The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  I had always enjoyed hearing cases and had a keen interest in the law, but this was a heavy duty. If I were truly mad, or a tyrant, I would not be competent to preside. Now let them listen to me and let the world judge whether I fit their false accusations or deserved their wish to kill me.

  The proceedings would begin that morning when I would see Lateranus—fitting, since he was the designated first to lay hands on me and set the plot in motion.

  He was led in by two soldiers, his leg chains clanking as he walked. He was so strong that the heavy chains did not hinder his gait. He stood in front of me, staring at me as if I were the one on trial.

  “Plautius Lateranus, you have been accused of planning the assassination of the emperor,” I said.

  He just continued staring. Then he jerked his head in a dismissive gesture.

  “Speak. You are ready enough to speak on other occasions.” At Petronius’s party, for example.

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “Read the charges against him,” I ordered the court lawyer.

  The lawyer held the paper out at arm’s length and said, “That you were privy and part of a plot to assassinate the emperor on the last day of the Festival of Ceres in public view at the races. Your assignment was to kneel before him to ask a favor and then overpower him. To use your friendship with him to approach him to harm him.”

  Lateranus just continued to stare, a slight smile on his face.

  “Is this true?” asked the lawyer.

  Lateranus shrugged.

  “You are in contempt of court to refuse to answer,” said the lawyer.

  “We’ll make him answer!” said Faenius roughly. He grabbed Lateranus’s shoulder.

  Lateranus laughed, and Faenius cuffed him, spinning him around. He drew back his hand to strike again.

  “Enough,” I said.

  Lateranus cocked his head. “Do you truly want me to speak, Caesar?”

  Enough of these games! “Of course I want you to speak in your own defense.”

  “What difference does it make? I am going to die.”

  “I want to know what you are willing to die for.”

  “Do you, then? Well, I’ll tell you. For the Republic!”

  There was a collective gasp in the room.

  “The Republic?” asked the lawyer. Lateranus might as well have said, the ancient kingdom of Babylonia, the Republic was so obsolete, except in poetry.

  “Yes, there are those of us who still believe in it and will do anything to bring it back, to restore to the Roman people their freedom from the iron rule of these emperors, so alien to our true way of government.” Now that he had decided to speak, the words rushed out.

  “And to do this you were willing to kill me?”

  “Of course. That’s obvious.”

  I felt chilled to the bone. Even my fingers grew numb. “Then the sentence is equally obvious. Lateranus, you are condemned to death for crimes against the emperor and the state.” I motioned to the soldiers. “Take him out. Now.”

  “I want to go home and say good-bye to my family first, and write my will.”

  “You should have thought of that before you joined the plot. No. You will go the way you had planned for me to go. Were you going to allow me to say good-bye to my family or my people? I think not.” I nodded, and the soldiers dragged him out.

  I should have felt sad at the pronouncement, but instead I felt a fiery vindication.

  The court was dismissed until afternoon, when Quintianus and Senecio would be tried.

  In the meantime I conferred with Faenius and Tigellinus as to the ongoing investigation. Soldiers had fanned out everywhere, searching. Many of the people who had first been rounded up were let go, and the remaining ones were under closer questioning.

  “They are vermin!” said Faenius. His face was red and his usual handsome features contorted.

  “My, you are incensed about this. I’ve seldom seen you so worked up,” said Tigellinus.

  “I can’t help it!” he said. He took a deep breath. “I wanted to kill him right there in the courtroom. Insolent bastard!”

  “He will be dead before the court reconvenes,” I assured him. “Just not by your hand.”

  Fortified by the short respite from these grim proceedings, I returned to the room to preside over the next trial.

  Quintianus was led in, his head held high. He, too, wore chains, but they were lighter ones and he could move easily. He did not look so much the dandy now. His night of incarceration had dirtied him, flattened his curls, and given him a different perfume than the scent he usually wore.

  “Afranius Quintianus,” I said, repeating the formula, “you have been accused of planning the assassination of the emperor. You are here to answer these charges.”

  “Who accused me of it?” he said. “I don’t know why I am brought in here.”

  The lawyer read out the accusation, ending with, “Flavius Scaevinus accused you of being part of the assassination plot,” he said.

  “Scaevinus! I am innocent. That man is a liar!” Quintianus said.

  “So you claim to be innocent?” I asked.

  “Yes. I swear it!”

  I looked at him. He was a weak man, hardly the stern stuff of assassins. But in a pack of hyenas, individual strength is not as important as numbers.

  Tigellinus and Faenius were sputtering with disgust at the man, ready to drag him away.

  I leaned forward. “Quintianus, I have known you as a friend. If you will confess what you know, you will have immunity.” By that I meant that I would be as lenient with him as the law allowed.

  He jumped at it eagerly. “Immunity?”

  I expected him to continue to protest his innocence and say he had nothing to confess. Instead he poured out a list of names of his friends—the senators Novius Priscus, Annius Pollio, Glitius Gallus, Musonius Rufus, and six more. Then he added four equites for good measure.

