The Furies of Rome by Robert Fabbri

excruciating embarrassment of all the witnesses to this bizarre behaviour. Only Poppaea and Otho seemed unaffected: she, appearing to fellate Nero mentally with the wanton poise of her lips and slight movement of her head and he, staring at the Emperor as if enraptured by the feeble series of seemingly random notes that passed his lips. Terpnus plucked away, beaming at his pupil with the pride of a grammaticus watching his favourite pupil reciting a long passage of Homer in Greek, whilst Acte endeavoured to attract Nero’s attention by flaunting her genitalia, clearly visible through the sheer material that passed for clothing, in his eye-line.
    But her endeavour was to no avail as Nero’s gaze was fixed on Poppaea’s lips and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind, as the ode scraped on, what they would be doing before the day was out.
    Eventually the ordeal came to a close as the last note expired with a weak growl and Nero looked to his audience who immediately broke out into rapturous applause, some even managing to squeeze out a tear or two, although perhaps they had been aided by the eye-watering ineptitude of the performance. Nero, though, was weeping for joy and taking Terpnus to the imperial bosom and bestowing kisses upon his mentor as he too was overcome with the emotion of it all.
    The celebrations went on for an age as none wished to be the first to stop applauding and Nero showed no sign of feeling that he had been lauded enough. He wept and he hugged and he made shows of modesty and surprise and gratitude, each with what seemed to be a well-rehearsed pose until eventually he could refuse no more and, signalling for silence, repeated his triumph.
    This time many in the audience copied their Emperor and wept freely as his performance rumbled on whilst the rest stood with expressions of delight or gratitude firmly etched on their faces to cover their disbelief at the depth of Nero’s delusion. There was even less to recommend the ballad on a second hearing than there was when it was fresh to their ears; the tune was monotonous and the couplets rarely rhymed or scanned correctly. And it was on the second hearing that Vespasian realised what they were listening to. ‘It’s his own composition, Uncle,’ he whispered to Gaius.
    ‘Dear gods, you’re right,’ Gaius muttered through the clenched teeth of his fixed grin, his lips barely moving. ‘Let’s hope we’re the only ones to notice.’
    On Nero forged, his voice weakening and growing huskier with each verse, Poppaea’s bosom heaving next to him as she stared into his face with undisguised animal desire, her thumb toying with the tip of her tongue whilst her spouse continued to regard the Emperor in wonderment.
    As the final verse was laid to rest and Terpnus melodramatically plucked the last chord, Gaius stepped forward. ‘A composition of your own making, Princeps,’ he shouted just as the applause began. ‘Inspirational! We are blessed that you have shared it with us.’
    There was a pause in the applause as the rest of the audience realised that this was the reality of the affair: Nero had indeed written the ballad, which perfectly explained the direness of its quality. They began to shout out their admiration for his talent and ask why he had kept it from them for so long; but they were too late. Nero, beaming with joy, walked up to Gaius and took him by the shoulders; for a few moments he stared at Gaius as if he were the rarest and most beautiful gem.
    ‘The Pharos is right,’ Nero declared, ‘it was indeed my own composition.’
    ‘A work of genius, Princeps,’ Gaius affirmed, ignoring the use of what he hoped was not becoming his nickname.
    ‘ We were overwhelmed,’ Vespasian put in, ‘when we realised that it was so.’
    ‘And you, Vespasian,’ Nero said, turning to him, ‘you too recognised it as being my own work?’
    ‘It was unmistakeable, Princeps,’ Vespasian replied, truthfully.
    ‘And my voice?’
    ‘Beyond