'Dad's got nothing to do with this.'
'No. Of course not.' She kissed me again and pressed closer. 'I married you because you were different, you didn't fit in. But remember that if you died I'd make a bad and very sad widow. Much worse than Cosconia. Think about that before you do anything silly, won't you? And you don't have to prove anything to me, either.'
After we'd eaten I locked myself in the study and took out Livia's letter. There was a lamp burning on the desk. I looked at the clear flame, considering. Then with a twist of my thumb I broke the seal.
The letter was two years old, dated a month or so before the empress had died. She'd written it herself — I'd known that from the superscription — and the writing sprawled across the page like the tracks of a drunken spider:
To Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus. Livia Julia Augusta gives greetings.Well, young man, I'm dead and burned at last, or you wouldn't be reading this. Let me say first that I have no regrets, either about being dead or for having removed so many of my collateral relatives before their proper hours. I acted for the good of Rome; and Rome, although presently she believes herself hard done by under Tiberius, will look back and thank me for him. She could have done worse; she will certainly do worse when my son has gone and she discovers the quality of what is left. So no apologies, and no justifications.
Which brings me to the point of this letter. Aelius Sejanus. We talked a little about him the last time we met. Again the fact that you are reading this shows that the time for talk is past. The man is a malignant growth, a danger to Rome, and he must be removed. No; I dislike euphemisms. Sejanus must be killed.
I don't suggest you do it yourself. I can't see you knifing him in the back or poisoning his porridge, although I could make some suggestions there, as you know. That would be far too risky, and besides overt murder is always a mistake. Consider Brutus and Cassius, who performed the very laudable act of killing the far-from-divine Julius and got nothing but death and infamy for their pains while taking most of Rome's best with them. The question mark, Corvinus, must always be there, if only for the purposes of insurance. In Sejanus's case exposure of his true character in Tiberius's eyes will be quite sufficient. Then, assuming my son hasn't lost the wits he was born with, he can be rendered harmless and those cowardly fools in the senate relied on to finish the job for you.
So. How is he to be exposed? That, my dear, I leave entirely to you because I have the utmost faith in your expertise. For the same reason (and for the reason which you so astutely divined in our last interview) I am giving you no help whatsoever in the way of inside information. Find things out for yourself, young man. I would, however, suggest that an examination of the records of trials before the senate over the past eight years will make instructive reading, plus, of course, any others which postdate my own death. I have already approached the senate's archivist Junius Rusticus in this connection and should he still be alive when you read this he will be happy to give you access. If not you must make your own arrangements.
That is all. I wish you luck, which I am certain you don't need. Oh — one more thing, a personal matter. I called you, at the close of our interview, a 'divine idiot' and compared you to my grandson Claudius. I regret that bitterly: not the term, nor the comparison, but simply that you misunderstood it as an insult. That was most certainly not my meaning, and I apologise sincerely for any hurt caused. Should you ever have the opportunity, talk to my son's astrologer Thrasyllus. Normally, unlike Tiberius and my late husband the god, I have no time for such nonsense, but in Thrasyllus's case I make an exception. He is an honest man by his own lights, and — so far as I can tell — genuinely gifted. Ask him about Claudius; discreetly, please, there are certain understandable rules about these matters. What he tells you — if he tells you anything — will surprise you, and perhaps alter your opinion of my remark.
Again, Corvinus, and for the last time, my thanks. You will be acting, as I have always acted, for the good of Rome. Fools look for public acknowledgement and public honours. You will have neither, ever; and you will not, I think, care too much. We altruistic beings who truly love Rome (don't laugh, young man! I can hear you, but I mean it!) are above such things.
I am entrusting this letter to Lucius Arruntius. He has his faults, but he is, believe me, one of the few true Romans left. He knows nothing of its contents, and although — because! — he is an honourable man I would hesitate, were I you, to count on his practical assistance. A keen sense of honour is not a quality we require in this business, nor indeed is it a very safe one. Burn this now. You have my prayers.
Yeah. That was Livia, all right. I picked up my cup of Setinian and scattered a few drops to the thrawn, tough-minded old so-and-so's ghost: where she was at the moment I'd bet she needed all the prayers she could get. Then I burned her letter as instructed, in the flame of the lamp, and ground it to ash. There was a lump in my throat as I did it, why I don't know: she'd used me before, she was using me again, and this time she hadn't even had the grace to ask. I owed her nothing; quite the reverse.
I'd go after Sejanus like she wanted me to do; sure I would, I couldn't help myself. Whatever the cost, and however crazy it was. But then Livia, like Lamia, had known that all along.
3
It was good to be walking in Rome again, even if the city had changed. Not physically, or at least not much: buildings had gone up and come down, especially in the Subura where fires and collapsing tenements were a way of life, but the streets themselves were the same. And the smells. I hadn't been kidding when I'd told Arruntius I missed the smell of the Tiber. Athens may have a river of her own, but it's small and reasonably clean, like everything else in the philosophers' city, and that goes a long way towards explaining the Athenian character. A few thousand tons of ripe Tiber mud upwind tend to keep you practical.
But ten years was a long time, and I'd lost friends. Scylax was dead of a stroke five years back. Daphnis ran the gym for me now, and it was just a profitable investment these days: I'd never really hit it off with Daphnis. Agron was still around, but he was in Ostia and married to the daughter of an Alexandrian boat-builder who'd given him three kids and a paunch. The last time I'd seen Agron he had baby puke all down his tunic. He'd been proud of it, too.
Yeah, well. Life moves on, and even Rome can't stay still. I was heading for the Treasury on the Capitol, where the senate's records are kept, and although the Subura wasn't exactly on my direct route I cut through it for old times' sake. Not that I had much time for sightseeing: Bathyllus had run round — as far as the little guy is capable of running — to make a formal appointment for an hour before noon. After he'd gone I'd wondered whether sending him to Rusticus in advance had been a mistake, but cloak and dagger stuff's never been my bag. It only gets you noticed.
The first person I saw inside the Treasury building was Caelius Crispus. He'd put on weight and lost hair and teeth, but he still oozed. Good quality mantle, though. Trio wasn't the only slimy bastard who'd gone up in the world since I left.
'Corvinus?' Crispus was looking at me like I'd walked through the wall and rattled my chains at him. 'What the hell are you doing in Rome?'
'Yeah, and I'm glad to see you too, sunshine.' Not true. Given the choice between running into a flea-bitten baboon with halitosis and Crispus I'd've taken the monkey every time. 'You still have your attachments, then.'
'I'm Permanent Undersecretary of the Military Treasury now, if that's what you mean,' he said with dignity.