' he said. 'And getting greedy as hell, the little brat.' 'Such a shame. But then I've always thought he looked a grabber. His eyes are too close together.' 'Nonsense.' Arruntius picked up his wine-cup - filled with the last of our post-coital snow-cooled wine - drank and made a face. 'What is this stuff, Silia? Rats' piss?' 'Ariusian, dear. Ten years old. Don't you like it?' 'Who bought it?' 'No-one, darling. It was a gift from one of your clients. The man with the ships.' 'Oh, yes?' Heaving himself up on his couch, Arruntius bellowed, 'Philip!' The head table slave put his head round the door. He looked grey, as well he might: I wasn't the only one to distrust husband and wife arrangements. Arruntius handed him the jug. 'Take this Greek muck away and bring us some decent Setinian. You hear me?' Philip shot off as if he had been greased. 'My apologies, Petronius. Bastard clients think they can palm off any old rubbish on a patron these days.' 'What was your meeting about?' I asked. The numbness was wearing off and I was feeling more myself again. Arruntius settled down again and kneaded his belly - like Claudius he was subject to heartburn. 'Drafting a speech of congratulation to the emperor on the new addition to his family. Just pro forma, but you've got to go through the motions.' 'What's he like? The boy, I mean.' I'd only seen Lucius once from the crowd at a public ceremony three years before. He'd been nine then, unassuming and a martyr to spots. Arruntius belched. 'A pretty enough lad. Nice in his own way but nervous as hell and wouldn't say boo to a goose. He's not a patch on his father.' 'Hardly a point against the boy, dear,' Silia sniffed. 'You think not? At least he had character.' 'Ahenobarbus was a vicious, arrogant brute.' 'That's what I said. He had character.' Arruntius grinned; a fragment of apple peel clung to his left incisor.'A bit of red blood in his veins. The man was a good old-fashioned damn-your-eyes Roman. Nero's been surrounded by women all his life and it's made him soft. Not good to be too much tied to the bloody apron strings. What he wants is toughening. A few good bouts in double-weighted armour with an ex-gladiator who won't take any nonsense, that's what he needs, and if he doesn't get them pretty quick he'll suffer for it later. We all will. You mark my words.' A remarkably profound observation, you must agree in retrospect - but then Arruntius wasn't the bluff ingénu he appeared, and he'd mixed enough with the imperial family to know what was what. He was quite right, of course. We did suffer for it, although given Lucius's background it constantly amazes me that he grew up as sane as he did. Which isn't saying much, but you know what I mean. Just then Philip reappeared with the wine, and Arruntius held out his cup. 'Some Setinian, Petronius?' he said when the slave had filled it. ''Come on, boy, your cup's empty! The evening's young, you're beautiful and we may as well make the most of both.' I credit myself with a fair degree of insouciance, but - as I'm sure you can readily understand - I was finding this cosy domesticity far too wearing on the nerves for comfort. Even if Arruntius's latter inducement wasn't wholly serious. I stayed only as long as politeness demanded. Then I made my excuses and left. [/fusion_modal][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent="no" hundred_percent_height="no" hundred_percent_height_scroll="no" hundred_percent_height_center_content="yes" equal_height_columns="no" menu_anchor="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" status="published" publish_date="" class="" id="" link_color="" link_hover_color="" border_size="" border_color="" border_style="solid" margin_top="0px" margin_bottom="0px" padding_top="0px" padding_right="0px" padding_bottom="0px" padding_left="0px" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_position="center center" background_repeat="no-repeat" fade="no" background_parallax="none" enable_mobile="no" parallax_speed="0.3" background_blend_mode="none" video_mp4="" video_webm="" video_ogv="" video_url="" video_aspect_ratio="16:9" video_loop="yes" video_mute="yes" video_preview_image="" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0"][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type="1_1" layout="1_1" spacing="" center_content="no" link="" target="_self" min_height="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" hover_type="none" border_size="0" border_color="" border_style="solid" border_position="all" border_radius="" box_shadow="no" dimension_box_shadow="" box_shadow_blur="0" box_shadow_spread="0" box_shadow_color="" box_shadow_style="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" background_type="single" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_image_id="" background_position="left top" background_repeat="no-repeat" background_blend_mode="none" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset="" filter_type="regular" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0" last="no"][fusion_text columns="" column_min_width="" column_spacing="" rule_style="default" rule_size="" rule_color="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset=""] I was born on 15 October in the first consulship of Pompey the Great and Marcus Licinius Crassus in a ditch near Mantua. 