The Conspiracy

by John Hersey

  Nevertheless, his mien and gestures were magnificent; life was ebbing away. This, it struck me, was why Seneca had been dangerous. In the end it is a man’s bearing, as much as his words, that have real meaning. Cowards talk bravely, brave men walk bravely. (Ah, Tigellinus, I hear you now: Paenus, you’ve listened to so many of Seneca’s pompous epigrams that you’ve started mimicking them. But have you been paying attention to what I have written, Tigellinus?)

  SENECA, to his stenographer: I want to dictate a letter to Lucan…. Are you ready?…

  “Seneca to Lucan, greetings:

  “If you are well, it is well. I also am well.

  “This is how men used to start their letters to each other, and it is an appropriate salute from me to you at this moment.

  “I asked permission to see you tonight, and it was denied me. I wanted to hold your hand, to look in your eyes. I have wanted a son.

  “I understand that you are under arrest for the crime of having an independent mind. I congratulate you.

  “You may be faced with more than house arrest—I pray not. If you are, get permission to have my dear friend Statius Annaeus attend you, and have him tell you how Seneca took his leave.

  “But even my physician cannot tell you everything. I am at this instant afraid and very sad. Yes, Lucan, take anyone off his guard—young, old, or middle-aged—and you will find that all are equally afraid of death, and equally ignorant of life. After all I have written and said about not being afraid, I am afraid. I have loved my life, even though I feel as if I have merely groped my way through it, and suddenly I see the horror of leaving it. I am not really ready. No one has anything finished, because we have all kept putting off things we wanted to do. Your poem. My tragedies, my investigations of nature, my views on life—all incomplete, Lucan, in a way only just begun.

  “I am still learning.

  “It is too late for regrets. Back to our question: What is the responsibility of a writer? Be consoled, Lucan. You have done your duty as a writer as best you could, which was to be true to your gifts. The responsibility of a writer is to write. What more can be said? You have faithfully done this.

  “But what, you have asked me all along, should a writer do about the evils of the world? I believe in philosophy—in living life as a constant search for wisdom, always in love with learning. I suppose the verdict against me, though totally arbitrary, is just. A philosopher, a writer: he is by definition one who wants to find a better way of doing things—less criminal, less violent, less rigid, less grasping, less cruel. A writer is a rebel. But, you see, as he is, so he would always be. Overthrowing a tyrant would not absolve him of the duty (the fate) of being a rebel. Systems change but men do not. Men have lived pretty much the same—with the same greeds, the same lusts, doing the same unforgivable wrongs to each other—under the democracy in Greece, under our Republic, now under the Principate whether the Emperor is Augustus or Nero, under tyrants, pharaohs, kings, satraps, chieftains, priests. If anything can save mankind from its darker side, dear Lucan, dear son, and dying I do not know if anything can, it will be the example of those who search—those few men in every setting who try to find and live by the rules of wisdom; and who write down what little they learn.

  “I have tried to do this. You in your way have tried to do this. I salute you.

  “Farewell.”

  It was in the pronunciation of this last word, as he dictated it, that for the very first time all night Seneca’s voice trembled. He was growing weak. His head lolled back against the slope of the chair.

  The messenger came with the order to save Paulina. I told Statius Annaeus, and he applied tourniquets. She was barely conscious, and was too weak to protest even if she realized what was happening. Seneca was still clear of mind, and when told of Nero’s decision he feebly said he was really glad, for once, of a tyrant’s command.

  When the physician had finished with Paulina, Seneca told Statius that the force of life was too strong in him, and he asked his friend to administer to him a small vial of poison which he had long kept for an emergency; he sent Cleonicus—final irony—to get it. When the freedman came back, Statius helped Seneca to take it. But either the poison had lost its strength or Seneca’s frame was closed to it; it had no effect.

  Statius asked Marcellinus to prepare a warm and a hot bath. When the warm one was ready, Seneca was carried to it and was lowered into it. In a few moments he sprinkled some of his slaves with the water and blood.

  SENECA: I offer this liquid as a libation to Jupiter the Deliverer.

