The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  “Their stories did not match. We put them in shackles and told them they were under arrest. We laid out torture implements, and the mere sight of them was enough. They confessed.”

  I braced myself. I did not want to hear. I had to hear.

  “Natalis broke first. He detailed a plot to assassinate you and replace you with Piso. They had suggested killing you when you visited Piso at his villa, but Piso said it would taint his good name. Natalis named many more people, including Lateranus and Seneca, who were in on the plot.”

  Lateranus! Seneca!

  “Then Scaevinus confessed and named Quintianus, Lucan, and Senecio, as well as others.”

  Lucan and Senecio were no surprise, but Quintianus was.

  “Tell me the details.”

  “It was to be today at the games. Just as you were to open them, Lateranus would kneel before you with a petition, but really to tackle you and hold you down. Then they would take turns stabbing you, with Scaevinus striking the first blow. It was to be modeled on the assassination of Julius Caesar. Hence the sacred dagger.”

  O gods!

  “Piso was to be waiting at the Temple of Ceres nearby, and when you were dead, to be escorted to the Praetorian barracks and proclaimed emperor.”

  “Is he still waiting?”

  “Presumably.”

  “Arrest him!”

  * * *

  • • •

  How many of them were in this plot? The soldiers had spoken of “many more’” and “others.” The named ones were Scaevinus, Natalis, Seneca, Piso, Lateranus, Lucan, Senecio, Quintianus—eight people. But oh, what people! They had been my friends, had been in my writers’ group, had sat with me in the imperial box at the races.

  I could not grapple with this horrible betrayal, this perfidy. They had eaten at my table, drunk with me, kept me company, known me well for years. And I trusted them. One of those Hebrew poems Poppaea was so taken with flitted through my mind.

  For it is not an enemy who taunts me—then I could bear it; it is not an adversary who deals insolently with me—then I could hide from him. But it is you, a man, my companion, my familiar friend. We would share personal thoughts with one another . . . Even my close friend in whom I trusted, who ate my bread, has lifted his heel against me.

  As it sank in, my legs turned to jelly and my mind fell into darkness.

  The day had started normally, with minutes and hours passing at the usual pace. Now they were suspended, stretched out, elastic. As in a dream when there is no real chronology, so time felt now. But unlike a dream, where I need do nothing, I was called upon to act, to think, and quickly.

  They wanted to kill me. I thought that danger was past, once my own family was gone. (What a damning admission!) Britannicus and his sister, my wife Octavia, had had my funeral pyre built; I was saved by Locusta when Britannicus died by the poison meant for me. Mother, too, had her schemes and threatened to kill me. And then there was Uncle Caligula, who tried to drown me. And cousin Messalina, who sent assassins to my cradle. All dead now, no longer a threat to me.

  But my friends and companions! Lateranus wanted to truss me up for Scaevinus’s dagger. It was already midafternoon. Was I supposed to be lying dead on the steps of the Circus Maximus by now, and Piso en route to the Praetorian barracks? What would the people in the stands have done—fled in panic? Who would have escorted Piso? My Praetorians were loyal. And . . . what would they have done with my body? Left it lying, sprawled out, wrapped in a blood-soaked toga? Or would they have done the dreadful deed of cutting off my head and dragging my body to the Tiber? Would the people have stood for that? Only soldiers could have cut through them to make it possible. And the soldiers would not have done it.

  Would the assassins have fled, gone into hiding? Or would they have been on hand to welcome Piso into the Senate as their emperor?

  The Senate. These traitors were all senators, excepting only Senecio and Natalis, who trafficked with them. I had always felt the contempt and hostility of that body of patricians but never thought it would come to this. This was different from the assassination of Caligula. Although senators were involved, that was a desperate, makeshift venture, done out of sight, whereas they meant to elevate my death into a public spectacle. And without the help of the disaffected Praetorians, Caligula never would have fallen. Mine were loyal, as were the equites class and the freedmen.

