by Allan Massie
Nothing caused me more trouble in these years than the flood of accusations brought by informers. Even when the charges which they laid were well founded, the general consequence was despicable. Rome was in danger of becoming a city where every man spied on another, and no man dared trust his neighbour. I did what I could to check them. When two members of the equestrian order, Considius Aequus and Caelius Cursor, accused the praetor Magius Caecilianus of treason, I not only saw to it that the charges were dismissed but also had the accusers heavily fined. I hoped that if men realised that an accusation might involve them in financial loss, this would make the hope of profit from a successful charge somewhat less alluring. Alas, I underestimated men's cupidity and talent for self-deception. Accusations of one sort or another, many ridiculous, continued to flood in. One result of this was the demand from the Senate that candidates for public office, especially provincial governorships, should be more closely scrutinised, and that those rumoured to be of scandalous life should be excluded. One senator urged that the emperor alone should judge this matter. Superficially, this had something to commend it, but the proposal was fundamentally flawed. I was not prepared to accept such a burden, and argued instead that an emperor's knowledge cannot be all-embracing. "If you adopt this scheme," I said, "then you will merely encourage slanders and scurrilous rumours, as intriguers try to influence my choice. The law is concerned only with acts which have been committed. What will be done is unknown. Many governors have belied either hopes or fears; responsibility stimulates some natures and blunts others. You cannot judge a man in advance. Besides, I ask you to reflect on this. Emperors have enough burdens already — and quite enough power. Strengthen the executive and you weaken the law. That is a fundamental principle of politics. When it is possible to act according to due legal process, then the exercise of official authority is a mistake."
I believed that then; I believe it still. Yet the nature of man is such that the very people who clamour for action on the part of the government are among the first to deplore it — whenever that action appears to affect their own interests.
The longer I exercised the supreme authority, the harder it became for me to know the truth of any matter. I was learning the horrid isolation of office. No man addressed me without his own interest in mind. No man therefore spoke to me in open honesty. If anyone brought me a story which reflected ill on someone else, I had to ask myself what my informant hoped to gain, by what greed or resentment he was animated, and estimate this, before I could consider the objective truth of what he told me. Moreover, I learned that, even when not actuated by malice, men were inclined to say to me only what I wished to hear. It was on account of his freedom from these vices that I valued Sejanus, as Augustus had valued Agrippa. Sejanus, I believed, was not afraid to speak the truth, and since I was confident that he had no ambition to be more than he was, and was moreover imbued with feelings of affection for me, I trusted the advice he offered.
Throughout this time I was disturbed by the hostility which I knew that Agrippina entertained for me. I did all that was possible, all within my power, to appease it. I took her sons under my personal protection. There were three: Nero, Drusus and Caligula. None was altogether satisfactory. Nero had been a delightful small boy, intelligent, quick-witted, and possessed of a lightness of spirit that seemed to owe nothing to his parents. Indeed, in looks he resembled his grandmother Julia — he had her suddenly joyous smile, and her way also of pouting his lips when displeased. Germanicus had been inclined to be severe with him and, after her husband's death, Agrippina tried to force her eldest son to assume a responsibility against which his nature rebelled. She would berate him furiously whenever he fell below the impossible standard she demanded; this was in contrast to her treatment of the other boys whom she spoiled outrageously. Perhaps in reaction, perhaps in response to the deepest impulses of his nature, Nero took refuge in absurd affectations of manner, which, as he approached what should have been manhood, resolved itself into a blatant and degraded effeminacy: he painted his lips and eyelids, rouged his cheeks, daubed himself with Syrian scent, and was said to wear silk undergarments. At the baths, as a boy of fourteen or fifteen, he would ogle senators, and invite them into his cubicle. Naturally enough many were sufficiently allured by this pretty and dissolute child to risk immoral association with a member of the imperial family. To avoid embarrassment, I asked Drusus to reprove him; Nero then attempted to seduce his uncle. At the age of seventeen he fell madly in love with an actor, who was so notorious a pederast that he had once been pelted with dung in the street. I put a stop to that by sending the comedian into exile. But I continued to receive reports that made it quite clear that Nero was incorrigible.
