A slight shudder made his horse skip beneath him. That was another sign that the trapped air was attempting to find a way out, but it was such a common occurrence that he barely noticed. The tremors had become more frequent in the past few days, but even Corbo’s scientific mind had failed to register the fact.
That might have been because of his other concerns. Everything had to be perfect for the performance the following night. Corbo had recently been appointed one of four aediles in Neapolis and good fortune had given him responsibility for presiding over public entertainments rather than, the gods forbid, the workings of the sewers. The city boasted one of the finest theatres in the Empire and he took great pride in the events he sponsored there. Neapolitan audiences were notoriously difficult to please and regarded themselves as the most cultured of the Empire’s citizens.
And the Emperor undoubtedly agreed. Because tomorrow night he would be performing in front of them. If anything went wrong, Corbo knew it would be the death of him.
He frowned and scoured his mind. They had been preparing for months, but was there anything else he could do? The theatre manager was an arrogant pedant, but he knew his job and was as aware as Corbo of the price of unforeseen disaster. He had made certain that every seat would be filled, and filled with men and women who had reason to love their Emperor. To doubly ensure the reception was nothing less than rapturous Corbo had recruited a thousand young men of artistic disposition who had been tutored in the various proper forms of applause; bombi, imitating the drone of bees; imbrices, the beating of a hollow vessel with a thin stick; and testoe, which was similar to imbrices, but with a more bass sound. These he would strategically position in groups of fifty around the theatre to sing the Emperor’s praises at the appropriate moment. Members of the city guard would be on each of the gates to bar known malcontents. The programme itself was a carefully guarded secret, with each performer sworn to silence. They had been chosen for their aptitude rather than their brilliance. There could be only one star in this firmament.
He sighed and turned his horse back towards the city. No, there was nothing he could do but say a prayer and sacrifice a lamb to the goddess. If Minerva could not help him, no one could. The scent of juniper drifted to him on a light breeze from the great conical mountain on whose lower slopes he rode. He smiled. It was a comfort to live in the shadow of such a beautiful, benign and fertile giant.
Lucius dabbed at his daughter’s brow with a cloth as the covered wagon lurched through the mountains. The sheet covering Olivia’s body had become soaked with sweat and heat radiated from her flesh as if from an open fire. From time to time small moans of discomfort escaped her desiccated lips and he felt the guilt like a nail scraped across the inside of his skull.
For the hundredth time he repeated the prayer, calling on his lord God to give him the strength to endure. Of course he regretted her ordeal, but he couldn’t regret the impulse that had made him bring her. It would have been much easier if the ceremony had gone ahead in Rome, but the message he had received had been unequivocal. Olivia moaned again, almost a squeal, and he placed a jug of water against her cracked lips and poured a little into her mouth. He knew her suffering increased with every mile they travelled on this rutted track, but she must endure as he must endure. They were being tested, but if Olivia survived the test she would be saved, one way or the other. Neapolis was within a day’s drive and the villa an hour beyond it. Another bump made him groan. His aged bones were not suited to this primitive form of travel. He thought of Petrus, and the Judaean’s burning eyes immediately relieved the pain that racked every part of his body. Petrus would be waiting for them.
Lucius didn’t fully understand why they were travelling to the villa, but Rome had become increasingly dangerous for a Christian. Would he have the strength to die for his faith? When he was in the presence of Petrus and worshipping with the other members of the sect he drew courage from them. Alone, he found it more difficult to be brave. Ruth had helped him to understand his weakness and to fight it. He didn’t realize how much he had needed her until she was gone. Seneca had sent her to him; he was fortunate to have the philosopher as a friend. At first Ruth had been just another slave, but goodness and beauty shone from her like the light from the sun, the moon and the stars combined. He had become infatuated with her, but he would never have admitted it to anyone. Now he was alone again and death frightened him. He smiled sadly. Not quite alone. Valerius was a good son who cared for his father. If it were not for Valerius he would have died along with Ruth. At one point he had even believed his son might be brought into God’s community, and saved. But the day of Ruth’s death had revealed a Valerius he could never reach. A man estranged from every god, Roman or Christian.
His son would have prevented him from making this journey, if he could, and might even now be attempting to overtake him. That was why he had ordered the driver to avoid the main route from Rome. Tomorrow, God willing, they would reach the villa, Olivia would be saved and his own soul placed for ever in God’s keeping.
Twenty-five miles to the west, Poppaea Augusta Sabina struggled to conceal her nerves. She had been sick twice already, but her illness had nothing to do with the motion of the enormous Liburnian galley. The ship was the fastest vessel afloat and could outrun any pirate who decided that the riches of an imperial convoy were worth the risk of taking on the heavy naval escort. No, the problem was what she had agreed to do. Was Nero really studying her with concern, or did the pale eyes hide a more sinister interest?
Fear made her mouth dry and she took another sip of wine. She lay on one of a pair of ornate cushioned couches in the shadow of a wide awning of gold cloth, cooled by the gentle salt breeze created by the ship’s motion. All she could think of was Petrus. Was he becoming reckless? Bad enough that the most hunted man in Rome had somehow infiltrated her quarters in the guise of a dealer in fine jewellery, but to ask her to host this ceremony… She had pleaded with him, but his voice and his eyes were so persuasive. Only by testing our faith and our courage can we truly come to God, he had said. Only by sacrifice will we gain the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. And she had agreed. It was as if he had hypnotized her with his talk of a new and better world, beyond the pain of this one.
She so wanted to be brave, but all she felt was trapped. Even if she went on her knees and confessed Nero would kill her along with the rest. He would do it quietly, out of the public eye, but she remembered the Christians, her Christians, being torn apart by the wild beasts. The girl trying in vain to save her child. At least that monster Torquatus wasn’t accompanying them. He had stayed behind in Rome to deal with some crisis, but that didn’t mean his spies would stop watching her.
‘You are very pale, my dear. Perhaps you would like to sleep?’
Poppaea flinched at the voice, even though this was Nero at his most charming. She declined his offer to have the sides of the pavilion dropped to give her privacy. She preferred to see the sun sparkle on the waves like a million tiny diamonds, watch the yellow-eyed gulls squabble over scraps in the wake and feel the soft breeze on her skin. Suddenly each second of life seemed more precious than before. How had it come to this?
Nero studied his wife with the detached interest of a collector of fine statuary. Torquatus had hinted at a dark secret, but with Torquatus it never did to accept denunciation without proof, unless, of course, it suited your own ends. One had to admire the Praetorian prefect’s commitment to the destruction of others. At another time he might have found the power struggle between them quite entertaining, but in his own way he had grown fond of Poppaea. Perhaps it was an effect of becoming older, but increasingly he found it difficult to maintain his enthusiasm for a life of constant excess. All he truly wanted was to sing upon a stage and receive the adulation he deserved. Instead, the gods had burdened him with responsibility for an Empire that encompassed more people than the census takers could count. Or perhaps not the gods. It was his mother who had set him on this path with her limitless ambition. The galley and the sea reminded him of Agrippina, and he felt that familiar twinge of regret that she was gone. Not guilt — the fault was her own — but, yes, regret that she was no longer here to guide him. If only she had supported him instead of trying to control him it would all have been so different.