‘And where is Poppaea?’
‘She sailed for Neapolis this morning. She will visit her people at the family villa while Nero makes his preparations for his great performance at the theatre in the city.’
He shook his head. ‘You are talking in riddles. What does a trip to Neapolis have to do with Petrus?’
‘You have spent days looking for a waterfall, Valerius, is that not true? Then perhaps it will not surprise you that the villa at Oplontis has the finest ornamental waterfall in the Empire.’ She laughed at the sudden flare of comprehension. ‘Poppaea has yet to be saved. To be saved, she must be baptized by Petrus, who has persuaded her that everyone who was to take part in today’s ceremony should be sanctified along with her, including your father.’
‘It’s madness!’
‘Yes, Valerius, but there is a joy in such madness, is there not? They are prepared to risk everything for what they believe. Do you believe in anything that much?’
He shook his head. Once, he had believed in the Empire and would have been happy to die for it, but not now. ‘Only my family.’
‘Then go to Neapolis and reach them before Torquatus. Perhaps by saving them you will save yourself.’
‘Torquatus?’
‘Do you think I am his only spy?’
XXXVI
‘Pay off Sextus and Felix and thank them for their services, then take the seal and find a boat that will carry us to Neapolis.’
‘What about you?’ Marcus demanded.
‘I’ll join you at Ostia. I have some business to deal with before we leave.’
He rode north, taking the Via Salaria towards the estate at Fidenae, but on this occasion he rode past the gate and into the hills behind the neighbouring villa.
Seneca lay on a couch in the atrium, relaxed after his afternoon bath and close to falling into the shallow, mesmeric sleep he found conducive to deep and stimulating thought. This was his favourite time of day and the servants had orders not to disturb their master on pain of dismissal. When the arm closed like a band of iron round his throat he had just begun to reflect on the most interesting contradiction between friendship and trust, which in itself raised an interesting philosophical debate. In other circumstances he would have liked to continue the internal discussion, but the chill of a dagger against the voluminous folds of skin at his neck quite drove it from his mind. He had only a basic knowledge of anatomy, but enough to know that the point was less than an inch from the big vein pulsing in his throat. One thrust would bleed him dry in less time than it takes a person to swallow a cup of wine. He didn’t understand why the analogy came to mind, but it was oddly comforting to know that a man could still think logically at the moment of his death.
‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you.’ The harsh nasal voice cut through his musings. When he tried to reply all that emerged was a bullfrog’s croak. The arm loosened, but only a fraction.
‘Allow me enough time, friend,’ he spluttered, ‘and I will give you a thousand reasons why you should not kill me. I am Lucius Annaeus Seneca and therefore the act of dying and what lies beyond hold a certain fascination, but I have voluminous works to complete before I am ready to explore that particular avenue.’
‘Whether you live or die is beyond your control, old man.’ The arm tightened again and Seneca was embarrassed to hear himself give a little squawk of fear. He had often pondered the inevitability of death and he’d concluded that clinging to life must be mere folly when it only postponed the inescapable, but now, when death appeared on his own doorstep, he was unable to take his own advice. It seemed that no matter how brave the outer man, an inner man existed with a more fully formed sense of his own mortality.
‘Whoever is paying you to kill me, I will triple the offer,’ he choked.
‘What makes you think I wouldn’t gladly do it for nothing?’
Seneca sighed inwardly. It had been worth the attempt. But that voice? Despite the gruff disguise he believed he recognized the tone and inflection. With the little thrill of fear which accompanied the knowledge came also a tiny chink of hope. How fortunate to have a murderer who might be open to logical argument.
‘Valerius? You would not harm an old man who taught you all you know. It would be a pity to extinguish so much learning, would it not?’
‘But not to extinguish so much corruption. I could have forgiven you your avarice and your duplicity but not the way you used my father.’ The tone offered no reprieve, but the words hinted at a possible avenue of escape.
‘Your father is a very foolish man, Valerius.’ Seneca risked the criticism knowing that it was only the truth.
‘Foolish,’ Valerius agreed. ‘And vulnerable. He should have been able to rely on the support of his friends and family, but both failed him.’
‘And for that I am sorry.’
‘But his family did not betray him. Only his friends did that.’
The words were accompanied by a slight tightening of the arm muscle and a liquid squirt of fear shot through Seneca’s bowels. Now he knew how the hangman’s rope would feel. ‘I would know nothing of that,’ he blustered.
‘No? But I would.’ Seneca began to mumble a denial, but another increase of muscular pressure silenced it. He was close to choking. A hair’s breadth from a crushed windpipe. Valerius continued: ‘I know how my father was led towards a new and dangerous enthusiasm the way a blindfolded bull is led to the sacrifice. And I know that the Judaean girl Ruth was inserted into his household to ensure his conversion. I also know who was responsible for these things.’
‘I-’ This time Valerius used the knife to stifle the words. He knew Seneca too well to get into a semantic argument with him. If any man could talk his way from beneath the executioner’s axe it was Nero’s former mentor.
‘What I couldn’t understand at first was why. Was it possible my father’s neighbour and friend was acting in his best interests? An argument could, after all, be made that a certain comfort was to be derived from the teachings of the man Christus, particularly for a lonely old widower who had lost his way. The girl Ruth’s involvement was entirely innocent, driven by her faith and an inborn goodness.’ Valerius’s muscles tightened involuntarily when he mentioned Ruth and it was only when Seneca squirmed that he realized he was killing the philosopher. He forced himself to relax his grip. ‘That innocence led to her death, but that would mean nothing to you. She was just another piece to be used then discarded in this greedy game you were playing.’
‘Please…’
‘Shh. There is more. Surely you are interested. It is a fine story, of a man who became too clever for his own good. My father was not the only fool. When you summoned me, I came, and when you charmed me I was convinced I was working for the interests of Rome, and not those of Lucius Annaeus Seneca. It was only after I walked in on your visit to my father that I began to realize the scale and subtlety of the web you had snared us in. Better to have kept Saul hidden: there is too much of Petrus in him and he shows too great a knowledge of the Christians not to be one himself. He is Petrus’s rival for the Christian leadership, is he not?’ He released his hold long enough for Seneca to nod. ‘So, a perfect alliance. Seneca uses Saul’s information to persuade his old pupil Valerius to bring him Petrus and thereby save his career, and his life. In the same instant Saul becomes the undisputed head of the Christians, a man more ably equipped to spread the word of Christus than a simple fisherman. The only flaw was Petrus, who was too clever for us all.’
He paused just long enough for Seneca to be certain that his time was up. Once Valerius had felt something like love for this man, but there could be no pity for an old fraud who would sacrifice every friend he had to recover his position.
‘Even then, I might have forgiven. But that was not enough for you. You had to have more. Where is it?’