by Mika Waltari
I began to plan and partly wrote a handbook on wild animals, their capture, transportation, care and training. To make it useful to the audience, I recounted many exciting incidents I had myself witnessed or heard described by others, and only exaggerated as much as an author has a right to do to hold his public’s interest. Petronius thought it would be an excellent book of lasting value, and he himself borrowed from it some of the coarser expressions in the language of the amphitheater.
I no longer took part in Nero’s nighttime escapades in the less reputable parts of Rome, for my father-in-law was the City Prefect. In this I behaved wisely, for these wild pleasures came to a sad end.
Nero never bore a grudge against anyone if he were beaten in a fight, but just took this as a sign that the fight had been an honest one. But an unfortunate senator, defending his wife’s honor, happened to hit him very hard on the head, and was then stupid enough to write an apologetic letter to Nero afterwards when he discovered to his horror whom he had struck. Nero had no alternative then but to marvel that a man who had struck his Emperor could continue to live and also boast of his deed in shameless letters. So the senator had his physician open his veins.
Seneca was annoyed at this incident and considered it necessary to find other outlets for Nero’s wildness. So he had Emperor Gaius’ circus on the edge of Vatican set up as a private pleasure ground for Nero. There, with reliable friends and noblemen as spectators, he could at last practice the art of driving a team of horses to his heart’s content.
Agrippina gave him her gardens, which stretched all the way to Janiculus, with its many brothels. Seneca hoped that the athletics, which Nero practiced in semisecrecy, would lessen his, for an Emperor, exaggerated pleasure in music and singing. Nero soon became a bold and fearless driver, for he had of course loved horses ever since his childhood.
In fact he seldom needed to look around on the race course for fear that others would tip his chariot over, but the art of controlling a Spanish team on the curves of the circus is not given to every man. Many a racing enthusiast has broken his neck on the race course, or been crippled for life by falling from his chariot and failing to loosen the reins from his body in time.
In Britain, Flavius Vespasian had had a serious dispute with Oc-torius and was finally ordered home. Young Titus had begun to distinguish himself in his service and once had courageously taken command of a cavalry division and hastened to the aid of his father who was surrounded by Britons, though Vespasian maintained that he would have managed well enough on his own.
Seneca considered these perpetual petty wars in Britain both pointless and dangerous, for in his opinion the loan he had made the British kings created peace in the country more effectively than punitive expeditions which were nothing but a burden on the treasury. Nero permitted Vespasian to take up the office of Consul for a few months, appointed him to a distinguished College and later had him chosen as Proconsul in Africa for the customary term of office.
When we met in Rome, Vespasian looked at me appraisingly. “You’ve changed a great deal-over the years, Minutus Manilianus,” he said, “and I don’t just mean the scars on your face either. When you were In Britain, I wouldn’t have believed that we should be related by your marrying my niece. But a young man makes more progress in Rome than by gelling rheumatism for life in Britain and marry now and again the Britons’ way.”
I had almost forgotten my nominal marriage in the Iceni country. The meeting with Vespasian reminded me unpleasantly of my painful experiences there, and I begged him to remain silent on the point.
“What legionary hasn’t bastards in the countries of the world?” he said. “But your hare priestess, Lugunda, has not married again. She is bringing up your son in the Roman way. The noblest Icenis are that civilized already.”
The news hurt, for my wife Sabina showed no sign nor even desire to bear me a child, and we had not slept together with that intention for a long time. But I chased away my disturbing thoughts of Lugunda as
I had done before, and Vespasian willingly agreed to keep my British marriage secret, for he knew of his niece’s harsh nature.
At the banquet which my father-in-law held in Vespasian’s honor, I met Lollia Poppaea for the first time. It was said that her mother had been the most beautiful woman in Rome and had attracted Claudius’ attention to such an extent that Messalina had had her removed from the rolls of the living, though I did not believe all the evil things that were still said about Messalina.