  I sat back, trying to keep the shock from showing on my face. That made seventeen senators and six equites—so far. Seventeen senators!

  Then, feeling safe, he said, “And I confess that I myself was a plotter. I hated you because you wrote that insulting poem about me. About my hair!”

  I motioned to Faenius. I did not trust Tigellinus to keep from strangling Quintianus. “Take him back to wherever he is being held,” I said.

  “You promised me freedom!” he protested.

  “I promised you immunity. They are not the same thing. And we need to hold you a bit longer in case you remember other things. You may know more than you just told us.”

  Shaken by his revelation, I asked the court to break for an hour. I hurried back to my private quarters.

  Seventeen senators. Six equites. Twenty-three traitors, right in the bosom of the government. I told Tigellinus to order the newly named to be arrested.

  What were their motives? Were they as high-minded as Lateranus about the Republic, or as petty and personal as Quintianus and his wounded vanity?

  A great foreboding came over me. What really was happening beneath the placid surface of the inner circle of Rome? I was suddenly privy to a clear view of the depths of it; until now I had only perceived the shallows.

  Thank all the gods that the people, and the soldiers, were still loyal.

  * * *

  • • •

  When again I was seated on the judgment bench, Senecio was brought in. Led by two guards, he was sauntering as best he could with shackles on his legs.

  “Claudius Senecio, you have been accused of planning the assassination of the emperor. You are here to answer these charges.” How many more times must I say these words?

  He merely bowed his head and gave his sly smile, the one I knew so well.

  The lawyer read out the charges. “You are accused of being part of the so
-called Piso Plot to assassinate the emperor and replace him with Gaius Calpurnius Piso. How do you plead?”

  “I am not guilty. Why am I here?”

  “You were named by one of the key conspirators.”

  “Who?”

  “Scaevinus,” I said.

  “Surely you don’t believe that man?” he said.

  “And why should I not believe him?”

  “He wants to drag others into his scummy pond.”

  “Why would he want to do that?”

  “How do I know?”

  “Scaevinus will have his own trial. This is yours,” I said.

  “I am innocent. This is a mistake.”

  “Then perhaps you can tell me why you made inquiries about my whereabouts—the hour and day I would be somewhere. Why would you want to know that? You need not go to the Macellum Magnum to see me, or to the Circus. Why, you were my friend—you did not have to search for me in crowds.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Someone I trust utterly, to whom a lie would be unthinkable.” To my misfortune. “You should admit what you know. If you do, I will give you immunity.”

  Now he gave a full smile, the sort a man makes after he has concluded a sale with a merchant to his own advantage. “Very well. I am pleased, now that it is safe and I cannot be touched, to name my co-conspirators—for yes, I am one!” And he spilled another list of names. More senators and equites.

  “Take him away,” I said.

  He squawked a protest. “No, I am to be set free!”

  “I never said that,” I said. “Immunity is not freedom. Take him away,” I repeated.

  Faenius leapt to it, pushing him so roughly he almost fell. He stumbled and righted himself. The smile was gone from his face, replaced by fear. He was led out, back to prison, where he would be held.

  * * *

  • • •

  That was enough for the day. I needed to stop and hear what was happening elsewhere. I dismissed the court and took two Praetorians and Epaphroditus back to my private workroom.

  It was late afternoon, a balmy spring day. Somewhere outside the palace ordinary people were strolling in gardens, enjoying the sweet air and the butterflies. Would their lives have been markedly different if Piso instead of me sat on the throne? Did it matter who was emperor?

  This was sophomoric. Of course it did. Augustus was different from Caligula.

  Ah, but to the people in the gardens, was he?

  I sank down and poured out a cup of wine. There were more inquiries to be made.

  “What has happened to Seneca?” I asked. “Send for Silvanus.”

  Faenius hurried off to do so, while Epaphroditus, Tigellinus, and I waited. Soon the two returned.

  “You delivered the verdict to Seneca?” I asked Silvanus, who looked distressed.

  “Not I,” he admitted. “I sent one of my staff officers.”

  “And how was the command received?” I asked.

  “Calmly, so it was reported. There was a meal, farewell words. He took the knife. But it did not work. He was too emaciated; his veins had shriveled. He then took hemlock.”

  “Ah, in imitation of Socrates,” I said. Posturing to the end.

  “But it did not have an effect, either,” he said. “He had so fortified himself against poison that he was immune to it.” He shook his head. “Seneca and his wife, Paulina, then cut their wrists together. He then sent her into another room so she would not see him suffer.”

  “She was not under sentence!” I said.

  “We knew that, Caesar, so the staff officer sent soldiers and slaves into the room to bandage her arms and stop the bleeding. She survived. Apparently she was glad to be saved, in spite of telling her husband she was privileged to die with him.”

  A relief. She lived. “What of Seneca?”

  “When all else failed, he was carried into a hot bath where he expired. He sprinkled a few drops of the water on his slaves and said it was a libation to Jupiter. Then he was gone.”

  “Gone.”

  “Yes, cremated under his own instructions. Paulina is recovering.”

  It was over. Seneca was gone. I felt a great weariness fall like a mantle on me, and a deep loneliness in its wake.

