myself to throw any book away, and I never had the heart to tell old Calpurnius, but these ones by Philodemus aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.’
‘Where do you want them? My books, I mean. I can shelve them for you.’
‘Leave them where they are by the door. Narcissus is making space in my library tomorrow. Yours will have pride of place. All of that Greek nonsense will be removed.’
‘Narcissus still does all your writing for you?’
‘He castrated himself, poor fellow, so he could serve me, you know. It was when he was a boy, a young slave. I was going to free him anyway.’
‘I’ve never quite trusted Narcissus,’ Pliny said cautiously.
‘You can always trust a eunuch.’
‘It’s always been your Achilles’ heel, if I may say so. Wives and freedmen.’
‘Achilles is one thing I’m definitely not. I may be a god, but I’m no Achilles.’ Claudius stifled a giggle, then looked serious. ‘Yes, Narcissus is a bit of a mystery. I sometimes think his fall from being Prefect of the Guard in Rome to being little more than the slave of an old hermit must be hard for him to bear, being part of my own disappearing act. But Nero would have executed him if he hadn’t faked his death too. Narcissus has always been a shrewd fellow, with his business interests in Britannia. And his religion, the quirky stuff he picked up when he was a slave. He’s a very pious chap. And he’s always been very loyal to me.’ Claudius suddenly smiled, lurched up, and caught Pliny by the arm. ‘Thank you for your books, my friend,’ he said quietly. ‘Reading has always been my greatest joy. And there will be much to help me with my own history of Britannia.’ He pointed to an open scroll pinned on the table, one edge splattered with wine. ‘We’d better get to work while I’ve still got a modicum of common sense left in me. It has been a long day.’
‘I can see.’
The two men hunched together over the table, the curious hue of the moonlight giving the marble a reddish tint. It was unseasonably hot for late August, and the breeze wafting over the balcony was warm and dry like the sirocco that swept up from Africa. Claudius sometimes wondered whether Pliny the great encyclopedist was not just flattering him by calling on his expertise on Britannia, a hollow victory if there ever was one. Claudius had been there, of course, had ridden out of the freezing waves on a war elephant, pale and shaking, not in fear of the enemy but terrified that he might have a seizure and fall off, bringing dishonour to his family name. Yet Britannia was his one imperial achievement, his one triumph, and he had devoted himself to writing a history of the province from the earliest times. He had read everything there was to read on the subject, from the journal of the ancient explorer Pytheas, who had first rounded the island, to the blood-curdling accounts of headhunting that his legionaries had extracted from the druids before they were executed. And he had found her, princess of a noble family, the girl the Sibyl had told him to seek out, she who would rise and fall alongside the warrior-queen.
‘Tell me,’ Claudius suddenly said. ‘You saw my father in a dream?’
‘It was why I wrote my History of the German Wars ,’ Pliny replied, repeating the story he had told Claudius many times before. ‘It was while I was stationed on the Rhine, in command of a cavalry regiment. I awoke one night and a ghost was standing over me, a Roman general. It was Drusus, I swear it. Your revered father. He was committing me to secure his memory.’
‘He d-died before I even knew him.’ Claudius glanced at the bust of his father in the room, then clasped his hands together in anguish. ‘P-poisoned, like my dear brother Germanicus. If only I had been able to live up to his legacy, to lead the legions like Germanicus, to earn the loyalty of the men.’
‘But you did,’ Pliny said, looking anxiously at Claudius. ‘Remember
‘Where do you want them? My books, I mean. I can shelve them for you.’
‘Leave them where they are by the door. Narcissus is making space in my library tomorrow. Yours will have pride of place. All of that Greek nonsense will be removed.’
‘Narcissus still does all your writing for you?’
‘He castrated himself, poor fellow, so he could serve me, you know. It was when he was a boy, a young slave. I was going to free him anyway.’
‘I’ve never quite trusted Narcissus,’ Pliny said cautiously.
‘You can always trust a eunuch.’
‘It’s always been your Achilles’ heel, if I may say so. Wives and freedmen.’
‘Achilles is one thing I’m definitely not. I may be a god, but I’m no Achilles.’ Claudius stifled a giggle, then looked serious. ‘Yes, Narcissus is a bit of a mystery. I sometimes think his fall from being Prefect of the Guard in Rome to being little more than the slave of an old hermit must be hard for him to bear, being part of my own disappearing act. But Nero would have executed him if he hadn’t faked his death too. Narcissus has always been a shrewd fellow, with his business interests in Britannia. And his religion, the quirky stuff he picked up when he was a slave. He’s a very pious chap. And he’s always been very loyal to me.’ Claudius suddenly smiled, lurched up, and caught Pliny by the arm. ‘Thank you for your books, my friend,’ he said quietly. ‘Reading has always been my greatest joy. And there will be much to help me with my own history of Britannia.’ He pointed to an open scroll pinned on the table, one edge splattered with wine. ‘We’d better get to work while I’ve still got a modicum of common sense left in me. It has been a long day.’
‘I can see.’
The two men hunched together over the table, the curious hue of the moonlight giving the marble a reddish tint. It was unseasonably hot for late August, and the breeze wafting over the balcony was warm and dry like the sirocco that swept up from Africa. Claudius sometimes wondered whether Pliny the great encyclopedist was not just flattering him by calling on his expertise on Britannia, a hollow victory if there ever was one. Claudius had been there, of course, had ridden out of the freezing waves on a war elephant, pale and shaking, not in fear of the enemy but terrified that he might have a seizure and fall off, bringing dishonour to his family name. Yet Britannia was his one imperial achievement, his one triumph, and he had devoted himself to writing a history of the province from the earliest times. He had read everything there was to read on the subject, from the journal of the ancient explorer Pytheas, who had first rounded the island, to the blood-curdling accounts of headhunting that his legionaries had extracted from the druids before they were executed. And he had found her, princess of a noble family, the girl the Sibyl had told him to seek out, she who would rise and fall alongside the warrior-queen.
‘Tell me,’ Claudius suddenly said. ‘You saw my father in a dream?’
‘It was why I wrote my History of the German Wars ,’ Pliny replied, repeating the story he had told Claudius many times before. ‘It was while I was stationed on the Rhine, in command of a cavalry regiment. I awoke one night and a ghost was standing over me, a Roman general. It was Drusus, I swear it. Your revered father. He was committing me to secure his memory.’
‘He d-died before I even knew him.’ Claudius glanced at the bust of his father in the room, then clasped his hands together in anguish. ‘P-poisoned, like my dear brother Germanicus. If only I had been able to live up to his legacy, to lead the legions like Germanicus, to earn the loyalty of the men.’
‘But you did,’ Pliny said, looking anxiously at Claudius. ‘Remember
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