Poppaea’s father, Lollius, as a youth had belonged to the circle of friends around Sejanus and so was eternally out of favor. Lollia Poppaea was married to a rather insignificant knight called Crispinus and used her grandfather’s, Poppaeus Sabinus, name instead of her father’s. Her grandfather had been a Consul and had also celebrated a triumph in his day.
So Poppaea was related to Flavius Sabinus, but in such an involved way, as was usual in the Roman nobility, that I never quite fathomed how. Aunt Laelia’s memory was often faulty and she often confused different people. When I greeted Poppaea Sabina, I said I was sorry that my wife Sabina had nothing else but a name in common with her.
Poppaea innocently opened wide her dark gray eyes. I noticed later that their color changed according to her mood and the light.
“Do you think I’m so old and experienced after one childbirth that I cannot even be compared with my maidenly Artemis cousin Sabina?” she said, deliberately misunderstanding me. ‘We are the same age, Sabina and I.”
My head whirled as I looked into her eyes.
“No,” I protested. “I mean you’re the most modest and decent married woman I have seen in Rome, and I can only be amazed at your beauty, now I have seen you for the first time without your veil.”
“I have to wear a veil out in the sun because my skin is so delicate,” said Poppaea Sabina with a shy smile. “I envy your Sabina, who can stand as muscular and sunburned as Diana, cracking her whip in the heat of the arena.”
“She is not my Sabina, even if we are married according to the longer form,” I said bitterly. “She is the Sabina of the lion-tamers and Sabina of the lions, and her language becomes coarser and coarser every year.”
“Remember, we are related, she and I,” said Poppaea Sabina warningly. “Nevertheless, I’m not the only person in Rome to wonder why such a sensitive person as you chose Sabina of all people, when you could have had anyone else.”
I indicated my surroundings and implied that there were other reasons besides mutual liking for a marriage, and Flavia Sabina’s father was the Prefect of Rome and her uncle had earned a triumph. I do not know how it came about, but roused by Poppaea’s shy presence I began to talk about one thing and another, and it was not long before Pop-paea shyly admitted that she was unhappy in her wretched marriage with the conceited Praetorian centurion.
“One asks for more in a man than a haughty mien, shining armor and red plumes,” she said. “I was an innocent child when I was given to him in marriage. I am not strong, as you see. My skin is so delicate that I have to bathe it every day with wheaten bread soaked in ass’s milk.”
But she was not quite so young and weak as she maintained, and I felt this as she unwittingly pressed one breast against my elbow. Her skin was so marvelously white that I had never seen anything like it before and could find no words to describe it. I mumbled the usual things about gold, ivory and Chinese porcelain, but I think my eyes bore witness to how enraptured I was by her young beauty.
We could not talk for long, for I had to see to my many duties as son-in-law at my father-in-law’s banquet. But I fulfilled them absentmind-edly and could think of nothing else but Poppaea’s deep gray eyes and shimmering complexion. I stumbled, too, as I read out the ancient oaths to the guardian spirits of the house.
Finally my wife Sabina drew me to one side.
“Your eyes are quite rigid and your face is red,” she said acidly, “as if you were drunk, although there has been little wine drunk yet. Don’t get e
ntangled in Lollia Poppaea’s intrigues. She’s a calculating little bitch, and she has her price, but I’m afraid it’s too high for a fool like you.”
I was angry on Poppaea’s behalf, for her behavior was quite innocent and one could not possibly mistake it. At the same time, Sabina’s offensive remark excited me secretly and made me think that perhaps I had some hope if I were tactful enough to become closer acquainted with Poppaea.
In a brief pause in my duties I approached her again, which was not difficult since other women obviously avoided her and the men had once again gathered around the guest of honor to listen to his unvarnished stories from Britain.
To my dazzled eyes, Poppaea looked like an abandoned child, however proudly she tried to hold up her blonde head. I felt a great tenderness for her, but when I tried to. brush her bare arm she jerked back, turned away and gave me a look which reflected deep disappointment.
