I poured a drink from the ewer into a glass cup. It was the remains of my decocta Neronis, tepid from standing now. But I did not care to call for a slave to bring fresh. I gulped it down.
The nightmare that began, appropriately, at night—the Great Fire—had stretched on and on. It was now two months since the flames had engulfed the Circus Maximus. Flames would now end it, flames that would punish the arsonists and light up the night once again. Then, pray to all the gods, let it be over. Let it be over.
Leaving the room, I sought my bed in a nearby room. Poppaea had graced it many times, turning it into a playground of eroticism. But tonight I would sleep alone, pulling the covers over my head to drown out the sounds of the baying crowd. In the little tent made of my sheets, I fell into a restless slumber and into a vivid dream, if indeed it was a dream and not a true vision. How does one discern the difference?
Apollo appeared to me. He was not in his citharoede form but in his guise as Sol, the sun god. He was driving his chariot and pulled up just in front of me. “Get in,” he said, holding out a golden arm.
I did not dare to disobey, even though I knew what happened to Phaeton, Apollo’s son, when he got into Apollo’s chariot. I mounted it and stood on its flexible floor, looking out over the backs of his four horses. Beneath their hooves was the solar path, stretching out in a gentle climbing arc.
The god was shining and burnished. I could feel a dazzling radiance coming from him, a gentle warmth, not a scorching incandescence.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I had been afraid to do so, for to look directly upon a god is death.
“I said look at me,” he repeated.
Reluctantly I did so. His features were my own. He smiled.
“Yes, I am you, and you are me. I chose you when you were born, anointing you with my rays. I gave you my skill on the cithara. Now I give you my chariot. Drive it.” He thrust the reins into my hands.
The horses were headstrong. I knew that the moment they began to move. They were nothing like earthly horses, trained in obedience.
“Hold them,” he said. “Steer them. Let them know you are stronger.”
But I wasn’t. They had the power to rip my arms off and run away. I strained to keep the reins steady. They were about to break into a gallop, perhaps even plunge off the solar path, as they had with poor Phaeton.
Apollo touched my arms and infused them with his strength, and I pulled the horses back. “Now let us traverse the sky together, so you are with me from sunrise to sunset,” he said.
Far below the solar path I could see the land, could see burned-out Rome and the still-green fields around it, could see the snaking lines of aqueducts carrying water from the hills. So this was what it was to be a god and look down upon the world. No wonder we appeared of no moment and trivial to them.
After what was a day on earth the chariot neared the end of the solar path, wreathed in clouds at its base. Apollo had not spoken during the ride, had allowed me to stare in wonder at what was passing beneath us. Now he did. “Remember I am you and you are me. You are to bring the golden age to Rome. The fire is not the end but the beginning. You see me now. For a little while you will not see me, but you and I will return together, bringing joy to the people of Rome.”
The chariot stopped against a bank of earth, hidden in writhing mist. The horses sighed and shook their heads. Apollo stepped from the chariot, took my hand, and pulled me after him. “Now I rest, and rest my horses. My sister is now hurrying toward the start of the path to begin her journey. See her?”
I strained my eyes and caught a glimpse of something silvery. Diana, goddess of the moon and the hunt.
“The moon and the hunt,” said Apollo, echoing my thought. “You know what you must do to appease her. She has been mightily offended.”
He faded. The mists faded. The horses vanished. I was lying in bed, wrapped in layers of sheets. Had I been transported elsewhere, or had I lain here the entire time? I could not know, not now. In time a sign would reveal the answer.
I extricated myself from the bedclothes and went to the window. It was still night. Slowly I pushed a shutter open. There was still noise below, but not as much as earlier. High in the sky a full moon was at its zenith. Diana was riding in splendor.
Full moon. This was the second full moon since the one that had shone down upon Rome the night the Fire started. It had also shone down at Antium where I had performed that night in the new theater I had just opened for the people. It had been a perfect night. But all the nights since had been cursed. Now the curse would be lifted.
Apollo rose as usual that morning, staining the sky pink and orange. I smiled, reveling in our secret journey together. Now he was back driving alone, but I would forever remember my brief turn at the reins. The clouds scattered as the sun rose higher, shone strongly. I am you, and you are me. Apollo and I were one.
* * *
• • •
It took two weeks to ready the venues for the expiation ceremonies. The moon rose later and later, finally shrinking away into darkness. The day the last preparations were being made for the ceremonies, the sun left us for a few minutes. A spectacular eclipse occurred, covering the sun at midday.
You see me now. For a little while you will not see me, but you and I will return together, bringing joy to the people of Rome.
He was keeping his promise. This was what he meant. The people in the streets were alarmed as the temperature dropped and the day grew dim. Caged birds ceased singing, bees swarmed, geese tried to roost, owls flew out to hunt, crickets chirped. But the sunlight quickly returned, the dimness passed, and the new day promised by Apollo was here.
* * *
• • •
The ceremonies at the Vatican racetrack were not to begin until dusk settled on the city. We were past the equinox now, and sundown came quickly, with little twilight.
