The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  “At the time I told you there was little to be alarmed about, as long as they served you faithfully. Those two with the heavy clothing—is it them?”

  “I think so. They cover themselves up, as if the human body is something shameful. So in hot weather, it gives them away. Stupid people!”

  We were in my innermost private quarters, and while all around us the palace was buzzing with activity, we were sheltered from it all. I embraced her, wanting to feel her next to me. She had eluded me all morning, but now I would have my way. It did not matter that the little daybed was small and plain and lacked the sumptuous appointments of the imperial bed; it was meant for daytime napping. But it had the most important elements of all: privacy, secrecy, and two people aching to touch one another, two people who found the human body not shameful but glorious.

  XIII

  The list is complete,” said Epaphroditus, handing me the tablet.

  I looked it over. Terpnus and Appius were there; so was Paris. “Apollonius?”

  Epaphroditus shook his head. “We have no knowledge of him. He has not responded.”

  A veil of sadness dropped over me. He had been my athletic instructor when I was very young and training under a pseudonym, Marcus. That was before Mother married Claudius and whisked me away to the Palatine and turned me into Caesar, heir presumptive. When I knew Apollonius, I was free to roam and play as I liked. A competitive champion himself in Greece, he had instructed me in racing and wrestling and jumping. The last time I had seen him I was emperor, and he was my guest at the Neronian Games. He had teased me and called me little Marcus and asked how I liked being emperor. He had also told me my days of competition were over, for no contest is fair if the emperor competes. I had argued with him, saying that it need not be so. He said this was one argument I could not win.

  “Perhaps he was not in Rome,” I said. But I knew better. He had never spoken of any other home or of family or friends living elsewhere. He was gone.

  I looked back at the list. Vorax was there. That did not surprise me; she was the very definition of a wily survivor.

  Tigellinus entered the room, mopping his forehead. “Another scorcher,” he said. “It is hellish out there in the fields. Very little shade.” I handed him the list.

  “An encouraging list of returns,” he said. “My regrets about Apollonius.” He glanced at it again. “Ah, Vorax!”

  “She will doubtless be pleased to see her favorite patron,” I said. Tigellinus was a connoisseur of brothels, and proud of it.

  “I have told them to come to the imperial tent on the relief grounds,” said Epaphroditus. “They were gratified to know that the emperor cared for their well-being.”

  I nodded. “Tigellinus, do you want to come and greet your old confederate in carnality?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said, grinning.

  * * *

  • • •

  I was eager to reunite with these people dear to me in different aspects of my life, the non-emperor part of me. To say they had known me when I was quite young did not reveal the full significance, because I was only sixteen when I became emperor, and only eleven when I was adopted by Claudius and effectively removed from normal life, and they had known me before that. I was overjoyed that they had survived the fire and that I would not lose them.

  The imperial tent Epaphroditus had erected on the grounds was different only in being larger than the others, not more luxurious. It would have been inadvisable to have anything ostentatious. Inside, although we were shielded from the blazing sun, it was stifling, humid from the crushed grass underfoot. Since it would have been conspicuous for slaves shouldering large feather fans to be seen entering the tent, we sweltered as much as all my subjects outside.

  The first dear faces I saw were of Ecloge and Alexandra, my earliest caretakers, wet nurses who were far more motherly to me than Mother. I was so fond of them I kept them on long after I had outgrown their original purpose, letting them serve my household in other capacities.

  Ecloge, with her pale eyes and wan face, embraced me, and Alexandra, buxom and stout, cried out, “Oh, how sweet to meet again on the other side of the horror.”

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  “We fled the palace as soon as the flames started and took refuge with our families in the countryside,” said Ecloge.

  “The whole sky was red, even miles outside,” said Alexandra. “It glowed like a furnace.”

  “I know,” I said. “I saw it from the hilltop when I returned.” I looked at them, restored to me. “Thank the gods you are safe.”

  “Thank the gods we all are.”

  The next person to greet me was Paris, the actor, whom I had known longer than anyone else. He had been my first teacher when I was a poor relation at my aunt’s—my father’s estate seized by Caligula, my mother exiled. Upon her return, Mother had dismissed him, disapproving of him. But it was too late. He had already imbued me with a fierce love of the theater and acting. Once I was emperor, I had called him back as friend, and Mother had been helpless to do anything about it.

  “Caesar!” he said, his face shining—with both sweat and joy.

  “We are here together,” I said. “Thanks be to all the gods. Where was your house? Is it lost? Is everyone else safe?”

  He was a small man, with the ability to grow taller when he played the part of a tall man; a plain man, who could appear handsome when the role called for it. Now he was just himself, a middle-aged man of medium build and thinning hair. “My house was in the sixth district,” he said. “So it was saved. Thanks to the firebreak the Vigiles constructed. And no one was hurt.” He laughed. “Since your palace across the river survived, and its theater with it, we can put on plays again before too long.”

  “Yes, people need that. Especially after such sorrow. It helps them to know that life goes on.”

