“Too unstable, they don’t keep, and they are hard to collect. But yes, I have them, although plants are my forte.”
“Good. Then I promise, I will introduce you. But for now, please—refrain from your work here.”
She bowed again. “You are Caesar, and I am bound to obey.”
VI
LOCUSTA
But not willingly, I thought. If only he had not seen me. I was peacefully ministering relief to these suffering souls, and now he has interfered. I dare not disobey, for if I am caught the penalty would be dire. Even from this emperor, whom I have known since he was a child. I cannot presume on our friendship. Does an emperor have any friends? Can he afford to have any friends?
Someone was calling to me. I went over to her, bent down to listen. She wanted to die. She had seen her house collapse and trap her entire family inside. The neighbors had pulled her back to save her.
“If only they had let me in,” she moaned. “That would have been the kindness.” She grabbed my sleeve. “Help me. Help me. I know you can.”
“I could. Now I can’t,” I said. The emperor was nearby, waist deep in the weeds, watching.
“Give me a gentle death,” she begged. “Dark and sweet, not the agony of fire.”
I stood up. I hated being cruel. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
I needed to leave this place, since now there was nothing I could do.
* * *
• • •
I lived some miles outside Rome, in the countryside where the emperor had granted me land. That was several years ago, following a bargain I had made with him. It seemed fair—in exchange for one of my services, he let me set up a school of pharmacology where I could grow my medicinal plants openly and teach others my arts. I would be officially recognized and licensed—no more jail sentences, to be rescinded only when one emperor or another needed my help. I had worked for Tiberius, for Caligula, for Agrippina, and my professional name, Locusta, was known far and wide. But strictures had meant that my real name be secret. And my trade be practiced in secret. Now I was a free woman.
I had over twenty pupils and more graduates. I was careful not to teach them everything I knew; I wanted to retain supremacy in my field. I was the best, and everyone knew it.
But some people are stubborn. The emperor, for example. Instead of calling on me in his hour of need in sending his mother to her reward, he took matters into his own hands. The result was a bungled mess, filled with typical amateurish mistakes. Well. I hope he has learned his lesson.
I was once employed to eliminate him, employed by Agrippina and Britannicus. But then I was persuaded to change sides, and it was Britannicus who perished with the poison meant for Nero. I was especially proud of my skill in that, since Britannicus’s tasters were vigilant. But tasters are overrated as a method of protection.
And so young Nero and I had a bond. But as I said, he did not call for me again. It has been eight years since I’d helped him, and I have watched him grow into his command. He was a promising youth when I first knew him; now he is becoming a true emperor.
His behavior during the fire was heroic. But as I have walked up and down the fields, I have heard mutterings from people. Some blame him for being away from Rome when the fire started. Others go further and accuse him of starting the fire himself. And most fantastic, some claim they saw him singing about the Fall of Troy as he watched the flames, treating it as a backdrop for his concert. They said he was on a stage, or in a tower, or on the roof of his palace. Obviously he could not have been in any of those places. His stage was across the river where no one could have seen him; the roof of his city palace was on fire; and there is no tower he could have ascended.
That these rumors are impossible does not make them any less dangerous. I fear for him. Let him act soon to smother them. Or they will grow, like the fire itself, and consume him.
VII
NERO
Quickly the fields were cleared and the people relocated in shelters across the river and in the Campus Martius. Since they were some third of the entire population of the city, I was proud of our efficiency in providing for them. The barges were busy bringing grain up from Ostia, where it was distributed on makeshift docks that replaced the destroyed ones downstream. Other supplies were gathered from neighboring towns. The rubble and dust were still being cleared from the city, but soon it should be finished. My next move was to execute a rebuilding plan for the city, carefully planned and engineered, to prevent any such fires in the future. And at the same time, to change the city’s layout. We had a blank slate to start all over; why replicate the mistakes of the past?
I received an odd invitation from Petronius—an old friend who labeled himself my “arbiter of elegance”—but most of his invitations were odd. This one read,
Let us return to the haunts of Pan, to hear the echoes of Nature and lift a cup to the bounty of Life. At the edge of the woods of Aelia, past the turnstile and over the stream. Bring panpipes.
Where was he? Where had he been during the fire—which was now formally called the Great Fire of Rome? How typical of him to issue an invitation with no reference to anything else. I would find out when I got there. I was surprisingly eager to go. It had been a long time since I had done anything, seen anyone, not directly connected with the Fire. I needed an escape.
* * *
• • •
When the day arrived, I set out for this mysterious place with several attendant slaves. The woods of Aelia were known for inexplicable nocturnal sounds, and local people stayed away from them. They bordered on open fields now planted with wheat and barley, fields that ended abruptly at the stream that flowed at the edge of the woods. As Petronius had said, there was an old turnstile I had to pass through before stepping across the stream.