All the same I persevered. I was, I admit, susceptible myself to the boy's undoubted charm. My heart softened when I saw in his gestures the Julia who had entranced me. There was even, I felt, a certain gallantry in his debauched behaviour; it was a response to an innate misery. He was never malicious, and in the right mood his wit flashed radiantly forth. Nevertheless he presented a problem. When he appeared in the imperial box at the games, a section of the crowd, which did not share the sentimental attachment to Germanicus' family which was common, would be sure to yell insults at him such as "fairy prince", "ganymede" and "pansy". On account of the rouge, you couldn't tell whether he blushed to hear himself so mocked. My mother, who detested him, refused to attend the games in his company. My only pleasure was to see Agrippina bite her lip to restrain her fury.
His brother Drusus loathed him also. Drusus was a prig, like his father Germanicus, and with none of the charm which Nero had inherited from Julia, and perhaps also from his great — grandfather Mark Antony. Drusus was mean, jealous and scheming. None of this showed in his looks — in this respect, he took after his grandfather Agrippa. Drusus was a consummate hypocrite, so accomplished that he deceived me for years. He was also intensely ambitious, and realising that the path to power lay through my favour, set himself to win my regard. This disturbed Agrippina, and I had reports of terrible quarrels between them. Eventually, however, he persuaded her that he was insincere in the court he paid me. When she warned him not to trust me, he looked her in the eye, and said, "Believe me, mother, I could never trust a man responsible for the murder of my father and for insults such as those he has directed against you." Yet the very same day, he would approach me with protestations of devotion and, more to the point, with requests for advice about affairs of state and the art of war, for, he said, "None knows better than I the value of your experience as Rome's greatest general, and hence I am eager to sit at your feet." Drusus was always quick to inform me of Nero's latest extravagances of behaviour, always, of course, shaking his head with pretended sorrow. "I really don't understand how my brother can allow creatures like X or Y to take such liberties with him. I'm afraid he must be deranged." It was fortunate that Sejanus supplied me with this information which led me to discern Drusus' true and untrustworthy character.
As for the youngest of the boys, Gaius Caligula, he was simply abhorrent. I have never myself liked gladiator shows, and would willingly ban them if the people would accept such a deprivation of pleasure, but even men who delighted in them were disgusted by the relish with which Caligula would view cruelty and death, even as a child. To see a boy of ten lick his lips at the sight of blood and squirm as if experiencing an orgasm in his enjoyment of the pain of unfortunate men was disgusting.
"A fine family," I often thought. "I thank the gods that Drusus and his son stand between them and power."
6
And then Drusus fell ill. He complained of lassitude and frequent bouts of nausea. His limbs ached and felt heavy. The merest motion was torture to him. I brought doctors hastening from Corinth and Alexandria to supplement the skills already resident in Rome. It was useless. Daily I watched my son weaken; daily I saw his appetite for life ebb away. In these circumstances even Sejanus was no comfort to me. Though I trusted him absolutely, I could not help
reflecting that he would not mourn my son's death. I could not tolerate the company of Drusus' wife, Julia Livilla, for her indifference to her husband's condition was all too obvious. The eunuch Lygdus tended his master with sedulous care; one morning I found him in floods of bitter tears because Drusus had had a bad night, and I was not so cynical as to suppose that he was weeping merely because he feared to lose a master who loved him. My mother brought me no comfort either; old age had transported her to a realm where present griefs meant little. She irritated me by talking all the time about the joy which Agrippina would feel at Drusus' death. Curiously, my only solace came from young Nero Caesar. Though he was unable to cast aside his effeminate affectations, he nevertheless possessed an imaginative sympathy which let him understand my misery. Others reproached me — behind my back, but not without my knowledge — because I continued to attend the Senate throughout the long and wretched course of my son's illness; Nero, meeting me as I returned one morning from the Curia, embraced me with a spontaneous tenderness, and said: "At the moment you must feel that work and responsibility alone give your life any meaning." Then he stroked my cheek saying, "But I wish you could weep for Drusus, for your own sake." Strangely,
I was irritated neither by his tears nor by the scent of bergamot with which he had bedewed himself. I could find no words to thank him. I embraced the boy, holding him close a long minute, drawing strength and comfort from his youth and sympathy.