“Is that all you want, Minutus?” she whispered bitterly. “Are you like all other men, although I hoped I had found a friend in you. Don’t you see why I prefer hiding my face behind a veil to exposing myself to lustful stares? Remember I am married, although if I could get a divorce, I could feel free.”
I assured her that I would rather open my veins than hurt her in any way. She was near to tears and leaned against me in exhaustion so that I could feel her body against mine. From what she said, I understood that she did not have the money for a divorce and in fact only the Emperor could dissolve her marriage, for she was a patrician. But she knew no one in the Palace who was influential enough to be able to put her case before Nero.
“I have experienced the meanness of all men,” she said. “If I turn to a stranger for help he would just make the most of my defenseless position. If only I had a real friend who would be content with my eternal gratitude without offending my modesty.”
The end of the story was that I saw her home from the banquet. Her husband, Crispinus, willingly gave his permission so that he himself could get drunk in peace. They were so poor they did not even have a sedan of their own outside, so I offered Poppaea ours. She hesitated at first but then allowed me to sit by her so that I felt her proximity all the way.
In the end we did not go directly to the Praetorian garrison area, for the night was beautiful and clear and Poppaea was as tired of the smell of sweat in the camp as I was of the stench from the menagerie. From the nearest hillside, we looked across at the view over the lights of the bazaars. In some strange way, we ended up at my house on Av-entine, for Poppaea wished to ask Aunt Laelia something about her poor father. But Aunt Laelia had of course gone to bed and Poppaea could not bring herself to awaken her at that late hour. So we sat together and drank a little wine as we watched the dawn breaking over Palatine. We dreamed of how things might be if she, and I too, were free.
Poppaea leaned trustfully against me and told me she had always longed for pure unselfish friendship, although she had never found it. After I had pleaded with her, she agreed to accept a considerable sum of money as a loan to enable her to start divorce proceedings against Crispinus.
To amuse her, I told her about Nero’s unusual friendliness, his magnanimity to his friends, and his other qualities, for Poppaea was inquisitive in the way women are and had never met Nero herself. I told her ahout Acte, too, about her beauty and good behavior, and about other women Nero knew. I confirmed that Nero had not even consummated his marriage with Octavia yet because of his antipathy to her as Britannicus’ sister and his own former half sister.
Poppaea Sabina knew how to flatter me and she egged me on to tell her more with skillful questions, so that I began to admire her for her intelligence as much as her beauty. It seemed surprising that such a lovely and sensitive woman, who had already borne a son, could still appear unmoved and in the depths of her uncorrupted soul feel deep distaste for the burdens of the court. I admired her even more, and the more unapproachable I imagined she was, the more desirable she became to me.
When we parted at sunrise, just before the sounding of the trumpets, she allowed me a kiss of friendship. When I felt her soft lips melt under mine, I was so captivated that I swore I would do everything in my power to help free her from her worthless marriage.
During the following days, I lived as if in a confused dream. All colors seemed clearer in my sight than before, the night was sofdy dark and I was as if slightly intoxicated, even attempting to write poems. We met in the temple of Minerva and together pretended to look at the paintings and sculpture of Greek masters.
Poppaea Sabina told me that she had had a serious talk with her husband and Crispinus had agreed to a divorce if he received sufficient compensation. With sound common sense, Poppaea explained that it would be wiser to pay Crispinus than waste money on lawyers and mutual accusations which had to be proved and only led to public scandal.
But she was appalled at the very thought of my giving her even more money. She possessed some jewelry of her own which she could sell, although they were valuable family heirlooms. But her freedom was to cost much more.
Poppaea made me feel so ashamed that I forced her to accept a large money order through my banker. Now all that remained was to acquire Nero’s agreement to the dissolution of the marriage. This he could do himself as the pontifex maximus, an office he could exercise whenever he wished to, although he did not do so continuously because it only increased his work in the service of the State with its innumerable religious duties.
