The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  “It has eight supports, but they are incorporated into the walls.” I pointed to one.

  “It is magic,” she said.

  “With help from Celer and Severus,” I said.

  Only after our eyes adjusted to the bright light did she see the artworks arranged around the edges of the space—bronzes of Galatians slain in war, taken from Pergamum; an Amazon from Athens; and the statue of the priest of Troy and his two sons attacked by a sea serpent, from my own villa in Antium.

  “I will use this space as an art gallery, with works that can be changed. The five rooms opening off the octagon are part of the complex and share walls with it, so they can be used as well. The largest one has a waterfall and a fountain.”

  I would not reveal the last surprise about the octagon room—the revolving ceiling. Yes, the workmen had fixed it and now it waited, covered, to be put in position as night fell on the night of the celebration. Something had to be reserved for her amazement, along with everyone else.

  She walked to the room where the water flowed into the fountain. Mosaics framed it with sea scenes—blue waves, fish, starfish, and shells. She sat on the rim of the basin and dipped her hand into the water. “It is so tranquil here,” she said. Even the waterfall murmured, rather than splashing.

  I sat down beside her. The water rippled in the basin, soothing, orderly.

  “I still do not feel well. Has the bed come yet where I can lie down?”

  I stood up. “I’ll see.” I had ordered it brought to the Hector room, which was nearby. The room was only a few feet from the octagon chamber, so I quickly checked and saw that the bed had arrived.

  “Yes, come,” I said, returning to her side.

  She sought the bed, not looking at the room itself, and lay on her back, her eyes closing. “I don’t know what it is. It comes and goes during the day.” She took several deep breaths.

  “Rest, then.”

  Is it not a fine thing to be emperor and have a bed brought wherever you wish?

  After a few minutes she began to take interest in her surroundings and looked at the frescoes done by Fabullus.

  “What is this one?” she asked, pointing to a large one on the upper reaches of the wall, within a painted frame of brown, blue, and ocher. A helmeted figure with a very long spear and a shield was facing a cloaked woman with a child, standing before a city wall, and another cloaked figure in the doorway.

  “It’s Hector and Andromache,” I said. “Hector bidding farewell to her before he faces Achilles.”

  “So it is their final farewell,” she said. “Why did you choose that scene?”

  “Because I am interested in the human side of the characters in the Iliad, not their heroics. That farewell, not fighting Achilles, was the bravest and hardest thing Hector did.”

  There was an empty matching frame facing it yet to be filled in. “What will go in there?” she asked.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I admitted.

  “Then let me,” she said. “Please have Fabullus depict Protesilaus and Laodamia. It was the first tragedy of the Trojan War.” She sat up. “When Laodamia got word that her husband had died, she begged for just three hours more to be with him, and the gods granted her wish. If anything should ever happen to you—as I was afraid it would in the chariot race—I would beg the gods for the same.”

  A chill ran through me. “As would I, for you. Three hours more . . . just three hours. But now we have infinite hours, or what feels like it. Oh, to cherish them while we have them!” I buried my face in her hair, unable to permit myself to imagine her not with me. “Yes, I’ll commission it from Fabullus. I promise.”

  XXVI

  I could expect thousands to respond to my citywide invitation, but I had asked my literary group to come first for a private tour. The group had lapsed, and I wished to revive it and provide the utmost incentive to do so—an ambiance that would encourage the creative experience.

  Petronius was the first to arrive. I had not seen him since the Pan gathering.

  “I’ve been back at Cumae. Really, all the dust and noise of Rome’s rebuilding was just too much. Wake me when it’s over,” he said. We were standing on the stone terrace, looking down at the lake, waiting for the others. “You must be descended from an ancient Babylonian. How else to explain these hanging gardens?” He gestured toward the descending terraces, hung with vines. “But then, this . . . house . . . seems inspired by Persepolis.”

  “Are you hinting that I am Nebuchadnezzar and Darius combined?” I asked.