I stood before the tall forest, a mixture of pines and oaks, dark within. There was a path leading into it, faint but there. Gingerly we walked along it, stirring up clouds of fireflies just beginning to glow. They twinkled ahead of us in the forest. The wind sighed in the tops of the trees, and from somewhere I heard the sound of water tumbling over stones. Then, rounding a bend in the path, voices. A glen opened before me, with an array of couches and a makeshift altar grouped together. Lanterns hung from low branches, like huge moths.
Petronius rose and came over to me. He was wearing a black goatskin and artificial horns. “Welcome, Caesar, in the name of Pan.”
I just stared at him, wondering if this was a dream. I had had many odd ones lately.
“Did you bring your panpipes?” he asked, as if it were the most normal question in the world.
“Yes, yes.” I held them aloft. They were a simple reed instrument, more difficult to play than one would think.
“Good,” he said. “We will call Pan himself to join us.” He led me over to the rustic couches, made of boughs and leaves. Lounging on them were several of our old literary group and others less well known to me.
“The place of honor,” said Petronius, gesturing to the proper place on the middle couch. “Our last and most exalted guest joins us, to rejoice that we have all escaped unscathed by the Fire. And to celebrate our bond of fellowship, which will endure. We are all Friends of Caesar, are we not?” He alluded to a formal political designation, now endowing it with a deeper personal meaning. He took the position of host at the head of the couch on my right.
I stretched out and looked up and down. On the left-hand couch was young Lucan; next to him was Claudius Senecio; then Aulus Vitellius, just sliding into place. He was obviously the oldest man present and did not seem to mind being in the lowest-ranked place. Besides, there was more room for his dangling limbs that way. He had hip problems, having been run over by Caligula’s chariot once. In fact, he had served ignominious appetites of emperors most of his life. As a boy he had been Tiberius’s plaything on Capri; he had driven chariots with Caligula and played dice with C
laudius. I had had no such use for him, other than as a companion in my early night wanderings and at feasts and drinking parties. He had recently returned from serving an appointment as proconsul of Africa and had executed his responsibility there admirably. His personal proclivities did not taint his professional skills.
Beside me was a louche senator named Flavius Scaevinus, and next to him lay an enormous senator, Plautius Lateranus, whose giant arms and legs hung off the couch. On the right-hand couch with Petronius lay Piso, next a senator named Afranius Quintianus.
I greeted those I knew heartily, delighted to see them unharmed. “Where were you during the Fire?” I asked everyone.
“With Uncle Seneca,” said Lucan. “At his estate about four miles from Rome. We saw the smoke and the night sky lit up, but we did not venture closer.” He had an open, handsome face and the sort of clear blue eyes that made you believe he was honest. But like all poets, what was truly in his mind was much deeper. “Uncle Gallio sheltered there, too. His town house in Rome may be destroyed. It was on the Caelian Hill.”
“Mine, too,” said Lateranus. “But I think it survived.” His deep bass voice rumbled out of his huge chest. “We can’t return to see for ourselves yet.” He turned and looked at me for confirmation.
“Not yet,” I said. “We are still clearing out the debris, so the rebuilding can begin. Some of the Caelian Hill survived, though. You are lucky.”
“We fled my house in Rome,” said Scaevinus. “And took refuge in our country villa in the mountains.” He had a hawk nose and a large scar above his lip, making his mouth pucker.
“I stayed in Baiae, as you know,” said Piso, turning to me. “But returned to Rome while the Fire was still burning.” He smiled his charming smile, as if it had been a pleasurable excursion.
“I was also in Baiae,” said Senecio, a sly grin on his face. He preferred the attractions of Baiae, that resort area Seneca had called “the inn of all vices,” where Senecio felt most at home.
“Ah, the Fire gave you an excuse to spend more time there,” said Scaevinus beside me.
“He doesn’t need an excuse,” said Petronius. “Like all libertines, he openly embraces his true nature.”
“We envy you, Senecio,” said Vitellius.
“Yours is hardly hidden, Vitellius,” said Afranius Quintianus, with a wink.
“We need not advertise it,” said Vitellius.
Quintianus laughed. “No, since everyone knows.” He smoothed his hair, studded with gems and wildflowers, also advertising his true nature.
“I stayed in Cumae,” said Petronius, returning to the subject. “I prayed my property in Rome on the Aventine would survive.”
“It may have,” I said. “Little pockets in that area were spared. That part was hit in the second flare-up of the Fire.” But in truth there was little hope his property still stood.
“The suspicious flare-up,” said Petronius.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“It started near the property of Tigellinus,” he said. “There are rumors he started it.”
For a moment I was speechless, remembering the exhaustion and dedication of Tigellinus and his men combating the Fire. Finally I said, “That’s absurd. No, worse, a calumny.”
Petronius shrugged, as if the serious slander was of no moment.
“Don’t pass it off,” I said. “Where did this rumor start?”
He leaned forward on his elbows. “Where does any rumor start? We never know. They are untraceable; they just appear.”
“It’s a vile defamation!” I said.
“There may be worse before long,” said Senecio. “People always want to fasten blame, always look for a villain.”
“In that case they will have to blame the gods,” I said.
