The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  But the old Rome? Did it linger on in survivors’ minds, unscorched by the purifying flames? The old patrician families, the ones going back hundreds of years—they were still the pillars and foundations of Rome, not buildings. I could update building codes but not citizens’ moral codes and prejudices.

  The baby, coming now in a few months. The last of the dynasty founded by Julius Caesar—my five-times-great-uncle—would take his place on the stage of history. All the rest were gone. Some by natural causes and others by political ones. I myself had removed several of my cousins from the family tree, bearing in mind Augustus’s warning, It is not good to have too many Caesars. So now there remained only one living male direct descendant of Augustus—me. The weight of the entire dynasty hung around my neck like a spiked collar.

  Did I regret having pruned those branches? I never regretted an act of survival, for the cousins would have done the same to me—indeed, they wanted to. But having survived my mother’s attempts on me, no one else came close to her as a threat. I had learned from the best and could protect myself against all others.

  The baby. Would his life be in jeopardy from the moment he arrived? I was a little child when Caligula tried to drown me and not much older when Messalina sent assassins to kill me in the cradle. Not only is it not good to have too many Caesars, just being a Caesar is dangerous.

  I must be here to guard him. I had been all alone—my father dead, my mother exiled, leaving me to the mercy of others. My mother . . . I wonder why she had no other children. She was young enough—she was only thirteen when she married. And the list of her lovers, reputed or real, was enough to sire a stable of children.

  Against my will I started to laugh, and Poppaea stirred. I stifled the laugh as best I could. But one of Mother’s lovers was supposedly Seneca, and the thought of that pompous, sanctimonious philosopher in the role of lover was so comical I guffawed. Oh, the things Mother did to advance her schemes! But surely, bedding down with Seneca must have tested even her resolve.

  But was that worse than Claudius? And what about Rubellius Plautus, a cousin eyeing the throne? He was younger, at least. And then there was her own brother, Caligula. Yes, my mad uncle and my mother.

  How was it she had only me? Were there others, done away with in the dark of the moon? Spirited away to be exposed on a hillside or drowned by an obliging midwife? Anything could be true.

  But that was over now. All that was over, the perpetrators of such unnatural vice dead and gone. The Fire swept over their tombs and blew away their spirits, and Rome was clean again.

  XXVIII

  The welcoming reception at the Golden House caught the last of the warm weather, convincing me that Sol himself had assured its success. Now he retired behind his bank of clouds and a chill descended on Rome, foretelling winter. But much of the rebuilding had progressed to the point that people would not be unsheltered in the cold—it had happened at miraculous speed. And the miracle in back of it was money.

  Money. We were only halfway through all that needed to be done, but already the bottom of the treasury could be glimpsed, shiny and bald. I would have to raise more, somehow.

  But the building continued apace, and soon we were able to move into the lower quarters of the Golden House, finished enough to let us live there. The private rooms overlooked the lake, so its water reflected light into the interior, dappled rays that played on the ceilings and walls. The new furniture arrived daily, fresh from the workshops, gleaming with ivory, ebony, and silver fittings. I had dispatched agents to Greece to procure artworks, particularly bronzes. I did not want to move the ones already at Sublaqueum and Antium, because I wanted them still there to greet me.

  Poppaea continued to be often exhausted, with little appetite. There were some days when she was content just to sit, wrapped in a soft wool robe, and look out at the lake. Other days when she seemed like her old self, she rose and attended to business. Sporus, her look-alike, teased her about it, offering to be active when she rested and to rest when she was active.

  “So there will always be a Poppaea on duty,” he said. “Would you like me to accompany the emperor on his official appearances? Perhaps no one would be the wiser.”

  “Until you spoke and your voice gave you away,” she said, laughing. “So you would have to be silent.”

  “Sporus, silent?” I said. “That would be a rare occurrence.” Sporus was one who chattered a great deal, but unlike many who did, he was amusing rather than annoying.

  Privately I asked him about Poppaea. He had known her since childhood and was more familiar with her longtime habits than I was. “Has this ever happened before?” I said.

  “No,” he said. “Yet she does not seem ill, just tired and lacking in strength.”

  “Not all the time,” I said.

  “It comes and goes,” he admitted. “It must be the pregnancy.”

  “This did not happen at her last pregnancy.”

  He blushed. “You need to ask a midwife, not me.”

  Perhaps I would. In the meantime I watched her closely and tried not to show alarm. I also stayed nearby, conducting most of the imperial business in an inner workroom.

  * * *

  • • •

  The literary gatherings would resume in the new year, and each of us was assigned the task of writing a satirical poem about one of the members, after drawing the names from a pot. I had drawn Afranius Quintianus. That would be easy. The man was a walking butt of jokes as it was; I could hardly improve on the original.

  I was working late one night—Poppaea had retired early—sitting in the snuggest of the rooms, small enough to be easily warmed by one brazier. I closed my eyes and pictured Quintianus, hoping for inspiration. There he loomed in my inner eye—a large, bulky man with unruly curls that fell like nettles around his face and down his neck. In them he liked to twist flowers and fake pearls, making him look like Medusa rather than the Apollo he was aiming for. He had feet the size of triremes, which he made even larger by the thick-soled sandals he favored. His verse was, surprisingly, light and nimble. So I would write a poem contrasting his earthly form with his intellectual one.