Drusus died. When I entered the Senate the next day, the consuls sat on the ordinary benches as a sign of mourning. I thanked them, but reminded them of their dignity and rank, and requested that they resumed their proper station. Many senators wept, some with the aid of onions applied surreptitiously to their eyes. I raised my hand in a gesture to silence the display of grief.
"I know," I said, "that some will criticise me for appearing here while my son's body awaits burial, and my affliction is fresh. Many mourners can scarcely endure even the condolence of their families, and prefer to shut themselves away from the light of day. I understand such conduct and would never censure it. For me however seclusion is the worst temptation, and so I resist it, seeking a sterner solace. The arms in which I have taken refuge are those of the state."
I paused and then spoke of my family.
"My son's death is but the latest affliction in my mother's long and glorious life," I said. "Drusus was her grandson, and married to her grand-daughter, my brother's child Julia Livilla. Judge therefore how the Augusta grieves. Her only surviving male descendant apart from myself is my little grandson Tiberius Gemellus. After sixty years and more in the service of the Republic my mother, the Augusta, sees only this child as the heir of her labours, though I must not forget that he has, of course, an elder sister Livia Julia.
"As for me, my son's death, following so soon on that of his adopted brother, our dear Germanicus, is a blow from which I do not now feel I shall ever recover. At such moments it is of little comfort to recall the nobility and virtue of the dead, for, to tell you the truth, Conscript Fathers, such reflections only sharpen the pain, by reminding us of what we have been deprived. So now, I must tell you, that apart from little Tiberius Gemellus, only the sons of Germanicus remain to comfort my declining years…"
Then I had them called before the Senate, and the three stood there: Nero shy, ill at ease, but with a dignity which I had never previously known him to assume; Drusus proud, even arrogant, yet sullen, as if he suspected my intentions and would charge me with insincerity; and Gaius Caligula squinting horribly and unable to stop fidgeting…
"When these boys lost their father," I said, "I entrusted them to their uncle Drusus, begging him — though he had children of his own — to treat them as though they were his own seed, and, for posterity's sake, to fashion them in his image. Now Drusus has gone. So my plea is directed to you. The gods and our country are my witnesses.
"Senators, on my behalf as well as your own, adopt and guide these youths, whose birth is so glorious — these great-grandsons of Augustus. Nero, Drusus and Gaius" — I continued, taking each in turn by the hand, and then embracing each — "these senators will take the place of your parents. For in the station to which you are born, the good and bad in you is of national concern…"
I quote this speech in full, because, in the light of what later happened, I would wish that posterity should fully understand the sincerity of my benevolence towards the sons of Germanicus.
If things turned out otherwise subsequently, it was the gods that willed it, not I.
My mother grew ever more insupportable in her old age. No sooner had I finished addressing the Senate than I received a summons from her. I found her dressed in mourning, but with the light of battle in her eye. She at once reproached me for the speech which had been fully reported to her.
"It was not enough," she said, "for you to allow that woman" — she meant Agrippina — "to destroy your loyal confederate Piso and attempt to destroy my dearest friend Plancina, by her lies and malice; but now you have to elevate her children in this rash manner. How do you know that Agrippina didn't poison Drusus? Have you thought of that possibility? Certainly his symptoms resemble those of certain poisons, and who had a better motive?"
"Mother," I said, "this is truly nonsense. There is no reason to suppose that Drusus was murdered. Do you think the suspicion has not crossed my mind, and been rejected? Besides, Agrippina and Drusus were never enemies. If she was going to poison anyone, don't you think she would have started with me?"