“Ah, yes, the gods,” said Petronius, taking elegant command. “That is why we are here. Let us put all troublesome thought behind, all anguish or concern over the recent disaster.” He got off the makeshift rustic couch and took his place in the middle of our little glen. His eyes, beneath the headdress with the horns, glinted in the lantern light.
He held up his hands for silence. We stayed very still, and as we quieted, the sounds of the forest around us became audible. First the creak of tall trees swaying in the breeze; then the sweet piercing calls of night birds; then, from far away in the glen, a faint croaking of frogs. I also became aware of the dry scent of pine needles, a dusty, spicy smell.
“Pan is the god of wooded glens, of groves, of forests of fir.” He brought out his panpipes. “This is his instrument. He plays it exquisitely, not like children who see it as a plaything.” He blew into his, coaxing sweet notes from it. “Now you,” he said, and one by one we held our pipes and played them, some of us clumsily, others skillfully.
“This is how we call him,” said Petronius. “We lure him out of the cave where he is resting.”
“Why are we calling him?” asked Quintianus. “Why would we want him here?”
“Because he was declared dead!” said Petronius. “And we must not allow that.”
“How can a god die?” asked Vitellius.
“They die when we stop believing in them. And Pan was declared dead back in the reign of Tiberius. Someone on the island of Paxi shouted out “Great god Pan is dead!” to the pilot of a passing boat. But I know better. He is my favorite god, and we will honor him here. I believe he has taken his last refuge in this enchanted forest.”
Like most of the entertainments of Petronius, this was exceedingly peculiar. Perhaps he just wanted to dress up in a goatskin and play the panpipes. How very odd for someone who was recently a consul.
He recited the story of Pan, and his companions in the woods, and his affinity for goats, being half goat himself. It was true he tripped about in the woods, dancing and playing the pipes, but he was best known for a voracious sexual appetite, favoring nymphs and nanny goats. That must account for Petronius’s fondness for him.
He approached the crude altar and laid the panpipes on it, along with an offering of cut fir branches and a libation of dark wine. Then he stepped back.
“He’s here!” he announced. “Can’t you see him?”
Playing the game, we all nodded. Then we drank a toast to him, recited flattering poems to him, and bid him good-bye. By that point we could almost see the shrubs part, rustling to let him pass.
We settled back into our places, munching on the tidbits Petronius had provided, washing them down with various wines—all rare vintages, of course. Even in the woods, Petronius remained urbane.
There was no more conversation about the Fire. We all wanted to look elsewhere, see beyond it. Perhaps that had been Petronius’s real mission for the gathering. There would come a day when we would assemble again, not in a forest but in shining new halls, in the New Rome I would build.
The woods around me embraced me. Perhaps, in the New Rome, rural and city would meet and marry, no longer separate beings. It was a moment of inspiration in which I envisioned a new kind of city. Pan had brought me this gift.
Flames, far from consuming my dreams, would enable me to dream larger than I could have ever imagined.
VIII
It was growing light before I returned to the Vatican residence after the strange interlude in the woods. Nymphs and moths would be fluttering to their rest, and creatures of the night seeking dark places to creep into. It had been restorative to see a piece of nature unharmed, to know my friends had survived. But the smell of ashes was still in the air as I passed north of the city, and the devastation there was almost beyond comprehension.
From the window of my room I looked over the sea of tents on the grounds, housing the displaced. Those were the lucky ones; others simply lay on the grass, using cloaks as blankets. My gardens were at full capacity for housing people and could take no more. Farther downstream I had set up aid stations
where food and clothing could be distributed and boards where announcements or concerns could be posted. I had appointed Epaphroditus to oversee all the refugee work. He was indefatigable and trustworthy; most important, he was a man of common sense, an absolute necessity in making the endless decisions he needed to address.
My city, my people! We stood at a crossroads. Rome would survive, but in what manner? Faenius had hinted darkly that the gods had punished us—but for what? If that was so, then we could not begin anew until the gods were appeased, until sacrifices had been made and accepted. And as Pontifex Maximus, as head of the Roman state, I was the designated one to carry out those rites.
I shook my head and rubbed my bleary eyes. If I did not know our transgression, how could I atone for it? And if I did not atone for it, the gods would continue to punish us.
I lay down on the untouched bed, its smooth silk coverings a caress. What could it have been? How could I know? The gods were mischievous and elusive; often they punished for whimsical reasons. But such a devastating punishment for a small infringement? It would not be possible. Even they were not so cruel. It had to be something enormous, something grand, an unforgivable effrontery. And I was utterly ignorant of what that might have been.
But there had been murmurs of arson. And I myself had seen men throwing lighted brands into houses and heard the strange praise of the Fire from the men just before the house collapsed on them.
But people say and do wild and bizarre things in danger; they lose their heads. I remembered the people who would not leave their houses, and even worse, ran back into them. And then the looters, for evil people always appear like magic at a crisis.
What could it be? What could it be? Desperate, I begged the gods to give me a sign, to reveal the answer to me in a dream.
The Splendor Before the Dark Page 6