  Tigellinus arrived, snapping me out of my panicked thoughts. “Caesar, Faenius told me of the plot. Heinous! Send me where you will, and I shall carry out your orders without delay.”

  My orders . . . my orders . . . “Arrest . . . arrest Lucan, Quintianus, and Senecio. And send someone to Seneca to interrogate him. He’s been accused as well.”

  “I’ll send Gavius Silvanus to Seneca. Where is he now?”

  “I assume at Nomentum.”

  “We will check. I’ll send Subrius to Lucan, Sulpicius to Senecio, and reserve the pleasure of Quintianus, that pederast, for myself.”

  “I don’t think he is that,” I said.

  “He’s a pervert. Everyone knows that,” he said with a snort.

  “Being a murderer is worse,” I said. “And he is certainly that.”

  “Disgusting,” said Tigellinus. “Not a redeeming quality in him.”

  “Call out all the guards to secure the entire city. I want the river blocked, the gates closed, and the streets patrolled. The Circus will be letting out soon—the races must have gone on unimpeded—and the crowds need to be managed.”

  Think only of the measures that must be taken, safety measures. Do not think of the monstrous implications behind them. Only think of what must be done, step by step. Just as your chariot horses must look only at the track ahead in a race.

  “Take any suspicious persons into custody,” I said. “We cannot take chances. At this point we do not know how wide the conspiracy is.”

  “Yes, Caesar.”

  “And send Silvanus to me before he goes to Seneca.”

  “Yes, Caesar.” Tigellinus turned smartly on his heels, eager to begin his hunt.

  Gavius Silvanus appeared only a few moments later. The tribune was a handsome man with a perpetually boyish look, freckle-faced and open-eyed. “Caesar?” he said, saluting.

  “Has Tigellinus told you of your mission?”

  He frowned. “Only that I am to find Seneca and question him. But I do not know what questions to frame.”

  “An assassination plot has been exposed.”

  The color drained from his face, making his freckles stand out. “A plot? Who was involved?”

  “Some senators and their friends. Under interrogation, Antonius Natalis has named Seneca as a co-conspirator with Piso, the figurehead. Apparently Piso sent this person, Natalis, to Seneca with an urgent message to meet with him, but Seneca refused, saying it would not be in his or Piso’s best interest to meet or have further communication. He then added, ‘My own well-being depends on Piso’s safety.’ What did he mean by that? How were they involved? I need to know.”

  “What shall I do with him when I am there?”

  “That depends on his answers. I want him to be innocent. But if he condemns himself, or confesses, you must arrest him.”

  “Yes, Caesar.”

  I sent for Poppaea. Time for her to know. By now, probably, the news had leaked out and the streets were full of gossip. That was why the Praetorians and even the new soldier recruits would be needed to secure the entire city. The rats could not be allowed to escape.

  “Oh, my dear!” She rushed into the room, embracing me, smoothing my hair, running her hands over my face.

  “My head is still attached,” I assured her, taking her hands in mine.

  “Don’t joke!” she said. She clutched at her own throat as if she would choke.

  “We have caught it in time,” I said. “Due to th
e observant eye of a slave and his loyalty in reporting it.”

  “Thanks be to all the gods! To Jupiter the Savior. Only by the help of the gods have you escaped, within hours.”

  I held her in my arms, needing to feel her next to me.

  For months now I have had this feeling of danger, of something lurking, just out of sight. Was this it? Was this what I sensed?

  “The doll,” she said. “The doll the woman gave us. You didn’t want to keep it. Thank all the gods you did. She told us it would save you from assassination. Maybe she sensed some threat.”

  “Maybe she knew about this one.” A chill thought. “Maybe a lot of people knew about it.” And I the only ignorant one. The unknowing victim to be.

  I had eaten nothing. I should call for something, keep hunger at bay, keep strong, in order to think. “Come,” I said. “Let us go into the dining room.” A change of scene, a room that was the opposite of a workroom.

