The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  “In their sacred books? I doubt that.”

  “They have a name for you, then—a mocker and a scoffer. But I can prove it. Here, read it for yourself.” She got up, selected a scroll, and handed it to me.

  “The Song of Songs,” I read. “Interesting title.” I plunged into the text and was swept away by the passion of the poetry, nothing like a religious tract.

  Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.

  While the king sits at his table, my spikenard sends forth its scent.

  She passed her forearm under my nose, and the warm smell of spikenard filled my nostrils.

  I found the next verses and read, “‘A garden enclosed is my spouse, a spring shut up, a fountain sealed. How fair and how pleasant are you, O love, for delights!’”

  She took the scroll back and read, “‘I am my beloved’s, and his desire is toward me. Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is strong as death, jealousy is cruel as the grave.’”

  I took the scroll from her and laid it down gently. “We do not need another’s words, no matter how beautiful or hallowed. You are already sealed in my heart. You know that full well.”

  “And you in mine,” she said. Then we retreated into our own garden of pleasures, beyond even the words of the poet. Spices, pleasant fruit, water—all that was mundane compared to what we were able to conjure for ourselves but could never describe.

  Later that night, tired in the most exquisite way, we lay side by side watching the shadows on the ceiling. Ripples, dapples, wavering splashes of light chased one another across the expanse.

  “You will soon have a new Rome,” she said drowsily, turning her head on my shoulder. “And a new palace.”

  “We will have them,” I corrected her. “They are yours as well as mine.”

  “They are your gifts to me,” she said. “You are able to command vast resources to lay at my feet. But I now can present one to you: we have conceived another child. I was not sure, but now I am.”

  I sat up. “When?”

  She laughed. “When was it conceived, or when will it be born?”

  “Either. Both!”

  “I think it was in Antium. Just before the Fire. So that means it would be born in April. Around the anniversary date of the founding of Rome. The gods have arranged it!”

  “There will already be festivities to celebrate Ludi Ceriales in honor of Ceres. But this will eclipse everything else. Oh, what a joy!” My words were trite, and I wished I could say something more worthy of my feelings. But I was impoverished in my imagination, drowning in happiness.

  She put her arms around me, rested her face against my chest. “A new beginning for us all. And that is my offering to the new Rome.”

  XIX

  While Rome was rebuilding I made my promised visit to Seneca in his country retreat in Nomentum, some ten miles outside the city. From the heart of Rome the Via Nomentana led out through the northeastern gate beside the huge Praetorian barracks and into the fields. Along the way other villas and houses grew farther apart as the city dwindled behind. Plane trees lined the side of the road, and the worn paving stones caught the light of the autumn sun.

  “Over there,” said Faenius, who was my guard on this journey. “That’s Phaon’s villa.” He pointed to a large compound far from the road, surrounded by wild fields. At that point we were about four miles outside Rome.

  “It looks neglected,” I said. Weeds stood shoulder high in the fields around it.

  “He doesn’t have much opportunity to spend time there,” said Faenius. “He is kept too busy with your account books.” His voice was smooth and did not linger over the “your,” but was it a rebuke?

  “The account books of the empire,” I corrected him.

  Silently we continued the ride, the early hints of autumn brushing the fields, turning them from green to ochre. It was almost October. Almost ten years since I became emperor. Could it truly be only ten years? The world that had surrounded me then had vanished, the people as well as the city itself. Only Seneca and a few of my companions remained. The rest were swept away. Soon there will be no one who will remember me as a boy. A frightening thought.

  I should celebrate that anniversary, a momentous one. But it was too early for Rome to host anything. Perhaps I would invite people in to see the Golden House when it was finished enough for visitors. I would keep October thirteenth, my accession day, as a private remembrance.

  Suddenly I needed to see Seneca, that remnant of my old life, to clutch it and know it did exist and had existed.

  We did not reach his villa until late afternoon. It was, as I expected, tidy and well kept. The fields were not in disarray like those of Phaon, and the courtyard was swept clean. Surrounding the houses were orchards planted in straight rows; the apple trees dangled red fruit ready for the picking. Stretching farther away were the vineyards of his estate, famous for yielding one hundred and eighty gallons of wine to the acre. Seneca had prided himself on his ability to graft various types of vines together.

  A servant met us, wearing a clean tunic and sturdy sandals. He tried to appear calm, but clearly he was flustered at our impromptu visit. Turning, he motioned to slaves inside the house to alert the master.

  “Caesar, oh, to what do we owe this grand honor?” He fell to one knee.

  “You owe it to a whim of the emperor,” I said. “I had a sudden longing to come here and see my teacher and mentor.”

  You should have warned us, he must have been thinking. But he smiled broadly and kept down on one knee.

  “Up, up,” I said, just as a group emerged from the house.

  Leading them was Seneca. But how slowly he moved, like an aged beetle. He was creeping toward us. Behind him was his wife, Paulina; his brother Gallio; and his nephew Lucan.

  “Welcome,” he said, but there was no warmth in the words.

  “Thank you,” I said, injecting enough jollity in my voice to count for both of us. “I have long threatened to come here, and now I have carried out that threat.” Oh, unfortunate words. Instantly I wished I could recall them, substitute “promise” for “threat.” The joke had fallen flat.