  Soon he was carried into the hot bath, where in the steam life left him, and he, life.

  To PAENUS, Tribune of Secret Police, from TIGELLINUS

  I am sorry to interrupt your earned sleep. Himself has read your report on Seneca. You are suddenly a trusted man, and he urgently wants you present at the series of interrogations we must conduct this morning. Come at once. Bring Natalis and Scaevinus.

  INTERROGATION:

  Cervarius Proculus

  In the Presence of the Emperor. Attending: Tigellinus, Rufus, Paenus, Cassius; Natalis, Scaevinus, in confrontation; Felix, Stenographer.

  The early part of the interrogation is summarized as follows: Cervarius, identified as belonging to the equestrian order, is questioned, principally by Tigellinus, about his relationship to Piso; at first Cervarius denies anything more than a casual acquaintanceship. At a certain point Co-Commander Rufus actively joins the questioning, treating Cervarius to fierce looks and brusque challenges. Natalis and Scaevinus, interested in their own skins, also press Cervarius, who begins to involve himself in damaging contradictions. Then:

  SCAEVINUS: Do you remember, CERVARIUS, the evening of what we called “the test of Fate”—our debate over who should be the successor? Tell about your part in that discussion.

  RUFUS now turned on SCAEVINUS, saying that SCAEVINUS seemed to know much more about this miserable affair than he had previously admitted to. SCAEVINUS, in his indifferent way, responded only with a languid smile, which caused RUFUS to become angry and to browbeat SCAEVINUS with a series of menacing questions.

  TIGELLINUS: My dear RUFUS, we are here to question CERVARIUS.

  SCAEVINUS, still smiling, and with an insolent calm: Perhaps we should be questioning RUFUS. After all, my dear RUFUS, no one knows more about this miserable affair, as you call it, than you do.

  RUFUS opened his mouth, as if to roar at SCAEVINUS, but no sound emerged.

  SCAEVINUS, insisting: Why don’t you show your true gratitude to the Prince who has been so good to you, RUFUS? Why don’t you tell him what you know?

  Here CERVARIUS, the accused, brazenly intervened, perhaps seeing a chance to rescue himself: Yes, RUFUS, tell us about the position you took during “the test of Fate.”

  RUFUS began looking first at HIMSELF, then at SCAEVINUS and CERVARIUS, then at TIGELLINUS. He seemed to be choking. FAENUS RUFUS, Co-Commander of the Praetorian Guard, a man with a battle record of searing valor, was pallid, trembling, perspiring, and speechless.

  A roar now did emerge, not from RUFUS but from the mouth of HIMSELF.

  HIMSELF: Not you!

  RUFUS now finally tried to protest, but his words were halting.

  HIMSELF: CASSIUS! CASSIUS!

  The giant at once leaped forward and caught RUFUS in his arms, RUFUS in terror struggled to free himself, but he was like a kitten in the paws of CASSIUS, who had very soon bound RUFUS‘S limbs in strong cord.

  SCAEVINUS, even now imperturbable: Why don’t you tell your Prince, RUFUS, about what you said about a successor?

  It was now TIGELLINUS‘S turn to emit a bellow.

  TIG.: It was you who went to Seneca!

  Now there was great confusion—babbling of many voices.

  Repeated loud shouts by HIMSELF brought the interrogation of CERVARIUS
to an abrupt conclusion.

  PAENUS AFRANIUS (Recorder)

  To PAENUS, Tribune of Secret Police, from TIGELLINUS

  Take over interrogation of civilian arrestees. Himself, Poppaea, Cassius, and I will question Rufus, the Tribune Subrius Flavus, the Centurion Sulpicius Asper, and other military conspirators as uncovered.

  Worried about Himself. What shocks! The Co-Commander of the Guard! My “colleague,” I thank the stars, seems to be completely broken. I knew he had no bronze in him when I backed him down about the investigation of the Guard—but I shudder when I think of having entrusted that “purge” to him. No wonder nothing happened. We have had a narrow escape.

  Carry on. Be alert. You will have to handle all arrests from now on.