  Instead of laughing and denying it, he said, “Well, you do have a bit of the eastern love of luxury in you. Quite un-Roman.” He looked at me, amusement on his saturnine face. “What is this you are wearing?” He flicked his hand toward me.

  I had forgone a toga and chosen a long tunic in shimmering gold thread. I knew what it betokened, but that was my secret. It would have been insulting to Sol to inaugurate his palace in anything else. “I call this the Golden House, and my attire reflects it.”

  He shielded his eyes. “Reflect is right. It’s glaring.”

  Like the sun. As it should be.

  “Have you been writing in Cumae?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Yes, I’ve got more chapters of my Satyricon done.”

  I was about to tell him I was eager to read it, when Spiculus and Lucan arrived simultaneously. I turned to welcome them.

  Spiculus, a poet who also fought as a gladiator, had a wide grin. “Greetings, Caesar,” he said, inclining his head slightly.

  Lucan, beside him, said, “To what do we owe this honor?”

  His question surprised me. “As my friends and fellow writers, you are the first I wish to welcome.”

  “As you say,” he replied evenly.

  “It is an honor,” said Spiculus. “One I do not take for granted. Of course, I am only a gladiator, not a senator like you.”

  “In the house of the Muses, all are equal,” I said.

  Just then Piso arrived, formally attired in his finest senatorial toga. “Am I late?” he asked apologetically.

  “Not at all. Let us all stand here a moment and look out. If you have any questions about the grounds, please ask me.”

  I turned to face the valley. It was late morning, and the October sun was swinging around to the south, where it would soon shine full force into the pavilion. A slight breeze, spicy from fallen leaves, blew up from the valley to us.

  But they stood silent, until finally I said, “Let us go inside.” I led them to the first open door and then back through the labyrinth of rooms, all sunlit, to the fountain room with the Ulysses mosaic, and now with something else—a marble statue that sat in majesty across from the fountain, and the fresco of Apollo the lyre player I had rescued from the ruins around Augustus’s house near it on the wall. Pillowed couches were arranged on the black-and-white marble floor, their colors matching it. Architectural engineering ensured that the chamber received natural light, but there were several bronze lamp stands at hand.

  “This will be our retreat, a space dedicated to art.” I swept my arm around the room.

  “Do I recognize—is it Terpsichore?” asked Petronius.

  “Yes. The Muse of lyric poetry,” I said. “Who more fitting for us?”

  “But this isn’t the original,” said Lucan, cocking his head. He circled it critically.

  “Of course not,” said Petronius. “Praxiteles worked in bronze. Everyone knows that. This is marble, a copy.”

  “Gladiators aren’t so expert,” said Spiculus.

  “You are expert where it is crucial,” I assured him. “When words are futile and feeble, a sword offers vital protection.”

  “Ah, but I am here to improve my words, not my sword arm,” he said.

  Piso stood in front of the fresco. “This speaks to me,” he said.

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sp; “And to me,” I said. In the indoor light, the colors were softer and warmer, enhancing the portrait.

  I waved them to couches and took my place on one as well. “Petronius has been busy with his Satyricon,” I told them. “I confess I have done little of late, for obvious reasons. What of the rest of you? Only outside Rome could you have enough peace to produce creative work.”

  Spiculus shifted on his couch, trying to find a way to lounge comfortably with his muscular body. “The arenas have been closed, so outside of training, I have had an unusual amount of time to compose. I’ve been working on a series of pastoral poems.”

  “Ah, a peaceful gladiator!” said Lucan. “A contradiction in terms.”

  “We are all contradictions, Lucan,” said Piso. “You more than others, I think.”

  Lucan just laughed. “True.” He paused. “What about you, Piso?”

  “As a contradiction or as a writer?”

  “We can let the first go. What have you written since last we met?”

