Rome Burning by Sophia McDougall Page A

only yards ahead; in a moment he would see it.
    A car from his father’s house – his own house, really – picked him up, but Drusus did not feel like seeing his father yet; he wanted to get on with things. He told the driver to take him straight to the Golden House. A pleasant blast of cool air brushed his face as he got in, but he wouldn’t have minded the natural heat, not here. He could stay in the Palace, but unless – until – it was his, he would rather have space of his own. He would have to order the place in Byzantium to be packed up. Suddenly he thought of the girl travelling to Rome with everything else, installed in his lodgings, and the image of her, the nearness of the thought of Tulliola swayed his happiness. The risk of someone interpreting the coded confession of Amaryllis’ face would be so much worse in Rome. It would be safest to get rid of her altogether – sell her, free her even. But though the craving for her was not there now, he couldn’t fool himself that it wouldn’t come back. No, he couldn’t give her up. She must never leave the house or the garden, he decided. She must never wear her hair up when he was not there.
    But as they drove over the Neronian Bridge, even though it was only an unattractive bundle of roads over the river, boiling with cars from the station, the feeling of joyous expectation settled over him again. He leant forward in his seat.
    And the Golden House raised its glass towers above the Circus Maximus. The Praetorians let him through the carved façade and he bounded up the steps into the blue space behind the high windows. He went to the outer office.
    ‘Tell my cousin I’m here – no, don’t,’ he said to the aides in the same breath. ‘Take me to where he is.’
    He found to his surprise that he was being led downstairsagain. And once they were past the hectic administrative stir on the first floor, there was a strangeness in the passages that he couldn’t identify; a stillness. He walked into the banqueting hall, but the tables and couches had been pushed back against the walls, and the room was full of people. For a second Drusus did not recognise them – but they were the Palace slaves, all of them. There must be four hundred at least. That was what he had missed in the corridors; not so much the presence of the slaves, but the subconscious sense that they had just darted out of sight. Drusus drew back a little. He felt suddenly vulnerable, outnumbered. Of course there had to be hundreds of slaves in the Palace, but not all gathered in one place like this.
    Marcus stood at the far end of the room, still – as Drusus thought of it – dressed up as Emperor, with Makaria and Glycon and a few other people who did not interest him. Marcus noticed Drusus come in and managed a quick, minimal nod, without disrupting what he was saying.
    ‘You don’t have to decide now. The Palace works very well because of you, so I hope you’ll choose to stay. But if you don’t want to work as paid servants – if you’ve never wanted that, then from this minute you are free to leave, whether to look for other work, or for any family from whom you’ve been separated. We will give as much help as possible, whatever you decide.’
    ‘Good heavens,’ said Drusus ringingly from the back of the hall. ‘What
are
you doing?’
    Marcus frowned slightly, but did not look at Drusus again. He said straight into the crowd, ‘And I apologise to each of you. I’m sorry you’ve had no choice but to stay here so long.’
    In another mood, Drusus might have been outraged, but for now, although he was incredulous, he was amused too. It was so fantastic, so brazen as to be quite entertaining. At the same time he felt a little apprehensive, because what might the slaves do now that Marcus had said that, now they were all gathered in one place? They might riot. But even the danger seemed thrilling. He shook his head and beamed.
    The slaves did not erupt into joy, as Drusus