'I don't think Mother ever forgave my father that ditch. She certainly would not have forgiven me, if I had not gratified her social ambitions by showing an academic bent. 'Why a ditch at all, you ask? Was Virgil's mother a drab, a no one? Did he even have a father for his mother to forgive? This was precisely my mother's point. Such stories tend to stick' 'I, Virgil' is the fictional autobiography of the Roman poet, from his boyhood on a farm in Cremona to his death by poison at the hands of the Emperor Augustus. In the course of the book, through Virgil's eyes, we gain an oblique view of the great historical events of the time: the assassination of Caesar, the downfall of Pompey and the tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra. [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="I, Virgil - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] I was born on 15 October in the first consulship of Pompey the Great and Marcus Licinius Crassus in a ditch near Mantua. I don't think Mother ever forgave my father that ditch. She certainly would not have forgiven me, if I had not gratified her social ambitions by showing an academic bent. Why a ditch at all, you ask? Was Virgil's mother a drab, a no one? Did he even have a father for his mother to forgive? This was precisely my mother's point. Such stories tend to stick. The truth is less dramatic. My father and mother were visiting friends in the village of Andes, just outside Mantua. Mother had wanted to put it off, for obvious reasons, but my father insisted (why I do not know), compromising only over the hire of a litter. The shaking may have had something to do with it, or it may simply have been my proper hour. Whatever the reason, my mother's waters broke on the way back; and my father, being more at home with delivering ewes than women, hustled her out into the most convenient place away from prying eyes and performed his office of midwife. At least the ditch was dry. At that time of year, that was a miracle in itself. Perhaps here I should discount one story of my birth which says more about my mother than about me. Later she was to claim (probably to counteract the ditch story) that in her last month of pregnancy she had a dream of giving birth to a sprig of bay. The sprig took root, flourished and produced all kinds of berries and flowers. This, although flattering to my poetry, is false. Apart from a passionate craving for pickled cucumbers (so my father told me) her pregnancy was a perfectly normal one. In any event, she did not 'remember' the dream until long afterwards. My parents did not get on well together. Take a cup of Rhodian wine, of no distinction apart from its name. Prink and perfume it with Arabian spices - pepper, saffron and cinnamon. That was my mother. Now take a cup of plain, honest domestic oil from the second pressing, such as a peasant soaks his bread in. That was my father. Mix them. That was my parents' marriage. Physically they were completely unlike. My mother was fair-skinned and straight-nosed; my father, brown as a nut, tall but stocky as a Slav. I take after both - my father in build (apart from his broad nose) and my mother in character. Which explains why I look like a countryman but have not the countryman's self-confidence. Even today I have a genuine horror of being recognised, and the prospect of giving a public reading brings me out in a cold sweat for hours beforehand. I was the second son of three. My elder brother Marcus... My elder brother. Long dead now, his death a knife in my side. Marcus is the pale ghost that grins at me from the shadows, his hair green with weed. He is my Remus, a reminder of the ancient Roman curse that goes too deep for expiation. I cannot tell you yet about Marcus. The third son was Gaius. He is dead now, too, but his death brought no guilt, only grief. There were nine years between us, as if he owed his life to the other's death. I can quite well believe this of my father: although I have no sons myself I understand the desire to see oneself in one's children. It was his sorrow to lose his own image and be left with a milksop for an heir. Death. Guilt. Sorrow. You see the dark path that mention of that drowned ghost leads me down? These are no thoughts for a dying man. Away with them. He is poisoning me. I saw it in his eyes before we sailed, despite the smile on his lips. 'It's only a fever, Virgil.' (Why are hypochondriacs so dismissive of other men's illnesses?) 'And you deserve it for traipsing off to Greece without telling me. What made you think the poem needed three years' editing, you beetroot?' It is as artificial as it sounds, this bluff heartiness and rustic eccentricity of language. Like so many of his amiable qualities - his republicanism, his dislike of flattery and, not least, his reverence for the old Roman ways - it serves a very practical purpose. Octavian is nothing if not a pragmatist. Literally nothing. Strip the layers from an onion. The bit that is left, that is Octavian. You are shocked. I am committing lèse majesté . Warlord Octavian is dead, surely; he died eight years ago, by order of the Senate, and First Citizen Augustus rose phoenix-like from his ashes, to grace the Republic he had restored. But Augustus has had many names: Octavius, Octavian, Caesar. The man shifts shape like a Proteus. I have learned. I shall hang on to his reality, and call him Octavian. Need I make my opinion of him any plainer? The august ruler of the Roman