  “I’ve written two plays. They won’t put Sophocles out of business, but—”

  “Or Seneca, either, I hear,” I said. “Has anyone here read his plays?”

  “No,” they chorused quickly—too quickly. So they had. They had read the Octavia. That answered my question, as to whom Seneca had written it for; he had written it for all educated Romans to read.

  “I have,” I said pointedly. “I’ve read them carefully. He has a very active imagination. But then writers need that. We create beings and places out of our airy fantasies. But, being unreal, they melt away when we try to prove them true.”

  They stared back at me innocently. A long stretch of silence ensued.

  “We should invite Quintianus to join us,” said Piso, steering the conversation away from the shoals of Seneca. “He writes poetry.”

  “He does?” That was a surprise. “Well, then, I’ll ask him.”

  It was time for refreshments. I motioned to the slave on duty, and he appeared a few minutes later with wine, quinces from Kos, and almonds from Naxos. He poured out a sample of the wine into the murrhine cups I kept for the occasion, and I tasted it, then nodded for him to fill the other cups.

  “To go with our Greek Muse, we have the legendary wine from Lesbos.”

  They murmured in delighted surprise. Lucan said, “I thought it no longer existed.”

  I smiled. “There are a few stores yet.”

  Is it not a fine thing to be emperor and call up whatever rare wine you wish?

  The slave handed the cups around. Petronius sipped, then held out the cup and looked at it. “I have two like this,” he said. “Well, actually, with more rainbow color.”

  “I’ll gladly buy them,” I said.

  Petronius shook his head. “No, I am too fond of them.” He sniffed the rim. “The stone has a delicate scent of its own. Extraordinary!”

  Everyone sipped, and quickly the cups were empty. The slave refilled them.

  The wine of Lesbos was renowned for its bouquet; it had a faint tang of sweet grasses. I inhaled and felt myself in a meadow far away, on the island, with the waves washing the shore and the wind blowing through the reeds.

  On our third cup, the mood mellowed. I asked each of them what written line of someone here they liked best—if they could remember from the last time we met.

  Spiculus thought for a moment, then said, “I liked your lines, Petronius, that went: Unhappy Tantalus, with plenty curst / ’Mid fruits for hunger faints / ’mid streams for thirst: / the Miser’s emblem! who of all possessed / Yet fears to taste, in blessings most unblessed.”

  Petronius was touched, I could tell. “Thank you, Spiculus. What a memory! And those lines are something I am adamant about—we should avail ourselves of the plenty around us. Do not hold back. The worst miser is he who turns his back on what he should grasp.” To make his point, he grabbed a quince and bit into it noisily.

  Then why was he critical of the Golden House? In constructing it, hadn’t I done exactly what he was extolling?

  “My favorite lines are from Lucan’s Third Book of the Civil War,” I said. “Either no feeling is left to the mind by death / or death itself is nothing.”

  “Thank you,” said Lucan. “I would have thought your favorite line would have been one in the opening praising you. Don’t you like, Whether you choose to wield / the scepter or to mount the flaming chariot of Phoebus / and to circle with moving fire the earth entirely unperturbed / by the transference of the sun, every deity / will yield to you, to your decision nature will leave / which god you wish to be?”

  Was he accusing me of the Fire? What a sly dig. But what he could not know was that I had mounted the chariot of Phoebus, Sol himself. His mockery only confirmed the truth, little did he know.

  I did not react. Instead I said, “What is your favorite line of mine?”

  “Oh, I could never forget You might think it thundered ’neath the earth. I can hear the very rumbling, the growling, in the bowels of the earth. Yes, the bowels.”

  Outside I could hear the noise of the arriving guests. I dismissed the group, telling them to come and join the others outside. I helped myself to a handful of the almonds; they were sweet and crunchy. Then I readied myself for the main event.

  * * *

  • • •

  The courtyard was filling with people, gathering outside and milling about. A sea of white togas swam before my eyes, stark beneath the noon sun. The overall effect was softened by the women’s gowns of various colors, azure and yellow and rose. As I joined them, everyone swung around to look at me, making a whorl with me in the center.