  “Come,” he said, turning and beckoning us toward the house. “Welcome, Faenius,” he added warmly.

  Faenius looked startled and said, “Thank you, sir.”

  The house was dim and cool inside. A slave opened the shutters and let in more light. We were ushered to comfortable couches. I looked around. This was hardly luxurious, but neither was it the bare hut of a hermit. Where had he stashed all his money? He had been staggeringly wealthy.

  “Rome is rebuilding apace?” Seneca asked politely. He nodded, and a slave scurried off to get refreshments.

  “Ahead of schedule,” I said. “And you helped bring it about. I am deeply grateful for your contribution to the rebuilding. When you retired from court, you offered to return all the rewards I had given you over the years. I refused. Now you have returned them anyway, when Rome needs them.”

  He gave a ghost of a smile. “I had no need of those things,” he said.

  “Stoics aren’t supposed to need anything, but no one is free entirely of needs,” I said.

  “He is experimenting with that,” said Gallio. “He is trying to do without just about everything.” He coughed, covering his mouth with a handkerchief.

  “And succeeding better than I would like,” said his wife, a comfortably round woman. “For I do not wish to exist only on bread and running water.”

  “Is that what you are doing?” I asked Seneca. If so, it didn’t show. He was still stocky and had a fleshy face.

  “Yes, I am trying.” He smiled for the first time. “But we will offer you more than that. I do not require the entire household to follow my example.”

  Lucan said, “Good. For I am longing f
or some dainties and indulgences. I need to keep my muse well fed.” His fierce blue eyes burned in his face. “I will return to Rome shortly. My new house will be ready soon. I have been pestering my uncle to let me have some of his books for my new library. But he won’t part with them.”

  “It’s all I have left,” said Seneca. I doubted that. He had several houses and villas in Italy, untouched by fire. Why did he make this pretense? But then he had always pretended things. He had pretended that his relegation—not exile, he had insisted—in Corsica had been a torment, but he had actually lived comfortably. He pretended his wealth meant nothing to him, but he kept amassing more. He pretended to guide me morally but reaped the benefits of my misdeeds, covering them up for political presentation. In fact, he aided and abetted what I called the third Nero, that dark side of me that lived apart from the dutiful emperor and the idealistic artist, that had led me to do unspeakable things. And unspeakable was right, because the morally upright Seneca did not speak of them although he approved them and pocketed the rewards for doing so.

  “A pity,” I said. I looked around. “How are you spending your hours?”

  A satisfied smile spread over his face. “Writing. At long last, I have the time to write. I have written a few plays from Greek mythology and seven volumes of Natural Questions. I’ve also written moral treatises as a series of letters to a friend, Lucilius.”

  Moral treatises. Do as I say, not as I do. And who was Lucilius? Did he even exist, or was he just a literary persona?

  “I envy you,” I said. “When the rebuilding is over, I will gather my literary group again. You will join us, Lucan? Or are you too busy now that your work is widely recognized?”

  He had been making a name for himself, and his Civil War epic had grown into seven books since he started it over four years ago. He had dedicated it to me at the time.

  “Of course I will join you. Does anyone say no to an invitation from the emperor?”

  No, but how many people would like to? I would never know. “Good. I will see you then.”

  The meal was an awkward one, with five of us eating from dishes of pork and figs and platters of grapes and nuts, while Seneca munched on a crust of dry bread. The five of us sipped his Nomentum estate wine while Seneca drank water fetched from a stream. The conversation was stilted, and no information was exchanged. There was a lot of coughing from Seneca and Gallio, both of whom had weak lungs. I could hardly wait for it to be over. What a mistake to have come.

  But just as we were taking our leave, Seneca hobbled over to me and put his hands on my shoulders. “You carry a great deal, my son,” he said. “Perhaps you would like to put those burdens down.”

  Was he suggesting I abdicate? I just stared at him, at his rheumy eyes and wrinkled cheeks, like an old tortoise’s.

  “I have rejoiced in being able to put my burdens down,” he said. “I recommend it.”

  “When I am as old as you, I’ll consider it.” I knew that was rude, but it was the truth. And he had been rude to me, suggesting I should give up the emperorship. “My father.” I removed his hands from my shoulders and squeezed them in a farewell handshake. It was farewell. He was as gone as all the other things from my past. I truly had no father now. But I had not for a long time. I had only imagined I had.

  * * *

  • • •

  On our way back to Rome, Faenius said, “Seneca is convinced someone is trying to poison him. That’s why he is eating as he is. It has nothing to do with Stoicism.”

  “Who would want to poison him?” Poppaea’s spies were right, then.

  Faenius waited a long time before saying, “It is reported that his freedman Cleonicus was ordered to poison him.”

  “Who would order that? Was Cleonicus the man who greeted us?”

  “Yes. He is fiercely loyal to his master.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “Who would benefit by poisoning Seneca?”

  He tilted his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps you should ask Tigellinus. He has spies everywhere.”

  Beneath the surface of the court, then, a nest of spies slithered like snakes. Poppaea’s, Tigellinus’s, Seneca’s—and mine.