As the light faded, Poppaea helped me into my costume—Sol the charioteer. I would mount a chariot and drive slowly around the track, letting the people see that the golden age was being born from the destruction, that Sol was rising on a new world. The symbolism was all-important.
She fastened the belt around my waist and stuck the traditional knife in it.
“Not that you are likely to lose control of the horses and need to cut the reins as they walk slowly around the track.”
I patted it. “All things must be in order,” I said. I was wearing a short tunic of gold-threaded cloth, and a leather helmet covered in gold leaf, for the sun motif. The chariot was likewise covered in gold foil. Nothing, of course, could equal the celestial chariot of the god himself, but this would remind people of it.
“I will watch from the palace,” she said. “I don’t care to go out into those crowds.” Below us we could see a sea of people waiting. We could also see the poles of the crosses set around the perimeter, shorter than the obelisk standing guard in the middle of the track.
The Praetorians came to fetch me to the waiting chariot. There were only two horses, the better to navigate through crowds, and these were not my prize horses safely stabled outside Rome. These were placid animals who would not be disturbed by crowds and noise.
I drove onto the track as guards parted the crowds to make a path for me. People swarmed forward anyway, and soon the chariot was enveloped, held captive. I spoke as loudly as I could, telling them I welcomed them to the new day that was dawning, but only a few could hear me. Darkness was thickening, and the punishing flames from the crosses threw an eerie flickering light over the scene. I did not look at them; I could not make myself. I had ordered that the victims be offered drugs before the executions. Some had accepted the escape and were unconscious, but others refused and had to endure the agony.
It is only the same agony you meted out to others, to innocent people, I reminded myself. But that did not mitigate the severity of
the punishment.
The chariot could not move, so I abandoned it and walked out into the crowd. I remembered the warnings of Nymphidius about the danger of assassins, but I felt invulnerable, protected by Apollo himself, and could a god or his chosen one die? Remember Pan. But that was different—wasn’t it?
The people embraced me, celebrating wildly, relishing the grisly spectacle of the people being punished. In the yellowish guttering torchlight the faces in the crowd were ruddy and their eyes gleamed yellow like wolves’. The crowd. They can turn to beasts in an instant. Now they called me champion and cheered me. But they are still wild beasts and cannot be trusted.
But I thrust those thoughts aside. Tonight they loved me. Tonight they were tame, and mine.
The fires had dwindled down, and the crosses only glowed by the time I left the track and returned to the palace. The next morning they were gone, as if they had never been.
XVIII
Morning broke on a quiet Rome. Soft breezes caressed the hollows and hills where workmen were hauling stones into place for the new buildings, and slaves smoothed cement binding fresh-laid bricks. The plan for the new Rome was being translated into real streets, dwellings, and fountains. Severus and Celer were drawing up detailed plans for the Golden House, the orientation and size of the rooms. It was decided that the pavilion would be two stories built into the Oppian Hill, with the front of the building facing due south, welcoming the sunlight. The rooms directly behind the front ones would still receive much light.
The centerpiece of the pavilion was a revolutionary designed vaulted room, with an open oculus in the middle of the ceiling and the weight carried on pillars built into the wall, so the space was open and the dome seemed to float above the floor. When we wished, we could cover the opening and put in a revolving cover that showed the zodiac and showered down petals and perfume.
Below the pavilion, in the valley, would be another part of the palace, this one with conventional rooms, overlooking the artificial lake now being dug and lined with stone. On the other side of the palace a huge open forecourt, with colonnades around the sides, stretched to the beginning of the Via Sacra and the Forum. Gardeners were busy with plantings there, and in the middle, on a square platform, would preside my statue. It was Sol. It was me. It was there to guard Rome. I had summoned a sculptor, Zenodorus, skilled in outsized bronze statuary, to execute this. He would arrive any day now.
Ordinary citizens were now rebuilding, too. The clinking sounds of chisels and the rumbling of carts resounded all day long, but it was a healthy noise, the noise of recovery and growth. The Circus Maximus was restored and ready for races again. On the grounds of the Golden House I rebuilt the ruined Temple of Fortune, with walls of phengites, an extraordinary stone from Cappadocia that let in light and seemed to store it, so even on cloudy days it glowed inside. Naturally it was extremely expensive, as Phaon reminded me.
“This month’s figures,” he said, laying the papers before me, looking pained. “The Cappadocian stone has sent the total soaring.”
I looked it over. He was right. The total was a shock. But we had not reached the projected final twenty-two thousand million sesterces. So we were still within the budget, so to speak, except that the budget was outrageous in the first place.
“Perhaps, Caesar, we could trim it a bit,” Phaon said. “The statue, for example—it isn’t commissioned yet; we could postpone it.”
“The sculptor is on his way,” I said. “I will have to pay him for his time in any case.” As if that were an answer.
“The cost of his time is nothing compared to the bronze, the casting, and—I suppose you will want it gilded?”
“Yes, of course. It has to glitter.” Sol was gold; the sun god was gold itself.
Phaon sighed. “Indeed.”
“There’s no point to it otherwise, Phaon,” I said, as if I had to explain to a child. “A statue of the sun god has to be gold. If not gold all the way through, then gilded.”