  “I welcome you to the Golden House,” I said. “It is your house as well as mine; it is a house for all of Rome.”

  I could have sworn I heard a mutter off to one side. Fair enough. It takes up all of Rome. But all I saw were smiles and nods.

  “Please enjoy the views from here, feel the sunshine, and shortly I will lead you into the house as my guests.”

  Whenever there were crowds, even of ostensible friends, it was prudent to have the Praetorians on hand, discreetly stationed. Tigellinus and Faenius were on guard, wearing their dress uniforms, and their colleagues Subrius Flavus and Sulpicius Asper were nearby but keeping to the shadows of the portico.

  I stopped to talk to Tigellinus and Faenius and ask if they had noticed anything out of order.

  “No,” Tigellinus said. “The people seem more curious than anything else.”

  “I heard some mention of the Circus Maximus race,” said Faenius. “They chose their words carefully, for they knew I might overhear.”

  “Well?” I asked.

  “They were . . . They looked askance at it.”

  “That’s because you do, Faenius,” said Tigellinus quickly. “Admit it. You hear what you want to.”

  “We all do,” he answered. “That does not mean it wasn’t said.”

  “I did not hear such words,” said Tigellinus.

  “As you just said, you hear what you want to.”

  I looked at Faenius. Of late he had changed, there was no doubt of it. His boyish face still looked honest, but what was really going on behind it? An honest face could be the best mask of all.

  “Keep your ears open today, as well as your minds,” I directed them, turning to seek out Sulpicius and Subrius in the shadows. I greeted them, thanking them for their service.

  Sulpicius would have shrugged, but his rigid posture, as well as his rigid demeanor, made that impossible. If wood could come to life, it would look like Sulpicius. “It is my duty,” he said.

  Subrius smiled, fingering his sword. “We will be vigilant,” he said. He looked around, turning his stocky body, surveying the crowd. “They look harmless enough.”

  “As for the common people who will come to the lower terraces, we’ve statione
d twenty other Praetorians. Those are the people likely to cause trouble,” said Sulpicius, disapproval written all over him.

  “Or not,” I said. “It is not always obvious who will cause trouble. Carry on.”

  I was grateful to have such professional soldiers to guard me, but why did they make me uneasy? I remembered Caligula and his guards. I must speak to Tigellinus, who I trusted. But should I trust even him?

  Shaking off these thoughts, I turned back to the sunlight and the people.

  Standing together were my erstwhile guests in the imperial box, whom I had not seen after the race. Poppaea was with them. For a moment before joining them, I stood and watched her, her yellow gown complementing the rich depths of her tawny hair. The breeze stirred the delicate material, letting it hug her body, but she was still slender and her pregnancy was not betrayed.

  I joined them. Vestinus was nearest Poppaea, and he greeted me effusively. “I lost money on that race,” he said. “Why didn’t you give me the insider’s tip?”

  “I couldn’t have,” I said. “I didn’t know the odds.”

  “Funny, if the emperor is racing, the odds are no secret,” Lateranus boomed.

  “They would have been wrong,” I said. The race wasn’t thrown. How could anyone but me appreciate the preciousness of that?

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Scaevinus was accusatory. “Why did you keep us in ignorance?”

  “Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t go through with it,” said Lateranus.

  “You are being rude,” said Poppaea. “The emperor is no coward. But neither is he obligated to announce everything he does, any more than you are.”

  Lateranus made a clucking sound. “Excuse me.”

  As the conversation turned elsewhere and people drifted away, Statilia sought me out. “Pay them no mind,” she said. “They are envious. Not one of them would have dared to do it, and they know it. And you know it. And they know that you know.” She laughed, a deep, throaty laugh. “The truth is, you were impressive. At least, I was impressed.” Her tone hinted that she rarely was.