  Phoebus cannot arise; he lies caught in the thicket of your hair;

  He is imprisoned there, fighting to extricate himself;

  But close to your ear, he whispers his poetry . . .

  I went on to the feet, to the oversized tunics he fancied, each one having a god entrapped within, a god that served to inspire Quintianus’s writing.

  I reread it. It would do. It was meant to be funny, nothing more. There would doubtless be more clever ones composed for the evening, but I need not labor on it any longer. I set it aside.

  I wanted to write a poem to Poppaea. A gift for her, as she was awash in jewels and luxuries, but a personal poem was a unique gift. I pulled a fresh piece of paper in front of me. Then I sat staring at it.

  Poppaea . . . fairer than the air of summer . . . clear white star of evening . . . intoxicating beauty . . .

  It was no use. No phrase came to mind. I leaned my head on my elbows and stared out the window. Even this small room had a view of the lake, and it was a sheet of shimmering light from the moon overhead.

  The moon. Something about the moon. I found my Sappho scroll—didn’t she write something about the moon? A fragment . . . an evocative line? I unrolled it and looked.

  The stars around the beautiful moon

  Hiding their glittering forms

  Whenever she shines full on earth . . .

  Silver . . .

  I went to the window and looked up at the inky sky. It was true; the moon made the stars near her invisible. As Poppaea did when she stood next to any other woman.

  But I couldn’t copy Sappho, and my own words were clumsy beside hers. I began to read other poems; it was hard not to.

  I came to one on Aphrodite. It jolted me.
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  Come to me now, then, free me

  From aching care, and win me

  All my heart longs to win.

  Acte and I had recited those lines when we first spoke, and instantly we knew one another for close spirits. So long ago . . . Britannicus was still alive, Octavia still my wife, I barely emperor.

  Acte. I had never replied to her note warning me about Senecio’s visit. I owed her a response. But Poppaea had reacted so jealously that I had set it aside to answer later. The truth was, I would prefer to thank her in person, but that was unlikely to be. Seeing her in the field station, speaking to her, had been so awkward and difficult for me that I was loath to do it again. Yet if we spoke again, after a bit it might be more natural, and there was so much left hanging, so much unsaid that I longed to say.

  I would write the note another time. I would write the poem another time. Clearly the Muse was not with me tonight.

  The light in the brazier was throbbing, its coals glowing. I welcomed the warmth. I understood why Augustus wrapped his legs with wool strips in the winter. But he was so mocked for it that I did not want to follow his practice. So I shivered.

  The coals threw a reddish glow on the painted walls, but the rest of the chamber was dim. I put my head down and rested. It was late. But I was not ready for bed. I thought of the Golden House and its frescoes . . . Fabullus was now finishing in the Hector room . . . of the name we would choose for the baby . . . of the new coinage I had approved showing the rebuilt Temple of Vesta, attesting to Rome’s recovery. I jerked my head. I had fallen asleep. But I saw, briefly, a dark shape in the corner of the room. It moved furtively. I turned to look, and for an instant I saw myself, a shadowed figure that stared back at me. Then it was gone.

  Obviously it was a dream. Time to go to bed, Nero, I told myself. You are sleeping at the desk.

  * * *

  • • •

  Around us the palace and its environs rose, the finishing touches now dusting it with splendor that the shell had only promised. The buildings surrounding the lake had been faced in red-veined marble, and the triple colonnades linking it to the Via Sacra and the Forum were spreading their arches. The rest of Rome was keeping pace. By next summer the last damages of the Fire would be gone, just a memory. We would be ready to host the second Neronian Games in the autumn. And the summer following, to ceremonially receive King Tiridates, the Armenian king whose obeisance would mark the end of all war in the empire.

  That didn’t, of course, mean there was no trouble, nor enemies. I had promised in my inaugural speech to the Senate that there would be no more secret treason trials as there had been under Claudius, and I had kept my word. But over the years several spy networks had grown up. Tigellinus ran the largest one and reported everything to me, so in a way it was my network. Poppaea had her own, and many of the senators likewise. Unfortunately, the spies were necessary to investigate malcontents and rumors. Rumors had almost done me in with blame for the Fire, and failure to keep abreast of them was foolhardy.

  So I was not surprised when Tigellinus requested a meeting with me one chilly morning. He strode into the larger workroom, the one meant for meetings of the Consilium. He looked around approvingly. “Ah,” he said, “this is an opulent place to do business.” He ran his hand over a bronze bust of Alexander, looking the man in the eye. “If you want to rule the world, that is.”

  “I do rule the world.” Why not say it?

  “Yes, you do.” He eyed a chair, and I motioned for him to sit. He sank down, flexing his strong arms as he grabbed the carved lions’ heads adorning the chair. “And this setting is entirely worthy of your position.”

  I waited.

  “So, I have a report . . .” He fished in his leather satchel and brought out a sheaf of papers. He started to riffle through them.