  To PAENUS, Tribune of Secret Police, from TIGELLINUS

  We have sent Rufus, Flavus, and Asper to have their heads cut off.

  Arrest the Tribune Gavius Silvanus. This is the “trusted” officer Rufus sent with you to Seneca! From Rufus we have learned that after Himself ordered Silvanus to carry the death sentence to Seneca, Silvanus went to Rufus to ask whether he should deliver it. Rufus’s nerve was already gone then; he ordered Silvanus to carry out the mission. But as you reported, Silvanus could not bring himself to bear the message face-to-face to Seneca and left it to you.

  Arrest also the Tribune Statius Proximus, the Centurions Maximus Scaurus and Venetus Paulus. There will be others.

  [Omitted here: Numerous messages to Tigellinus from Paenus about interrogations of civilians; orders for further civilian arrests.]

  April 30

  To PAENUS, Tribune of Secret Police, from TIGELLINUS

  Poppaea and I have had a bad night with Himself. He needed us by his side. I held his hand for hours. In his other hand he held the girl-goddess, all night long. His skin was clammy, his eyes bloodshot with swollen lids as if he wanted to but could not weep.

  The blows have been dreadful ones for him. Seneca’s brave death—without a word of reproach of Himself, except for that brief reference to his cruelty. How much easier it would have been if Seneca had lost control and had poured out a loathing of his former pupil. Then yesterday, Paenus. The exposure of Rufus was bad enough. But those other soldiers!

  First there was Subrius Flavus. When confronted he scoffed at the idea that such a rough man as he could join himself in any undertaking with dissipated, effeminate, and unarmed associates—our literary friends. But under pressure from a shameless Rufus, he took pride in a full confession. Himself was close to those elusive tears, believe me, and he asked what could possibly have driven a good soldier to forget his oath of allegiance.

  Flavus looked Himself full in the face and said: I hated you.

  Himself had no answer for that; the threatened tears did not come, only a sickly pallor.

  Flavus went on: No soldier was more loyal to you than I was as long as you deserved the love of a Roman. I started to hate you when you killed your mother. My hate grew and grew when you murdered your wife, when you began racing chariots, when you started singing female parts in the theater, when you became an incendiary.

  You can imagine that it did not take long then for the death sentence of decapitation to be pronounced.

  But Flavus’s words had stabbed Himself, and later in the day news came of the manner of Flavus’s dying, and this news turned the knife in the wound. I had decided that we could trust the Tribune Veianus Niger to behead Flavus. Flavus ordered a pit dug in the field where he was to die. Seeing it, Flavus criticized it—too shallow, too narrow; and he turned to the soldiers around him and said: Even this is not according to regulations. Niger urged him to offer his neck like a man. I only hope, Flavus said in the firm voice of a commanding officer, that your stroke will be as manly. Niger trembled terribly at that, and could hardly do his duty….

  Asper dealt Himself another gut wound with words. When Himself asked why he had conspired to murder him, the centurion answered: I could not have done a greater service to your career than to bring it to an end.

  This man died resolutely, too.

  Last evening was bitter. Himself began to be convinced that everyone was plotting against him, even Poppaea and I. Finally he developed a firm conviction that the Consul Vestinus was a leader of the plot. I tried to point out that no one had accused Vestinus, that because of his stubbornness about his elegant private guard we had conducted careful investigations, which had absolved him to our satisfaction. But Himself was wild, and he sent the Tribune Gerellanus with a cohort of soldiers to “seize Vestinus’s fort,” to crush the bodyguard, and to do away with him. Vestinus was entertaining a dinner party. The moment the soldiers broke into his house and announced the verdict, he shut himself up in his private chamber, called a physician, opened his veins, and died without a word of self-pity.

  When a messenger reported late at night that the soldiers were still holding Vestinus’s guests and wished to know the Emperor’s pleasure, Himself laughed and laughed, and said the guests had been punished long enough for having given the traitor Vestinus a good time; let them go home.