  * * *

  • • •

  The night passed slowly—but probably not as slowly as it did for Quintianus and Senecio. Lateranus was dead. He had been executed in the afternoon, at a spot reserved for the punishment of slaves. Apparently the first blow did not end him, but he bravely braced for the second. There were no speeches, no words, no accusations. He died silently.

  I fell silent, too. I did not want to talk to anyone, not even Poppaea. The accusations of Lateranus, Quintianus, and Senecio echoed through my mind. Senecio I had suspected, but not Lateranus and Quintianus. They had questioned the expenditure of the Golden House, but nothing hostile beyond that. How little we can penetrate a disguise if it is well maintained.

  In the morning the trials began again. The next to be tried was to be Lucan, and I dreaded it. Of all of them, Lucan had been the closest to me, as the only true poet in the group, a man of immense talent. He had admired—no, idolized—me. But that had changed—why? Perhaps it was only the natural evolution of an artist. We start out with giants that we admire, but as we grow in our own art we see them only as people, and finally as equals or even inferiors. Although we outgrow them and cast them aside as models, that should not mean we want to kill them.

  It was a rainy, blustery day. Black-bottomed clouds hung low in the sky, and thunder rumbled. Today my wool toga was not unwelcome, for the warmth it provided.

  Tigellinus came up to me and said, “I am posting two more soldiers behind you on the bench,” he said, indicating the large crowd. “Faenius and I are handling the prisoners, so we need Sulpicius and Subrius to focus their entire attention on the room in case of trouble.”

  I just nodded. One never knew what might happen; I had quickly learned that lesson in the last three days.

  Lucan was brought into the room, wearing shackles like his predecessors.

  “Marcus Annaeus Lucanus, you have been accused of planning the assassination of the emperor,” I said. A world of disillusion for me in those few words.

  He smiled, that winning smile—it had won me from the beginning, but no more. “Really?” he said.

  Faenius spoke up. “Address the emperor with respect!” he barked, smacking Lucan’s shoulder.

  “Yes, really,” I said sardonically. “Will the court lawyer please read the charges?”

  The lawyer once again held out a paper and read, “That you were privy and part of a plot to assassinate the emperor during the Festival of Ceres in the so-called Piso conspiracy.”

  Lucan shifted on his feet, weighing his words, as if he were at a party deciding which witty phrase to use. Oh, if only he were not so fair in looks, if only his blue eyes did not seem so honest, it would not be so difficult to see him clearly and fairly.

  “I deny this charge,” he finally said. “And may I ask who accused me?”

  “Of course you may. All is out in the open. It was Scaevinus.”

  Lucan gave a twisted smile. “Oh, him. Never trust the words of a man with a scar, I always say!”

  I was appalled. This was not a joke. “Answer the charge,” I ordered him.

  While Lucan was thinking—most likely of another bon mot—Tigellinus suddenly spoke up. Extracting a scroll from his satchel, he said, “While the accused is delaying, here is hard evidence of his treasonous thoughts toward his emperor.” He handed it to me.

  De Incendio Urbis—On the Burning of the City. I held it up for Lucan to see.

  “Where did you get that?” he cried.

  “Why, are you ashamed of it? Do you want to polish its phrases a bit more?” I asked. “I think e
ven clumsy words do the work well enough. You paint me as an arsonist, as having caused the Fire.” Oh, would this bogus charge never die away?

  From the back of the room, Scaevinus, who was waiting to be tried in the afternoon, and doubtless was stung at the jibe about his scar, yelled, “He promised me he would give me your head as a gift, Nero!”

  Behind me, Sulpicius and Subrius stiffened and put their hands on their swords, moving closer to me.

  “Remove Scaevinus from the court,” I said. I did not want the two prisoners exchanging information, playing off one another. I turned to my guards. “No need for worry,” I assured them. I turned back to Lucan. At that moment there was a tremendous clap of thunder, echoing several times.

  “Clearly there is much here that needs exposing. I am surprised that you should harbor these grievances against me, considering our past. I prefer to believe that the last accusation was a fabrication of a desperate man, Scaevinus. He wants to drag others down with him. But if you will cooperate and tell us what you know of this plot, you will be granted immunity.”

  Now his demeanor changed. “Immunity, you say? I may speak freely?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It would be helpful.”

  He took a deep breath, like a man preparing to dive into cold water—ready for the shock, but still holding back, still hesitating. Then he leapt. “Very well. Here it is: I hate you. You have hindered my career, forbidding me to recite my verses in public. It is because you are envious of me. You know I am the better poet, and your verse cannot stand up to mine.”

  I hate you. He had said it. It was I who had the shock of the cold water after all, not him.

  “You may well be a better poet,” I said. “That is not the question. But your verses of the Civil War are treasonous, advocating the Republic. That is why I don’t want them read in public.”

  “You were willing enough to have my verses read in public when they eulogized you! Oh, those phrases I had to write, sickening, sycophantic praise, it was a parody, I didn’t mean a word of it. But you were too blind to recognize it. You believed it.”