  “Why don’t you just summarize what’s in them?” I asked. Get on with it.

  Instead of complying with a smile, he looked away. “Very well. If you want the details, then—” He motioned to the papers.

  “I can consult them if need be.”

  “Ah. Well, my first report is a happy one. The people are still talking about your race in the Circus. They are delighted about it. The senators less so.”

  “Oh. Them. Of course. I know that.”

  “There is . . . err . . . grumbling about the space the Golden House is taking up.”

  “Grumbling by whom?” The senators again, obviously.

  “Uh . . . by many people. The poor as well as the rich.”

  “But it isn’t finished yet. The parks have yet to open. When they can use them, they will be content.”

  “I hope you are right,” he said. He brightened. “The latrines are very popular.”

  Ah. The latrines.

  “The fancy one near Caesar’s Forum is much frequented.”

  It ought to be. I had made it especially attractive—as much as a latrine could be.

  “It is a prime site to place spies. People are unguarded in there; they’ll speak more freely than at a tavern. They seem to feel that anything they say while baring their privates is . . . private. Not so.”

  “So, what have you heard?”

  “It’s Lucan.”

  “Lucan?”

  “Yes. He was in there a few days ago and, after letting loose a tremendous fart, quoted the line from your poem.” Now he glanced at his notes. “He said, You would have thought it thundered ’neath the earth. Since your poem has been published and widely read, the other patrons recognized it, gathered their tunics and togas around them, and rushed out.”

  “He mocked my poem?”

  “Yes. And took pleasure in doing so. He laughed and laughed as the people fled.”

  He had quoted the line to me as his favorite. The bastard!

  “And I have a copy of his latest work on the Civil War. Books eight and nine. He doesn’t bother to hide his republican leanings.”

  “Oh, why do you find these things?” I cried out. “First Seneca’s plays, now this!” It was painful, painful.

  “Would you rather not know? Be ignorant of what your erstwhile friends are writing and thinking about you?”

  “No.” But oh! To have them thinking it!

  “I have even heard that he’s writing something else, something worse, about you. But I haven’t been able to get my hands on it yet.”

  “Maybe it’s not true.”

  “For your sake I hope not. But if it is true, I’ll find it.”

  XXIX

  Lucan. The young man with a prodigious talent, and Seneca’s nephew. Alone of the people in the writing circle, he would take his place in Roman literature; I was sure of it. I had encouraged him and taken his suggestions and criticisms of my own work to heart, as someone whose opinions mattered.

  And he had always respected me. More than respected me, had praised me in his own poetry, dedicating the first book of the Civil War to me, even saying I would ascend to the realm of the gods.

  But . . . he had changed. He had been gruff and abrupt at the Golden House. And was that where he had cited You would think it thundered ’neath the earth as his favorite of my lines? Mocking me, I now knew.

  I looked out the window to the pavilion of the Golden House up on its hill. The workmen had finished with the last foundations for the terraced gardens; next spring they would be planted and the architectural vision come to life.

  I command all this. I spoke true to Tigellinus—I do rule the world. I command fleets and legions. So why fret over what someone has said about my poetry?

  I turned away from the view and paced in the room. The marble floor was chilly; it seemed to store the cold in its whiteness. Because my poetry is me. Even the emperorship is not uniquely me like my poetry, because other men can wear the title “emperor.”

  But this is foolish, juvenile. And besides, no one
artist is universally admired. Some say Homer is boring, others that Euripides is too emotional.

  As I was attempting to talk myself out of my consternation, Poppaea came into the room and caught me midpace.

  “What is troubling you?” she asked, coming over and laying her hand on my shoulder, stilling my movement.

  “Nothing,” I said. It was too petty to tell; too embarrassing to admit how it bothered me. I turned and looked at her. She was pale but seemed better. “You look like your old self.” Not quite true.

  “I feel stronger,” she said. She looked around. “This room is finished,” she said. “When did that happen?”

  “You have been missing quite a few things,” I said. “But is it not good to have a few surprises?”

  She laughed, then made her way over to one of the couches, stretched out on it, and said, “How lovely to lie on a new couch.” She waved her arms. “Have some figs and cheese brought. I am actually hungry.”

  Soon a slave appeared with a tray heaped with not only figs and cheese but also bread and sausage. A second slave brought cups and a jug of juice.

  I took a piece of cheese. It had a tangy flavor. A rich, piquant zing.

  Tangy . . . piquant . . . strong flavors that could cover other flavors.

  Seneca is convinced someone is trying to poison him. Perhaps it was not Seneca who was being poisoned but Seneca who was himself a poisoner. Or Lucan, whose dislike of me was now exposed. I almost dropped the cheese. Not that this cheese was poisoned, but any strong flavor could serve to disguise a telltale taste.

  Was Poppaea being poisoned? The strange weakness and lethargy that came and went, could it be the subtle workings of poison?

  “What are you staring at?” Poppaea asked. “You look as if you had seen a spirit. Really, what’s wrong with you? You are acting very strange this morning.”

  I did not want to alarm her, but I said, “This weakness and feeling of illness . . . when is it strongest?”