  But after the bout of laughter Himself had chills. In the night he started from sleep, drenched with sweat, and said that he had dreamed that he was sailing a vessel and suddenly the helm was wrenched out of his grasp and then disappeared—there was nothing to steer with as the wind increased. He said that Lucan was somewhere on the vessel, but that he could not see him. He looked everywhere—in the bows, in the compartments below decks, among the galley slaves, at the mast—but could not find Lucan. The sense of Lucan’s presence was oppressive, the wind was hot and moist.

  To PAENUS, Tribune of Secret Police, from TIGELLINUS

  Himself orders Lucan sentenced to death.

  You are to deliver the sentence, Paenus. Take a squad of agents with you. You had perhaps better also take an executioner, as Lucan may not have the courage to take his own life.

  This decision has been the worst—almost tore Himself in two. The dream he had last night has weighed on him all morning; he says he cannot shake the feeling that Lucan is nearby and can actually look at him.

  He commands that you pick up Statius Annaeus on your way and take him to Lucan’s, and also that you carry with you the letter that Seneca dictated for Lucan.

  Verify the death, and give us an exact account of it.

  To TIGELLINUS from PAENUS, Tribune of Secret Police

  By mounted courier.

  Lucan is dead.

  To TIGELLINUS from PAENUS, Tribune of Secret Police

  The report on Lucan’s death. Give me no more errands of this sort.

  The Execution of Lucan

  I posted the squad of agents and the executioner at the gate, and we entered.

  As soon as Lucan recognized Statius Annaeus in my company, he knew why I had come, and he confounded my (and Himself’s, and your) anxiety lest he react as a coward: He spoke to us quietly, before I could even pronounce the sentence of death:

  LUCAN: I have been expecting this.

  He led us to his writing room, seated us, and offered us wine in silver cups with his own hands. He poured himself a cupful too, and drank it straight off. I told Lucan that Seneca had wished for him to hear from Statius Annaeus an account of Seneca’s departure.

  Lucan sat quietly while Statius spoke about Seneca’s death. Statius, you will remember, had arrived well after Seneca had opened his veins; he had afterwards questioned Marcellinus, Paulina, Cleonicus, and others about the earlier part of the evening. I now found myself intervening from time to time in Statius’s narrative, to correct or offer details.

  As Lucan listened he began to give out quick little reactive grunts, and he frowned and grimaced. Finally he stood up, poured himself another cup of wine, tossed if off at a gulp, and impatiently burst out:

  LUCAN: A Phaedo! He was t
rying to make a Phaedo of it. Playing at the death of Socrates.

  To my surprise I could not resist denying this.

  PAENUS: No, no, you’re wrong, Lucan. He was much more modest than that.

  STATIUS: I agree, I agree.

  PAENUS: To me this was the point of what he did. If he was self-conscious, well, he was less so than I had ever seen him. There was no pose, he was himself—a man, a dying man.

  Though obviously unappeased, Lucan poured more wine, set the carafe on the floor close by his chair, and sat down again, and Statius continued the narrative. When he came to Seneca’s dictation of the letter, I reached forward to Lucan the copy I was carrying.

  Lucan’s face was pale and expressionless as he read. He sipped at his wine, refilled his glass, read, sipped, read. At the end he let the letter fall to the floor from his hands and sighed. Then he barked out a sarcastic little laugh.

  LUCAN: Example, example! Oh, Seca!

  For a time he seemed lost in thought, then:

  LUCAN: I am not as afraid of dying as I thought I would be.

  A pause, then:

  LUCAN: The trouble with Seneca, Statius, was that he could never stop improving people. He always made you feel aware of your imperfections. It seems to me that love is forgiveness. Nero cannot love in this sense. Epicharis gave this kind of love to me—but then, she gave it to everyone, and I was always mad with jealousy when I was around her. Paulina was the only person Seneca loved, besides himself; oh, he forgave himself everything. I am trying to think what dying is about; what Seneca’s death meant, what mine will mean. I haven’t loved anyone. Not a single person. Perhaps I have loved Cato, but he was just a dead person who came to life in my dreams. A kind of man I yearned to be. Seneca kept saying he loved me, but he just wanted my “love” as something he would own, like one of those famous matching inlaid tables Suilius objected to.