The Year of the Snake: Murder in the Senate (The Calidus Series Book 1) by M.J. Trow & Maryanne Coleman

Author:M.J. Trow & Maryanne Coleman [Trow, M.J. & Coleman, Maryanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2018-07-01T04:00:00+00:00

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The laughter echoed through the groves and lagoons of Baiae that sultry night. Music filled the air, coming and going on the soft breeze from the sea. It was Quinquatria and the Ides of March, engraved on the minds of every political Roman, had come and gone. In the sun-kissed days, the vines were propped in their trenches and pruned, and men and women broke their backs in the fields, sowing the three-month wheat.

All day, the emperor had been on his knees or lying face down in the temple at his villa. He was, after all, Pontifex Maximus, the highest of high priests, and Minerva was the goddess of a thousand works. There were those who dared whisper that she was almost as accomplished a musician as he was. All day, the muffled drums had beat solemnly, and the flowers had fluttered over the great and good of the court. Nero had gazed up, intoning the chanted words over and over, looking at the gilded statue of the goddess, dazzling with candles, her sword point dipped to honour the dead in war, and the owl of wisdom muttering in her ear.

The solemnities over, anyone who was anyone had flocked to the emperor’s villa as dusk fell on the warm March night. The wine flowed, and the food was delicious. For Nero, the feast was understated: spring vegetables, garnished whole roast lamb and suckling pig. Instead of elaborate cakes and puddings, fruit was lightly glazed with honey and piled on simple plates. Today, he was in the mood to be spiritual and introspective, the true priest of his goddess; excess would have sat badly with that. And besides, there was always tomorrow. He had a new musical work he wanted to share with his guests, and he didn’t want them distracted by the food or by indigestion. As soon as the platters had been removed and everyone had rinsed their fingers and been given fresh goblets of wine, he struck a chord, and, for want of a better word, the entertainment began. It was debatable which was worse, his voice or his lyre playing. Minerva, many of the guests silently thought, must have been spinning in her universe.

Agrippina was entranced by it all. A shame, she agreed, that Octavia could not have been present. She was unwell, Nero had told her, and the doctors had advised that she should stay in Rome. Could it be, Agrippina had asked, squeezing her little boy’s hand, that she was with child? Nero looked coy and lowered his eyelids. ‘It is hoped, Mama,’ he gushed, ‘but I’ll say nothing openly.’ He pointed skywards and dropped his voice, whispering, ‘The gods, you know.’

Agrippina knew. She presided regally over the banquet, her favourite handmaiden, Acceronia, cooing and billing alongside her. When Nero was not performing, he was circling the room as a good host should, leaving his mother to an adoring crowd of his sycophants. They hadn’t seen her for so long. And how radiant she looked. Was that Indian silk that graced her stola? Simply gorgeous.

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