“Polished bronze can gleam,” he said.
“Not enough,” I answered.
* * *
• • •
I was eager to resume my racing training, which, like everything else, had been interrupted and suspended by the Great Fire. Before the Fire, I had selected a team of horses from a stable recommended by Tigellinus, originally a horse breeder himself. They were a carefully mixed team, meant to balance speed, stamina, and power. I had a cream-colored Iberian horse for speed, a black Cappadocian for heart and competitive spirit, a gray Mycenaean for stability, and a chestnut Sicilian, fast but unpredictable. Their colors did not match, but I hoped they would lend each other strength, and that was what mattered.
The ride out to the stables of Menenius Lanatus, where my horses were kept, was a good ten miles outside Rome. It was through a landscape of meadows and farms, with a gray stone aqueduct visible on the horizon. In the late September day the land was dozing, having just been delivered of its bounty by harvesters. Here in the country the effects of the Fire were not visible.
Tigellinus and Epaphroditus had come with me, and it was a pleasure to be able to speak of things besides the Fire, for the first time in months. Tigellinus was filled with stories about his Sicilian stables and his upbringing around horses, and Epaphroditus was eager to hear them. For myself, I was just glad to be outside and back with my horses.
Lanatus greeted us effusively, saying he had kept the horses safe and waiting for us. “They have wondered where you were,” he told me. “You will see changes in them. I’ve had my own trainers keep them exercised, but the Sicilian has become disobedient. There’s no point in anyone else gentling him because it’s you he has to obey, and he is particular in who he obeys.”
“We Sicilians are hard to control,” said Tigellinus, who came from there, as did Lanatus. “Aren’t we?”
“Only an emperor can control a Sicilian, man or horse. Is that not right, Caesar?” said Lanatus.
I had to strain to control Tigellinus sometimes, and the horse would probably be the same. I nodded.
We spent the afternoon driving chariots around the practice track. Lanatus was right—the Sicilian was skittish and headstrong, unless it was just that I was out of practice in driving horses. By the evening, my arms were aching from the strain of pulling his reins. Weary, I stepped down from the chariot, rubbing them.
Tigellinus nodded approvingly. “Well done. You just need a bit more practice, and then—you will be ready.”
That surprised me. I had felt so rusty, fearing I had lost my skill through disuse. I smiled. “Ready at last?”
“Soon,” he said. “Very soon. Better order your racing costume now.”
* * *
• • •
Back in Rome, I spent that evening in Poppaea’s apartments. Our quarters were so different. Mine were filled with an odd combination of art objects and work paraphernalia—Greek bronzes, painted vases, seals, wax, stamps, cabinets, scrolls, and correspondence. Hers was furnished with luxury items—silks, ivory, fans. I hardly needed to steal away to a secluded retreat when I could walk a mere hundred feet and be in another world.
Both of us pointedly avoided alluding to the missing barbiton player, but his absence loomed large. Several other servants were gone, too, presumably for the same reason.
She had a special vintage wine waiting and poured me out a goblet herself, then stood watching as I tasted it. It was acidic, but I smiled anyway.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“It needs to age a bit,” I said. “But it has a rich taste.”
“It’s from our own vineyard on Mount Vesuvius,” she said. “I know it’s still young, but I think it has potential.”
“My wife the vintner,” I said. “I agree.” But it would have to age a long time to be really drinkable. Suddenly I remembered something. “Seneca had a reputation as a vintner,” I said. �
��But now that he’s become an ascetic, I suppose he’s abandoned wine as well as all other frivolities.”
“Including the emperor?” she said.
“It’s hardly the same,” I said. “And he didn’t abandon me. He retired.”
She snorted. “Is that what you call it? You know he resigned and left court. Now I hear that he is claiming he must guard himself against attempts at poisoning him, without actually naming the person who is trying to poison him.”
“Where did you hear this?”
“We have been over this before. You have your informants, I have mine.”
I drank some more of the distasteful wine. “Well, I don’t believe this one. If Seneca wants to starve himself, it isn’t because I am trying to poison him. But I do mind to pay a call on him. He made a huge donation for the rebuilding of Rome, and I want to personally thank him.”
“If you go, watch what you eat! He sounds knowledgeable about poisons himself.” She laughed. “Let’s not discuss that disagreeable old man. Stoicism is a bitter drink, and whoever drinks it becomes bitter himself.”
In that, and in that only, she and Mother were alike. Neither had any use for philosophy or philosophers.
She curled up on her silk-draped, padded couch, flinging one arm over the back. “I have been reading more of the Jewish scriptures,” she said.
Oh, not that subject! It was all I could do not to wince. I plastered a smile on my face. “In Hebrew?” I asked, hoping that would end the conversation.
“Of course not,” she said. “It’s been translated into Greek. I’m surprised you haven’t read it. You devour everything in Greek.”
“Not everything.”
“After what . . . what happened, I wondered why the Jews rejected the Christians as being different and thought I might find an answer in their writings.” She sat up straighter. “And what things I found! A poem to put Propertius to shame.”
The Splendor Before the Dark Page 14