Arena by John Jakes Page B

with a noble nose, thrusting jaw and kindly brown eyes. He said by way of finishing,
    “Stand there if you feel you must, but you have my leave to sit. That was wretched business at Sulla’s. I wonder where the boy’s excesses will bring us. In a way I’m sorry I hadn’t the courage to strike him myself. However, I’ve always had a certain aversion to poison.”
    Taking this all in, I was ready to accept his invitation and perch on one of the stone benches when the hangings were swept aside. Into the tablinium stepped a tall, slim noble slightly older than Serenus. He wore a simple woolen robe. His nose was sharp, his eyes intelligent, his cheeks lean, his mouth determined. Outside in the atrium I glimpsed a pretty, silver-haired matron wearing a stola as simple in cut and hue as the man’s garment.
    The new arrival gestured to the woman. His voice had the rich qualities of a schooled orator’s.
    “Before we talk privately, Serenus, my wife Paulina wishes to inquire after your health.”
    “Tell Paulina greetings and also that I’ll live,” Serenus answered wryly.
    The tall man turned toward the hangings. His wife, having heard, smiled and glided away. The hangings dropped. Serenus added, “It isn’t this gash that frets me. It’s the circumstance which produced it. Our young charge grows more reckless every day. He — oh, permit me to present this stranger. I don’t even know his name, but he helped me through the streets.”
    “My name is Cassius, sirs,” I said. To the tall man I added, “Ave!”
    “Ave,” he replied, smiling at the greeting of the streets.
    With a clap he dismissed the slaves, who had finished binding Serenus’ wound. He settled down to a bench opposite his friend. He poured sweet wine into silver goblets, like a servant rather than a master. He even handed me one. His eyes were tolerant and amused.
    “Take it, good Cassius. You’ve earned it.”
    “In case you haven’t guessed,” Serenus said to me, “this is the celebrated L. Annaeus Seneca.”
    “The celebrated failure,” Seneca replied somberly. “In matters of Imperial counsel anyway.
    Cassius, whatever you hear in this chamber shall go no further.”
    “Don’t worry,” Serenus put in. “He won’t go running to Nero. He hit him in the face.”
    Seneca sighed. “The gods preserve us. On what pretext?”
    “I didn’t know who he was,” I said lamely. “But he was abusing an old man.”
    “Would you have struck had you known his identity?” asked Seneca.
    I thought it over, remembering Acte. “I believe so.”
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    The famous philosopher nodded. “Such courage is admirable, though misguided. The Emperor is a dangerous foe. He is circuitous in his hatred. However, Rome could do with a trifle more courage of the kind you displayed. Especially in the Senate.”
    “I tell you,” Serenus blurted hotly, “the Emperor’s cruelties will ruin us all! Already the rumors of his antics are the talk of Rome. What if he accidentally murders some poor wretch and we can’t hush it up?”
    Slowly Seneca stroked his chin with a bony finger. “Worse, Serenus, what if he kills us? Then there would be none to check his excesses. Only yesterday, on the Palatine, Nero was ranting about wanting the status and veneration of a god. When I suggested that deification was reserved for rulers already departed, he took it as a threat, not a comment, the way I intended. He shrieked at me like a spoiled brat. Frankly, I often wish Claudius had been a little firmer in his dislike of the Stoic philosophy. Had he been, I might never have been recalled from exile to tutor Nero, and today I’d be living the kind of life I enjoy, not mixing my hands in politics, at best a dirty business. Well, tell me. What happened, and where?”
    Serenus hitched himself nearer the wine. He poured another generous draught, downed it and said, “Sulla’s.” One more drink and a healthier color returned to his cheeks.
    “We have gone there five