  I leaned back onto a couch and looked at the garden frescoes on the wall of the triclinium while waiting for the food. It was a restful scene, crowded with flowers, shrubs, flowering vines, and songbirds, immersed in a blue-green not actually seen in nature. The flowers were so realistic, though, I expected to smell them, and to hear the birds.

  Birds twittering. How many years ago did I hear them? Could it truly be only a few hours?

  A silent slave set a tray of grapes, figs, and bread and a pitcher of wine down for us, passed by a taster. I did not want any of it, but I must make myself eat. I took a cluster of grapes and a bun. “There should be a tortoise in there,” I said, pointing to the mural. “A garden without a tortoise is not complete.”

  “You can transfer that one from Antium,” said Poppaea.

  “Oh, no, he’s lived there so long a change of scene might kill him,” I said. “We’ll find another one. A Roman one.”

  “Let him be loyal, then. Not a turncoat tortoise.” In spite of herself, she laughed. “He would turn slowly even if he turned.”

  “Perhaps these traitors turned slowly, too.” How long ago had they turned against me? When we sat together at the races? When we were at Petronius’s Pan party? Or did it go back even before that? Had it ripened slowly, or had the decision come like a thunderclap?

  And what had I done to any of them to deserve their enmity? Or to the Senate as a whole, for that matter? Had I not kept my inaugural promises to them? Was not the empire quiet and prosperous? Was Rome not rebuilt in astounding time, and much more beautiful than before?

  Suddenly anger, white hot and glowing, seized me. The ingrates, the slinking, grasping, duplicitous deceivers. Piso was not the only actor among them. In fact, he was not even the best one.

  I threw down my napkin and stalked out of the room.

  I was restless the remainder of the day. By the time the sun was going down and I joined Poppaea in the main room, my heart was still racing. Then Tigellinus returned, sweat pouring off his face. I jumped up.

  He took his helmet off and ran his hands through his soaking hair. “The net is cast,” he said. “Large numbers have been arrested. There isn’t room enough in the palace, so they must stay out in the grounds where the statue will go.” He helped himself to a large cup of juice. “Quintianus is locked up, awaiting trial. The same for Senecio and Lucan. We got Lateranus, too. He put up a good fight, but he was no match for four soldiers.”

  “Where is Piso?” I had given specific orders to arrest him.

  Tigellinus laughed. “He’s gone to his ancestors.” He took a big swallow of juice. “Before we could get him at the Temple of Ceres, he had been told the plot was betrayed. His fellows urged him to take to the streets and plead his case, that the people would follow him—what were they thinking, why would the people follow him? So he did, wandering aimlessly for a little while before going home and committing suicide. Oh, and leaving this for you.”

  He fumbled in his belt and pulled out a scroll. “His will. He was madly in love with you, to hear him tell it here.”

  I didn’t want to read it. “It was only to save his family’s estate,” I said. “So transparent. Really, disappointing of him.”

  “He never had much imagination. That’s why his poetry stank.”

  Even that made me mad. I had been so polite about his pitiful verse! For what? I threw the scroll on the table.

  “So who will try these people?” Tigellinus asked.

  “It can’t be the Senate. The traitors are from their midst. I will try them myself. In a court here in the palace. The proceedings will all be published, so no one can claim they were unjust. And all the details will be public.”

  More hours passed, and then Silvanus returned, dusty and tired. Tigellinus and I leapt up; Poppaea stayed seated.

  He dragged himself into the room, then asked leave to sit. “I found Seneca,” he said. “But he wasn’t at Nomentum. So that was a wasted few hours. He was at his other estate closer to Rome.”

  Suddenly it made sense. “And when did he move there?” I asked.

  “Last night,” said Silvanus.

  “What a coincidence,” said Tigellinus. “He just happens to move close to Rome the night before the plot is to take place. He wanted to be near at hand. What I heard was that Seneca was a second choice for some people. He didn’t want to be too far away in case the call to duty came.” He spat on the floor. Poppaea frowned at the disrespect to the mosaic.

  I was too stunned to care. Seneca saw himself as a possible emperor?

  “What did he say when you found him?”