  “Oddly enough, tragedies are a remedy for that. They put our own sorrows in context, the context of being human. Suffering is woven into all existence.”

  “Oh my, perhaps you are in the wrong profession and belong with the philosophers.”

  “Actors bring philosophy to people in a form they can understand,” he said. “I prefer that. It is more useful.”

  I spotted Appius standing near a table with refreshments, looking lost. I hurried over to him. “I am so thankful to see you here. Your name on the list was a great gift.”

  “Your asking after me was a gift as well,” he said.

  “Did you think I would abandon my voice lessons?” I laughed, keeping what was so serious as light as possible. “I needed my teacher!”

  He just nodded. He had always been a solemn sort, who seldom smiled and joked less. But he was an expert vocal coach and had coaxed my voice to good performances.

  “And here is Terpnus,” I said, beckoning to him. “Join us!”

  Now the legendary citharoede made his way over to us. As a child I had first heard him practicing in an empty room in Claudius’s palace, had stolen in to listen to the supernaturally fluid notes, and made a promise to myself that someday I would have him as instructor. As emperor, I had made that wish come true. Whatever I knew about the cithara—and I had recently been honored for my performances—I had learned from him. In performances I combined the vocal training of Appius with the cithara lessons from Terpnus set to my own compositions. They had both prepared me for my public debut, a nerve-rattling exposure for me, but one that had to happen before I could proceed to the next level.

  Terpnus greeted us warmly but then said, “What is this I have heard about your singing during the Fire?”

  I was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s being whispered, and more than whispered, all over. That you put on your citharoede robe and sang of the Fall of Troy while watching Rome burn. I don’t have to tell you how horrified I was to hear such a thi
ng and how ashamed I was that any pupil of mine could do this, emperor or not.”

  I kept my temper. “How could you believe such an accusation? Don’t you know me better than that?” That was the real sting—that he had believed it.

  He looked pained. “In a crisis, people behave oddly. One never knows.”

  “It isn’t true!” I said. “For one thing, my cithara was in Antium!” That sounded like a childish excuse even to my own ears. “I had performed the Fall of Troy in Antium the night before I learned of the Fire. A number of people from Rome had attended. Perhaps that is why the rumor started.”

  “However it started, many people believe it.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  He looked uncomfortable. Finally he said, “If you say it is untrue, I believe you.” A hedged support, indicating that he had believed it easily enough. I felt betrayed.

  “I can assure you it is untrue.”

  “I believe you, Caesar,” he repeated.

  “I never believed it,” said Appius.

  “Thank you for your trust,” I said.

  “But I have to tell you that some others say you yourself set the Fire,” Appius said. “So you could rebuild Rome and name it after yourself.”

  “What? What are they saying?”

  “That you want to rename Rome Neronopolis,” he said.

  “This is how facts get twisted,” I said. “As Pontifex Maximus I alone know the secret name of Rome, and I will whisper it when I perform the propitiatory rites at the shrines of the gods, restoring that name intact. It will not be Neronopolis.” I was stunned by the accusations but angry as well. I had not even been in Rome when the Fire started; my own palace had been destroyed; I had risked my personal safety in helping to fight the blaze and was emptying the treasury to rebuild the city. The ingrates!

  “Thank you for telling me,” I said. “Now please use your influence to correct these rumors.” I supposed I should be thankful that I had access to people whose ears were to the ground outside the palace, but what they had heard was disturbing.

  There were others to greet. Fabullus, the painter who had done the frescoes of the Domus Transitoria, now lost, alas. But I promised him I would soon have another, and much larger, job for him.

  Now Tigellinus came toward me, Vorax in tow. The tall madam had aged little since I had first made her acquaintance as a nervous fifteen-year-old virgin on the eve of his marriage, dragged to her establishment by Tigellinus, another instance of using an assumed identity, that time as Tigellinus’s slave. I never knew if the disguise had fooled her. Did it matter at this point?

  Before she could speak, or Tigellinus could make one of his inappropriate jokes, I said, “I am pleased to know you are safe.”

  “Thank you,” she said, inclining her head in respect of my office but offering no other recognition of a relationship beyond the fact that Tigellinus served me.

  “I trust all your . . . employees are likewise safe?”

  “Yes. My establishment was in the fourth district, but we fled early, not wanting to take any chances. Unfortunately, the house was lost.”

  I nodded. I knew very well what district it was in. At one point my feet could have gone there on their own. And more than just my feet.

  “If you have the means to rebuild quickly, the treasury will repay you as an incentive. I want Rome to be restored as fast as possible.”

  “You could even build a larger establishment,” said Tigellinus. “Part of the new and improved Rome the emperor is planning.”

  “I would welcome you, Caesar,” she said.

  “Alas, he would not patronize your house,” said Tigellinus. “He is hopelessly devoted to his wife, more’s the pity.”

  “It would be surprising if, given the famous beauty of the empress, he was wont to look elsewhere,” she said. “But I would welcome you as an honored guest to tour the new establishment.” Her eyes twinkled. “There would be many novelties, but of course we would still offer the tried-and-true favorites.”