"And now," she continued, pay ing no attention at all to what I said, "you choose to make yourself ridiculous by speaking in this manner about the woman's children? Do you think that will appease her?"
"They are members of the family," I said, "and the great-grandsons of your husband. Don't you think I have a duty to them?"
"I have no patience with your folly. But you were always as obstinate as a pig. When I think how Augustus used to complain of you! And of how I would defend you! Here, listen to what he said," and, saying this, she drew a letter from her bosom, and began to read: "I can never be easy with Tiberius, because 1 never know what he is thinking and therefore find it difficult to trust him. Moreover, besides his obstinacy — and I agree with you there — he is a bad judge of character. Like you, I have noted with distress his susceptibility
…"
But I cannot bring myself, even in the privacy of my chamber, to quote further, or to allow myself to dwell on the charges my stepfather brought against me, charges which, I can only say, derived from a more profound misunderstanding of my nature than I believed him capable…
"If you bring forward that disgusting little creature, Nero, who is in my opinion no better than a catamite, you will make yourself an object of public mockery and contempt," my mother said.
"Nero," 1 said, "has obvious faults, but I believe he is capable of outgrowing them. There is a fundamental goodness in his character. Believe me, I have seen evidence of it…"
But Livia had reached a stage in life when her attention wandered. She could no longer sustain an argument. Instead she now began to reprove me for offences, many of them imaginary, which lay in the distant past. She accused me of neglecting her. She accused me of having conspired with Julia — yes, Julia — against her. In the next breath she told me she had "adored" Julia, "the best of daughters", and never been able to forgive me for the failure of our marriage, "directly caused by your vices. Julia was distressed by what she heard of your infatuation for that German boy, and everything that went wrong stemmed from that…"
Since I knew that Livia's dislike of Julia had been fixed from the start, and since I could remember how she had time and again warned me against her, I could only wonder at the tricks which old age can play with memory. I was pained to be compelled to observe the decay of my mother's faculties. Every meeting in the months that followed gave rise to new reproaches, new fantasies, new tirades. The confusion of her mind was betrayed in the intemperance of her language and in her w
illingness to give me pain, a willingness that might better be described as a compulsion.
Livia's confusion exasperated me. I could no longer tolerate her society. Yet I have to confess that it was no wonder she had grown confused: it would have been no wonder even if she had lacked the excuse of great age. Her confusion was a proper response to the corruption of the times. If I put the most generous interpretation on what she and Augustus thought they had achieved, then I would say, that in bringing to an end the civil wars that had gnawed at Rome's body politic, they believed that they created an opportunity for the revival of virtue. Of course, Augustus, being a man of the world, was aware, from time to time at least, that he deceived himself in nursing such a hope; nevertheless the hope was there, and not ignoble. But it was cheated. Augustus greatly admired the poet Vergil, who celebrated the perfect order of Italy in his Georgics and promised a resumption of the Golden Age in his sixth Eclogue, and throughout his Aeneid. When Augustus spoke of Vergil, a wholly unaccustomed tone — a mixture of warmth and reverence — invaded his voice. There were moments when he really believed it was his destiny to make the Vergilian vision real. I don't say that Livia felt in exactly the same way; hers was never a poetic nature, but she still responded to the underlying impulse, and at certain moments both thought it came within the scope of the possible. There was thus, for all his personal ruthlessness and duplicity, something altogether admirable about my stepfather's ambition. Without his capacity for self-deception, I could throb to the same music. All my life I have been entranced by a vision of virtue, and always it has receded into the obscurity of reality. Plato teaches that this life is at best a dusty reflection of what is ideal. Our experience is a nickering of figments, shadows dancing on the wall of the cave in which we are imprisoned. Yes, indeed; but these are figments that torment, shadows that lie and steal and stab and betray. We envision an ideal Republic; we expound principles of civic virtue; we extol law. Experience matches none of this. Augustus, with a sunnier nature than mine, contrived till near the end to give himself the illusion of faith. I have had to cling to it by my fingernails, like a man scrabbling to save himself from tumbling from a cliff-face into the void.