  “He maintained that he was innocent and that you wanted to kill him. He said, ‘Well, having killed his mother and his brother, what is left to him but to murder his old teacher?’ Begging your pardon, Caesar, those were his words.”

  To think he would fall to this. He, who had helped himself to the booty from Britannicus’s estates, and had composed a speech to the Senate exonerating me for Mother’s death, would now mewl and play innocent. I wouldn’t dignify his charge with an answer. “What did he say to the specific charges?”

  “He was haughty and said that he had rejected the overtures from Piso for a meeting. And as for the phrase ‘my well-being depends on your safety,’ it was only a polite ending. He had no reason to especially value the health of any man, except—except an emperor’s. And this emperor knew that he, Seneca, was not one for idle flattery, so had no reason to flatter Piso. Nero himself could attest that he was no flatterer.”

  Except when it suited him, which was often. “What was his mood?”

  “He seemed oblivious to any danger. Or perhaps that is how Stoics behave in such situations.”

  Stoics . . . suddenly I remembered a passage in one of his essays, to the effect that if a ruler proved insane or cruel, there was no remedy for him but death. Was that what he thought of me? That I was a tyrannical madman? Why would he think that? But the only thing that mattered was that he did think it. Had he not said as much in the Octavia? He had called me Master of every evil art . . . foul emperor . . . monstrous tyrant . . . whose infamous yoke oppresses all the world . . . Those were his own words, not the persons whose mouths he put them in. I fit his description of the ruler who should be put to death. Perhaps you would like to put those burdens down, he had said not long ago.

  “Was there any hint that he might be contemplating suicide?” He had spoken of it often enough, and it would be the better way now. That, too, was part of his Stoicism. And since he had made a show of pretending I was poisoning him, he must have his deathbed scenario, complete with speeches, prepared.

  “No. Not that I detected.”

  I sighed. “Then he will have to be ordered to it. Return in the morning to deliver the verdict.”

  Silvanus bowed his head. “As you wish, Caesar.”

  “I don’t wish it, but it must be.”

  He left. Then I asked ever
yone else to leave as well, even Poppaea.

  Outside, where the birds had sung, it was silent. The bushes rustled slightly. I had pronounced a death sentence on the person I had known and esteemed for so long, who had steered me through boyhood and on into manhood until the light had faded and we parted ways. I had never thought I would have to make such a choice. Or that I could make it and sleep thereafter.

  Sleep. I was beyond exhausted, almost too tired to rise and go to bed. I sat staring in the dim light. I was not surprised to see the dark figure, the one who looked like me, in the shadows. My decision had called him out; he ran parallel to me, keeping pace with me, coming closer all the while.

  XXXVII

  The second day of the foiled conspiracy dawned, and now there stretched the wretched task of capturing the rest of the traitors and administering justice. The Senate, the Senate should have that responsibility, but no. They could not police their own; they could hardly be honest. How many of them were corrupted, part of the plot?

  And during the night my anger at the betrayers had grown, not ebbed. These, my erstwhile friends, had received nothing but bounties from me. I had done them no wrong. What were their claimed grievances against me?

  I had no doubt that others could have real grievances. No ruler is perfect; we all make mistakes, omissions, insult by accident, forget obligations. But those injured by such mistakes were not the plotters—no, the streets were quiet, there was no outcry against me, no marching mobs.

  But my false friends, what were they hoping to gain by deposing me? They had plenty already, thanks to my open hand!

  I told Epaphroditus to prepare the largest palace chamber for the hearings. It was one of the most beautiful and now would be forever tainted from these proceedings. But it was the safest place to hold them. It couldn’t be in the Curia—the Senate House—nor in the Forum in one of the basilicas, because those were public places.

  I dressed formally and would sit on a high bench at the end of the room. The accused would stand before me, guarded on both sides by Praetorians. I would not be the only one to question them. The two prefects, Tigellinus and Faenius, could, as well as court officials and lawyers who wished to. At the end of the hearings I would pronounce the sentence. Two scribes would record all the proceedings as well as the verdict.