  My cheeks burned. The tried-and-true favorites . . . Vorax had introduced the custom (now much imitated) of having impersonators of famous women for clients who wished to make love to Cleopatra, Queen Hippolyta of the Amazons, Nefertiti—and Agrippina the Younger, my mother. Perhaps that was the proof that she truly had not known who I was, or surely she would not have matched me with my own mother that afternoon. I could never banish the searing and degrading details from my mind, burned and imprinted there for all eternity.

  “I wish you all good fortune in your rebuilding,” I said. I had to turn away.

  Later Tigellinus said, “That was abrupt!”

  “I wished her well,” I said. “And perhaps I will tour her establishment—in full daylight and with an entourage.”

  “Ah, do not be so quick to turn your back on her. One never knows . . . it is good to have a friend like her.”

  “I trust we are still friends, whether I am a customer or not.” And I meant it.

  Not long after, I left and returned to the palace, where I rested on an ivory bench and tried to tame the fighting emotions surging through me. I was full of the happiness of knowing that my music instructors were well, that my painter was well, that everyone but Apollonius would be part of my life going forward, that even Vorax would set up her business again. But the ugly rumors and blame for the Fire—I had not expected this. And such rumors were dangerous. Unlike the Fire, these flames were invisible. Unlike the Fire, there was no clear remedy for them—no houses to demolish to starve them of fuel. How could I starve these baseless rumors of the fuel they were feeding on? What fuel was it? How to douse it? And like the flames, rumors spread, jumped barriers, and confounded attempts to smother them.

  XIV

  Today is the day,” I told Poppaea. I sounded resolute, composed, in command. In truth I dreaded addressing the Senate for the first time since the Fire. It was necessary, but my message would be difficult to deliver in a manner that was easily comprehended. And I needed them to understand everything I was proposing.

  “It is time,” she said. “Nothing can move forward until they have been informed and consulted.” She was dressed in a respectful, demure gown with a light palla over her shoulders. But unlike Mother, who had eavesdropped on Senate meetings and openly met envoys, she would not be visible today. “And it is good to see you in your purple toga. If only to remind yourself that you are the emperor.”

  “As if I need reminding.” In fact, there was hardly an instant in my life that I wasn’t acutely aware of it, and never more so than after the Fire. But it would remind others, in case they were apt to forget.

  The Curia had been spared in the Fire, sustaining only smoke damage and some black scorch marks on its walls. Now the Forum had been cleared of its debris, the Curia scrubbed clean again, and the call sent out for all senators to attend my address. Although there were six hundred senators, obviously not all of them would—or could—come.

  On my way through Rome I was pleased with the progress of the cleanup. Almost all of the center had been cleared, and work had already begun on the Temple of Vesta and the Circus Maximus. Next week I would give permission for the property owners to return to their sites and start to rebuild.

  As I entered the great doors of the Curia, guarded by the Praetorians Faenius and Subrius in uniform, at first I could see nothing in the dimness after the bright sunlight in the Forum. It seemed a great dark void with murmuring voices. Then gradually things swam into view, lightened, clarified. The benches on either side of the long room were filled, aglow with the white of the senatorial togas. The dais where I would sit on my chair, flanked by the two consuls, awaited.

  “Imperator Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus!” the official announcer boomed out as I approached the dais. The senators rose in a body.

  I mounted the steps and turned to look around the r
oom. “Welcome back to Rome, Rome the imperishable!” I said in greeting. I then motioned for them to sit. But I would remain standing.

  “I give thanks that we meet here again, safe and in our old home. Rome has endured many calamities in the more than eight hundred years of its existence, but this ranks as one of the greatest it has faced. But we will prevail, and Rome will be restored more glorious than ever. It will enter a golden age, a sublime period in its history, that men will look back upon and lament they were not here to gaze upon it.”

  I could not make out the expressions on the senators’ faces. Some were still shrouded in shadow and besides that, I was shortsighted. They waited, quietly. I guessed there to be about two hundred of them present.

  “As to the immediate task before us, I and my agents have assessed the damage and recorded property loss, listed the missing. All those figures are available for your perusal; I will not recite them now or we would be here for a month.” Still silence, no chuckles or even groans. “The relief stations have been dispensing food, clothes, and relocation information. We are compiling lists of missing persons and reuniting those we have been able to locate.”

  I sat down. This was going to be a delicate and difficult conversation, especially as it was one-sided. “After consulting with engineers, architects, legal advisers, and the senators in my Consilium, I have a plan for the rebuilding of the city.” I then told them about the new safety measures, the regulations for fireproof stone, the widening of the streets, the colonnades on street fronts, the banning of overhanging stories and common house walls, the requirements for firefighting equipment in each home. I hastened to tell them that I would be responsible for the expense of this. “Contributions from the provinces and from the near countryside have been generous,” I said. “And many wealthy people have also made contributions.” I hoped this hint would be heeded by the senators, but they as a group were not as wealthy as the next class down, the equites, because of their snobbish shunning of money earned in business and finance. Only income from war and land was respectable in their eyes.