  It was the middle of the night before we got back, so I slept late the next morning. It was not only the ride that had tired me; it was seeing Seneca again. It was not as I expected—but what had I expected? As a result of my oversleeping, I was groggy for the morning ritual of “Friends of Caesar” paying their respects and giving me a ceremonial kiss in the atrium of the palace. I had enjoyed the hiatus of this tedious custom in the aftermath of the Fire, but now it was fully restored, taking up a good part of each morning. There were two formal groups, the first being of higher standing, the second a lesser status. There was, naturally, a great deal of jockeying to move from group two into group one. I found the whole thing a bore and wanted to abolish it. But it was a good way to keep an eye on senators and magistrates. They had to pass before me, one by one, and look me in the face.

  This morning a number of senators had appeared, smiling and praising the rebuilding, its thoroughness and its speed. If they were unhappy with the means of this—the expense—they hid it. The second group—wealthy businessmen, landowners, lawyers—took up the rest of the morning. By the time they left, I was more than ready for the baths. I hurried over there, pleased to see how the Campus Martius was faring. It had not been hard hit and now was bustling. My baths had escaped damage and were thronged with people. The usual crowd of petitioners had followed me but my guards shooed them away, and I sank gratefully into the waters. Afterward I strolled in the yard of the palaestra beside the baths, my pride and joy, one of my first building projects. Now artworks lined the walls of the exercise yard and the reading room was stocked with scrolls, and a person could spend all day here, exercising both the mind and the body.

  I needed to go back to a regular exercise regimen; it had been sadly neglected. If I wanted to control horses in the Circus, I needed to be as strong as possible. But the loss of Apollonius, my trainer, had sapped my desire to train. Another part of my past lost, another person who had known me as a boy and not as emperor. I could find another trainer, but not another who would have known me as I once was and, inside, still remained.

  Despite these thoughts, the baths relaxed me. But my serenity was shattered when I returned to the palace to find Tigellinus waiting. He was the opposite of tranquility, always suffused with energy and tension. He could smile, but it always looked borrowed. Now he was smiling, but grimly. He gestured to a scroll on my desk.

  My skin was still glowing from the hot and cold baths, the rubdown with oil, the feel of a fresh linen tunic afterward. Now this, whatever it was.

  “You know how to spoil a man’s day,” I said, picking up the scroll.

  “How was your visit to Mr. Pompous and Pious?” he asked, crossing his muscular arms and leaning against the wall.

  In spite of myself, I laughed. “Pompous and pious,” I said. “He should go on the stage, he is so good at playacting.”

  “What was he playing at this time?”

  “The humble philosopher,” I said. “All that was missing was the whip for self-discipline. He had the other props—crusts of dry bread, cups of water.” I unrolled the scroll. It was a play, titled Octavia. A list of parts followed:

  Octavia, wife of Nero

  Octavia’s nurse

  Seneca, minister to Nero

  Nero, emperor of Rome

  A Prefect

  Poppaea, mistress and afterward wife of Nero

  Messenger

  Chorus of Roman citizens

  “Where did you get this?” I asked him.

  “It was removed from the workroom of Seneca. Not at Nomentum, but at his smaller villa closer to Rome.”

  I need not ask how it was removed or by whom. He has spies everywhere. Had
Seneca missed it? When I was there, did he assume I had seen it?

  “Do we know he wrote it? Perhaps someone else wrote it and sent it to him.”

  “The style is identical,” said Tigellinus.

  “It is easy to copy someone’s style,” I said. “Or rather, most people’s styles. There are scores of imitation Homers and Ovids.”

  “No matter who wrote it, Seneca had it.”

  Sighing, I began reading. It was my duty to read it.

  It was a drama of how cruel I was, how hated by Octavia, who despised my person and compared me to a lion’s wrath, a tiger’s rage. Seneca was cast in the role of the wise mediator, attempting to restrain my evil deeds. Poppaea was the incarnation of a scheming hussy. Even Mother’s ghost made an appearance, bent on revenge from Hades. There was one line in which Octavia said, “Let him destroy me, too—or I shall kill him!” Well, that had certainly been true. She and Britannicus had tried to kill me. But, oddly enough, our relationship was much more than that, much more complicated than this simplistic play. We had been childhood victims to Mother’s ambitions, married to one another for political reasons through no desire of our own, inevitably ending as political opponents. That we had suffered alike in our arranged marriage at the hands of others gave us a strange fellowship.

  Seneca stood forth in dignity uttering a series of lines that I answered as we batted clichés back and forth, he always having the last word.

  SENECA: Is that just treatment for those nearest to you?

  NERO: Let him be just who has no need of fear.

  SENECA: The more your power, greater your fear should be.

  NERO: A man’s a fool who does not know his strength.

  SENECA: Justice, not strength, is what a good man knows.

  And so on.

  At one point he had me saying, “Am I to tolerate conspiracy against my life and make no retribution?”

  Thank you, Seneca, for allowing me this favor! I thought.

  He also let me say, about Octavia, “Nor was she ever wife to me in heart and soul.” Again, Seneca, thanks for your admission here!