Apollo, Venus or Jupiter and other lesser members of the godly pantheon. Enormous vases filled to bursting with vibrant yellow flowers continued the colour scheme. A display of neck and arm rings made of twisted strands filled part of one wall and Valerius recognized trophies taken from British kings. Another held plates and ornaments which could only have come from the east, a small part, he guessed, of the plunder Corbulo had gathered as he subdued the Parthians in Armenia. Valerius would have stopped to study them more closely, but his guide glared at him.
‘This way,’ Rodan said irritably, indicating a doorway to the right.
They entered a large open room dominated by an enormous statue of painted marble. It was incredibly lifelike and portrayed a naked man and two younger male figures being tormented by writhing snakes. The man was reaching upwards with one arm half entwined with a serpent, while his right hand attempted to keep a second snake’s gaping jaw from his body. Valerius recognized the group as Laocoön, high priest of Troy, and his two sons. He remembered that Laocoön had warned the Trojans against Greeks bearing gifts and wondered if it was a portent for this meeting. Rodan ignored the sculpture and turned to his left where a set of six wide steps led upwards to a golden throne.
The throne was empty.
‘Wait here.’ Without another word the Praetorian returned the way he’d come.
Minutes passed while Valerius stood in solitary silence. He knew the wait was designed to make him uneasy, but knowing didn’t make it any more bearable. As his eyes adjusted to the light he noticed detail that had not been apparent when he entered. The wall behind the throne was not solid, but a silk screen carefully painted to blend in with the garden scenes behind. It was almost translucent, so that if he looked carefully he could see faint shapes moving behind it. A slight rustling confirmed what he already knew. He was being watched.
He measured time by the shadows creeping arthritically across the floor. By now tension had developed into a slow-burning anger. He willed his feet to stay where they were. Seneca stood here, he thought. Seneca had suffered the same creeping uncertainty; the cramping of the legs and the roaring inside his skull. Lucius Annaeus Seneca was an old friend of Valerius’s father, with a country estate in the next valley. At the age of fourteen, Valerius had been sent to study under Seneca while the latter endured exile in Corsica. The philosopher had returned from his banishment to serve as Nero’s teacher and guide. He had danced the political tightrope for half a lifetime, but his fall now seemed inevitable. It was said he no longer had the Emperor’s confidence. That his judgement was unsound. He was old, tired; Nero needed a younger man to guide him, someone who understood his needs. Someone like Decimus Torquatus, the man who controlled Rodan and his Praetorian wolves.
Valerius kept his eye fixed on the wall and allowed his mind to drift back to long days on the parade ground with the Twentieth. Nero could not hurt him. The best of him had died on that final day in the Temple of Claudius. He might live and breathe, but this was merely the long prelude to the afterlife. The only people who truly mattered were Olivia and his father. For their sakes he would endure this petty torture.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft giggle from behind the screen and an apparition dressed in startling emerald green appeared, its golden hair styled in long ringlets. A weak chin with a sparse fair beard, bad skin disguised by white powder and heavy sensuous lips painted a rich, ruby red. This hermaphrodite creature was served by four naked satyrs; plump, pre-pubescent children who still managed to exude a nauseating sexuality as they danced around their charge. Valerius found himself caught between horrified bewilderment and an urge to laugh out loud. Nero. In a woman’s dress and made up like a
‘This way,’ Rodan said irritably, indicating a doorway to the right.
They entered a large open room dominated by an enormous statue of painted marble. It was incredibly lifelike and portrayed a naked man and two younger male figures being tormented by writhing snakes. The man was reaching upwards with one arm half entwined with a serpent, while his right hand attempted to keep a second snake’s gaping jaw from his body. Valerius recognized the group as Laocoön, high priest of Troy, and his two sons. He remembered that Laocoön had warned the Trojans against Greeks bearing gifts and wondered if it was a portent for this meeting. Rodan ignored the sculpture and turned to his left where a set of six wide steps led upwards to a golden throne.
The throne was empty.
‘Wait here.’ Without another word the Praetorian returned the way he’d come.
Minutes passed while Valerius stood in solitary silence. He knew the wait was designed to make him uneasy, but knowing didn’t make it any more bearable. As his eyes adjusted to the light he noticed detail that had not been apparent when he entered. The wall behind the throne was not solid, but a silk screen carefully painted to blend in with the garden scenes behind. It was almost translucent, so that if he looked carefully he could see faint shapes moving behind it. A slight rustling confirmed what he already knew. He was being watched.
He measured time by the shadows creeping arthritically across the floor. By now tension had developed into a slow-burning anger. He willed his feet to stay where they were. Seneca stood here, he thought. Seneca had suffered the same creeping uncertainty; the cramping of the legs and the roaring inside his skull. Lucius Annaeus Seneca was an old friend of Valerius’s father, with a country estate in the next valley. At the age of fourteen, Valerius had been sent to study under Seneca while the latter endured exile in Corsica. The philosopher had returned from his banishment to serve as Nero’s teacher and guide. He had danced the political tightrope for half a lifetime, but his fall now seemed inevitable. It was said he no longer had the Emperor’s confidence. That his judgement was unsound. He was old, tired; Nero needed a younger man to guide him, someone who understood his needs. Someone like Decimus Torquatus, the man who controlled Rodan and his Praetorian wolves.
Valerius kept his eye fixed on the wall and allowed his mind to drift back to long days on the parade ground with the Twentieth. Nero could not hurt him. The best of him had died on that final day in the Temple of Claudius. He might live and breathe, but this was merely the long prelude to the afterlife. The only people who truly mattered were Olivia and his father. For their sakes he would endure this petty torture.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft giggle from behind the screen and an apparition dressed in startling emerald green appeared, its golden hair styled in long ringlets. A weak chin with a sparse fair beard, bad skin disguised by white powder and heavy sensuous lips painted a rich, ruby red. This hermaphrodite creature was served by four naked satyrs; plump, pre-pubescent children who still managed to exude a nauseating sexuality as they danced around their charge. Valerius found himself caught between horrified bewilderment and an urge to laugh out loud. Nero. In a woman’s dress and made up like a
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