world is a calculating, ruthless, cowardly, hypocritical opportunist with as much moral firmness as a weathercock. He is also the greatest man Rome has ever produced, and the saviour of his country. Divine honours are no more than his due. I have surprised you again, this time by my inconsistency; but I am not inconsistent. Consider. Marius and Sulla. Caesar and Pompey. The Tyrannicides. Antony. Fifty-seven terrible years from the stoning of the Senate's envoys by the troops at Nola to the victory of Actium. The whole of Italy rolled in blood for almost three generations before we had peace. Peace. That is the one great word that straddles all others like a Colossus. Wherever you stand, you have merely to raise your eyes to see its huge hand stretched over you. Peace is the ultimate blessing, and we owe it to Octavian and Octavian alone. If by my poetry I have helped him establish Plato's Mighty Lie, then the Roman in me has no regrets. He condones even his own death. Not so the poet. He condones nothing, pardons nothing. If he had done, then I would not be dying now. Plato was right to exclude us from his perfect state. Our poetry is like a poorly broken horse. We may harness it to the public good, but we cannot curb its rogue desire for truth; and when it shies in spite of us and leaves the highway the charioteer - who is the poet - is smashed to atoms. I tried. Not for myself, least of all for Octavian, but for Rome and the memory of these fifty-seven years. But I could not, when all was said and done, send my Aeneid down the centuries with a lie in its mouth. I compromised, as far as was safe - as far as I thought was safe; and my scruples destroyed me. So I ran from them. Ran to Greece - where else would a frightened, confused poet run but to his mother? - intending a three-year absence. Three years, to regain my soul and destroy myself as a Roman. Three years to burn the golden lie from the poem and give it back its integrity. The news reached Octavian at Pergamon before I set out. He was in Athens before I was. Then a convenient chill at Megara, an unexpected fever and a boat waiting to carry me back to Italy... I have caught my death. The poem still lies, with its tongue if not its heart, and if I am given the chance I will burn it. I will not be given the chance. Consider the lowly dung-beetle that the Egyptian calls a scarab. Its world is the manure-heap. It cuts out a portion of manure larger than itself, which it rolls into a ball. Then it stands on its head and begins to push the ball of manure with its back legs. Over stones and rocks it goes, labouring behind its huge burden, through thorns and mud, pushing and struggling until at last it finds the perfect place. There it digs a hole for the manure-ball and burrows inside, to feast on dung and lay its eggs. The scarab is motivated purely by self-interest. You understand the parable, of course. The manure-heap (O perfect symbol!) is the Roman state, the scarab Warlord Octavian, who let nothing stand between him and absolute power. But wait, that is not the end. Along comes the Egyptian. He looks at the scarab and sees the hand of God. To him it is divine, its efforts divinely inspired. Manure-heap becomes universe, dung, fire, and lo! the sun is rolled across the sky, giving light to the world, and a divine scarab pushes it. What if the Egyptian is right? I mean, literally right. Then the scarab, born in dung, living in and on dung, becomes an instrument of the gods, and its self-interested labour is exalted and transmogrified far beyond its own conception. Scarab Octavian, with all his imperfections, becomes Divine Augustus. Is this not matter for the poet? However, let us follow the parable further, and give the scarab a voice. 'Clearly, poet,' it says, 'from the beginning my destiny was a high one, and of inestimable benefit to mankind. Sing it, then, justify the ways of God to Man. But let's have no mention of the manure-heap or the dung-ball. They are inappropriate to your theme. And - oh, you should also stress my complete altruism, high-mindedness and lack of mortal frailty. That will be more morally instructive to your listeners.' What is the poet to say? To him the struggling, the backsliding, the dung and the mud are essentials. How can he leave them out, even when they detract from the dignity of his theme? He temporises. 'Perhaps,' he says, 'someone else could do it better.' 'I don't want someone else,' says the scarab. 'I want you.' 'But what about the truth? These things - the manure-heap, the dung-ball - they happened. I can't just ignore them.' The scarab frowns. 'Listen,' it says. 'Which is more important? The past or the future? You and I have a chance to build a perfect world. People unborn will listen to your poem and say, Yes, that's right, that's how things should be, fine and noble and clean and pure. That's how we want to live. Who are you, poet, to set doubts in their minds? I need you, Virgil. I have the present, but I need you to give me the future. Forget my past. Help me, not for my own sake, but for the sake of Rome.' What could I say? You see my problem? You see, also, how important my Aeneid is to him, and why he cannot allow me to live? He is quite right. As am I. That is our tragedy. [/fusion_modal][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

Other Roman Books – David Wishart

The Horse Coin
Gallery
The Horse Coin