given apartments in a villa not far from the harbour. Macro informed us we had an hour to make ourselves ready before the Emperor would see us.
‘So soon?’ I asked once Macro had left.
‘Tiberius doesn’t like visitors,’ the Minion replied. ‘Though he’ll be eager for news from Rome.’
‘I thought . . .’
‘What?’ the Minion demanded.
‘Macro already seemed to know that I would be I coming here?’
The Minion gave a shrug. ‘You have your orders. Make sure you follow them.’
We washed and changed, then ate some white bread and grapes. Macro returned and we were led across the island to a white, marble-colonnaded villa perched high on the edge of the cliffs. It was cooled by breezes which also wafted in the perfume of exotic plants from the garden.
Tiberius met us alone in a small atrium which overlooked the garden. I glimpsed a sparkling fountain and the curtain wall, beyond which was the death-dealing fall. Tiberius sat between two pillars leading out to the garden. He didn’t recline on a couch but on a soldier’s camp chair. He was dressed in a purple and gold-fringed toga, with a simple bronze chain around his neck. He kept playing with the silver tassels on the cushions beneath him. Despite Sejanus’s warnings, I glanced up at him quickly. Tiberius looked hideous: although balding at the front, his dark hair clustered thickly round the nape of his neck, his nose was twisted slightly to the left, the jutting upper lip was made worse by the rotting teeth, and a weak chin gave his face a bitter, sneering look. His glowering dark eyes blazed in contrast to his skin which was a dirty-white like that of a whore who’d painted her face, emphasized by the fetid ulcers which covered his body. Years earlier Tiberius had tried to burn these off by cauterising them with a fiery iron. Such a clumsy cure had only made matters worse. Tiberius reminded me of a leper.
We had to wait until Macro finished his whispering. Tiberius pushed him away and beckoned us forward with his fingers. We knelt on cushions before him, heads down.
‘You come from Rome?’
‘Yes, your Imperial Highness,’ the Minion replied. ‘And we bring felicitations . . .’
‘Enough of that!’ Tiberius barked like a centurion on a parade ground. ‘I’m not interested in Rome or what it thinks of me. But I understand my good friend Sejanus has undergone some sort of crisis?’
The Minion stiffened. I hid my smile of satisfaction. I was correct: Macro had known why we were here. Was this a good augury? I closed my eyes and thought of Agrippina’s face. I prayed to whatever gods there were that I would survive this ordeal.
‘Well, come on!’ Tiberius urged.
The Minion spoke quickly, describing Metellus’s death. I looked away, trying to distract myself. In the garden beyond grew asparagus and cucumbers, Tiberius’s favourite vegetables. They were kept in boxes on wheels so they could be taken in and out of the sun according to the weather. Sometimes he would go for days, eating only these or radishes from Germany. I half listened to the Minion’s lies, until a shadow passed in front of the column. Tiberius told the Minion to be quiet. Forgetting myself, I looked up. The new arrival was tall and stoop-backed, with long-fingered hands which dangled like the claws of an animal, their nails curved and dirty. The new-comer’s face was sallow and pitted and, like Tiberius, he was bald at the front with a thick crust of hair on the nape of his neck. He came and stood by Tiberius like a faithful dog.
‘My good nephew, Gaius!’ Tiberius murmured.
By then I had lowered my eyes. ‘Little Boots’ certainly didn’t resemble Agrippina with his dull face, muddy-coloured complexion and eyes like those of an opiate-drinker. Slobbery-lipped and loose-jawed, Caligula looked like an imbecile.
‘Continue,’ Tiberius murmured.
The Minion did so in a few halting sentences. Tiberius tapped his silver-gilded sandal, an ominous sound
‘So soon?’ I asked once Macro had left.
‘Tiberius doesn’t like visitors,’ the Minion replied. ‘Though he’ll be eager for news from Rome.’
‘I thought . . .’
‘What?’ the Minion demanded.
‘Macro already seemed to know that I would be I coming here?’
The Minion gave a shrug. ‘You have your orders. Make sure you follow them.’
We washed and changed, then ate some white bread and grapes. Macro returned and we were led across the island to a white, marble-colonnaded villa perched high on the edge of the cliffs. It was cooled by breezes which also wafted in the perfume of exotic plants from the garden.
Tiberius met us alone in a small atrium which overlooked the garden. I glimpsed a sparkling fountain and the curtain wall, beyond which was the death-dealing fall. Tiberius sat between two pillars leading out to the garden. He didn’t recline on a couch but on a soldier’s camp chair. He was dressed in a purple and gold-fringed toga, with a simple bronze chain around his neck. He kept playing with the silver tassels on the cushions beneath him. Despite Sejanus’s warnings, I glanced up at him quickly. Tiberius looked hideous: although balding at the front, his dark hair clustered thickly round the nape of his neck, his nose was twisted slightly to the left, the jutting upper lip was made worse by the rotting teeth, and a weak chin gave his face a bitter, sneering look. His glowering dark eyes blazed in contrast to his skin which was a dirty-white like that of a whore who’d painted her face, emphasized by the fetid ulcers which covered his body. Years earlier Tiberius had tried to burn these off by cauterising them with a fiery iron. Such a clumsy cure had only made matters worse. Tiberius reminded me of a leper.
We had to wait until Macro finished his whispering. Tiberius pushed him away and beckoned us forward with his fingers. We knelt on cushions before him, heads down.
‘You come from Rome?’
‘Yes, your Imperial Highness,’ the Minion replied. ‘And we bring felicitations . . .’
‘Enough of that!’ Tiberius barked like a centurion on a parade ground. ‘I’m not interested in Rome or what it thinks of me. But I understand my good friend Sejanus has undergone some sort of crisis?’
The Minion stiffened. I hid my smile of satisfaction. I was correct: Macro had known why we were here. Was this a good augury? I closed my eyes and thought of Agrippina’s face. I prayed to whatever gods there were that I would survive this ordeal.
‘Well, come on!’ Tiberius urged.
The Minion spoke quickly, describing Metellus’s death. I looked away, trying to distract myself. In the garden beyond grew asparagus and cucumbers, Tiberius’s favourite vegetables. They were kept in boxes on wheels so they could be taken in and out of the sun according to the weather. Sometimes he would go for days, eating only these or radishes from Germany. I half listened to the Minion’s lies, until a shadow passed in front of the column. Tiberius told the Minion to be quiet. Forgetting myself, I looked up. The new arrival was tall and stoop-backed, with long-fingered hands which dangled like the claws of an animal, their nails curved and dirty. The new-comer’s face was sallow and pitted and, like Tiberius, he was bald at the front with a thick crust of hair on the nape of his neck. He came and stood by Tiberius like a faithful dog.
‘My good nephew, Gaius!’ Tiberius murmured.
By then I had lowered my eyes. ‘Little Boots’ certainly didn’t resemble Agrippina with his dull face, muddy-coloured complexion and eyes like those of an opiate-drinker. Slobbery-lipped and loose-jawed, Caligula looked like an imbecile.
‘Continue,’ Tiberius murmured.
The Minion did so in a few halting sentences. Tiberius tapped his silver-gilded sandal, an ominous sound
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