I did not want to spoil things by mentioning the matter to Nero myself, for he could then have suspected me of dishonorable intentions. I myself was married according to the longer form and Nero had begun to remark sarcastically that it would be better if I confined myself to the business of the menagerie, which I knew about, and not join in conversations on philosophy and music. This mortified me.
So I thought of Otho, who was Nero’s best friend and who had so much money and influence that he even dared to quarrel with Nero when he felt like it. Otho had a weakness for keeping his face so smooth that he looked quite hairless, and this gave me an opening to mention one day that I knew a woman who used ass’s milk on her delicate skin.
Otho was at once interested and told me that when he had had too much to drink and too many sleepless nights, he bathed his face with bread soaked in milk. I told him in confidence about Poppaea Sabina and her unhappy marriage. He wanted to meet her himself, of course, before taking the matter up with Nero.
So I myself, like a happy fool, took Poppaea to Otho’s magnificent house. Poppaea’s beauty, modesty and lovely complexion made such an impression on him that he willingly promised to be her spokesman, but first he had to be told all the necessary circumstances.
Smiling cheerfully, Otho questioned Poppaea on the intimate details of her marriage. When he noticed that this embarrassed me so much I did not know which way to look, he suggested that I should leave them. This I did gladly, for I realized that Poppaea would prefer to talk alone with a man as experienced and sympathetic as Otho.
Behind locked doors, they talked until late into the afternoon. Finally Poppaea came out to me and took my hand, her eyes shyly lowered and her chin hidden in her veil. Otho thanked me for introducing him to such a delightful woman and promised to do his best about the divorce. Poppaea had red patches on her white throat from the delicate conversation she had endured.
But Otho kept his promise. Nero, in the presence of two judges and with the necessary documents, had the marriage dissolved. Poppaea was allowed to keep her son and a few weeks later Otho quietly married her without even waiting the customary nine months. This was such a stunning blow to me that at first I simply did not believe it. It was as if the sky had fallen around me; all colors faded and I had such a terrible headache that I had to stay shut up in a darkened room for a few days.
When I once again came to my senses, I burned my poems on the household altar, vowing never to write any again, a decision I have adhered to ever since. I realized I could not reproach Otho, for I
myself had felt Poppaea’s powers of enchantment. I had just thought that Otho, who was famed for his many love affairs with women and youths, would never have been attracted by such a shy and inexperienced woman as Poppaea. But perhaps Otho wished to change his ways, and Poppaea might become a favorable influence on his dissipated soul.
I received a personal invitation to the wedding from Poppaea, and I sent them the most beautiful set of silver drinking vessels I could find as a wedding present. But at the banquet itself I must have been like a ghost from the underworld and I drank more than I usually did. Finally I remarked to Poppaea, my eyes brimming with tears, that perhaps I too could have had a divorce.
“But why didn’t you say something then?” cried Poppaea. “Though I could not have caused Flavia Sabina such grief. Of course, Otho has his failings. He’s a little effeminate and he drags one foot when he walks, whereas one hardly notices your limp. But he has promised to start a new life and leave the friends who have led him into certain vices. I can’t even tell you about those. Poor Otho is so sensitive and so easily influenced by others. So I hope my influence will make a new man of him.”
“He’s richer than I am too,” I said, without hiding my bitterness. “He is of a’ very ancient family and he’s the Emperor’s closest friend.”
Poppaea stared reproachfully at me.
“Do you think that of me, Minutus?” she whispered, her mouth trembling. “I thought you understood that fame and wealth mean nothing to me if I like another person. I don’t look down on you, even if you are only the superintendent of the menagerie.”
She was so hurt and so beautiful that I relented and begged for her forgiveness.
For a long time, Otho was transformed. He stayed away from Nero’s feasts, and when Nero sent especially for him, he went home early, saying he could not keep his beautiful wife waiting too long. He boasted so much to Nero of Poppaea’s charm and love-making that Nero became more and more inquisitive and began to ask Otho to bring his wife with him to Palatine.