The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  “I believed it because I believed you were an honest man and an honest poet.”

  “No one can be honest to the emperor. Don’t you know that even now? How can someone who is a master of Greek, of music composition, of architectural designs be so stupid?”

  Faenius stepped in. “He’s said enough. Stop these treasonous words!”

  “No, let him speak. I want to hear it—all of it.”

  Suddenly Lucan realized he had gone too far out onto the ice to come back, and it was cracking under him. So be it. Down he would go. “Tyrant! Oppressor! Yes, I’d offer up your head if I could get it. And here’s something for you, here’s my gift to you; you want the names of other conspirators. Add my mother, Acilia, to the list! My mother! Now you know I am modeling myself on you—that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?—everyone to admire you and applaud you? I am ready to kill my mother—like you did yours!”

  The courtroom was silent, and suddenly another loud boom of thunder rang out.

  “Take him away,” I said. I was too stunned to say anything else, even to respond. Again the guards had moved closer behind me.

  Faenius took Lucan out of the room and to prison.

  “Court will reconvene this afternoon,” I said, my voice so low Tigellinus had to lean close to hear it.

  XXXVIII

  Tigellinus and Faenius escorted me back to the private room. Perhaps they were afraid I could not stand on my own, or might collapse, and they must be there to catch me. But my walking was not what was affected.

  Poppaea was waiting, with food and drink. But I wanted none of it. The only drink I craved was the waters of nepenthe, that would erase sorrow, make me forget. The drug of forgetfulness that Homer extolled. Where was it? Where could a man go to find it?

  “Rest, Caesar,” said Faenius. “That last was difficult to hear.” He patted a couch, well pillowed. I sank down on it. The judgment bench’s wood was hard. But that was the least of it.

  “What has happened?” asked Poppaea.

  “I can’t talk about it,” I said. “Not now.” There had been too much, too fast—the widening plot, the death of Seneca, and now the revelations of Lucan. His accusations rang in my mind. He had called me stupid, blind. Perhaps he was right. How could I not have known?

  But . . . I had sensed something amiss. Yes. I recalled now the cutting remarks of these conspirators about the Golden House, about the rebuilding of Rome, about people cursing whoever had started the Fire, about the Circus Maximus race being “fixed.” But a ruler who took umbrage at every little remark would soon become so suspicious and touchy that he would degenerate into what they had called me—a tyrant. I had thought to be no such thing. But, perhaps a ruler who did not take umbrage readily was soon a dead one, oblivious to danger around him even as the knives flashed.

  No more. This morning saw the death of my tolerance. It would be buried with Seneca’s ashes. The gods had saved me from my own folly of trust, but they would not do it again. Inside, something hardened that had grown soft over the years, the years since the dangerous passages I had navigated as little more than a child in order to survive to manhood. I had not forgotten my skills, just let them sleep, thinking I was past needing them. I was wrong.

  There was still this afternoon to get through, the trial of Scaevinus. Later there would be trials of all the others named, but those were not my personal friends, and the level of betrayal was not so monstrous.

  * * *

  • • •

  The afternoon trial opened as the others had. The skies were still stormy, and rain was pelting down, rattling on the roof. Subrius and Sulpicius took their places behind me. Seated on the bench, I watched Scaevinus make his way back into the room. His chains dragged; he made no attempt to pick up his feet, just shuffled along. He stood looking at me.

  “Flavius Scaevinus, you have confessed to planning the assassination of the emperor.” The phrase repeated itself now like a litany.

  He just stared back. Finally he said, “Yes, I confessed.”

  The lawyer read the formal charge. “That you were privy and part of a plot to assassinate the emperor, and claimed the right to strike the first blow.”

  “That is what my slave claimed.”

  Before I could correct him, that he had confessed it himself, Faenius yelled, “Do you deny it? You yourself admitted it!”

  Scaevinus swung around and gave him a withering look. “Oh, yes, that is correct.”

  “That is not all you confessed,” I said. “You named Lucan, Lateranus, and Senecio as accomplices.”

  Scaevinus nodded.

  “Do you stand by these accusations?”

  Oddly, Faenius shook his head, slowly, looking at me. Behind me I heard Sulpicius and Subrius relax the grip on their swords. They were very close to me.

  I turned back to the men in front of me. Faenius was frowning. Then he hissed at Scaevinus, “Who else? There must be others! Stop hiding them!”

  Scaevinus shrugged. “I am doomed. I may as well speak freely. And here are the names I know for certain: Petronius and Vestinus.”

  Petronius!

  “You coward! There are more than that!” said Faenius. “Tell the truth, or you will be whipped! Who are the rest?”

  Scaevinus smiled. “No one knows more than you do, Faenius. Why not share your knowledge with your emperor?”

  Faenius went pale and could not reply, beyond an incoherent stammer.

  “Yes, he is well informed about the plot, since he is part of it!” Scaevinus pointed at him. He shook his head. “Such ferocity to mask your own involvement. Such overacting!” he said. “Pity.”

  I gave orders for Cassius, a soldier as big and strong as Hercules, to bind Faenius. Then Scaevinus called out, “Sulpicius! Subrius! Come and join your commander!” Behind me they tried to bolt, but more soldiers grabbed them.

  I was aghast. My Praetorian prefect and two of his closest subordinates! Scaevinus went on, naming more and more Praetorians, until he ran out of breath. Oh, so fortunate—the gods were protecting me once again—that the room was filled with loyal soldiers. I had stationed them there to keep order from the observers, and now they had to capture and restrain their own fellow soldiers.

  I ordered the room cleared of everyone but the plotters and the military necessary to arrest them. Then I came down from the judge’s bench and stood before Faenius. His hands were tied behind him, and Cassius had a muscular arm around his neck. He remained silent. I waved my hand to have him taken away, and Cassius steered him out.

  Now I confronted Subrius. His broad face betrayed no fear. He burst out, “I am not one of them. Do you think I would lower myself to be involved in a plot masterminded by these effete civilians?”

  Scaevinus laughed. “It seems that the answer is yes.”

  Suddenly Subrius sneered, “Yes, it is true! You were only saved by Faenius just now. I had my sword ready to plunge into you, but he shook his head. Why did he stop me? It was ludicrous, four of us who wanted you dead, you unarmed, and us pretending to fight one another! Thanks to his faintheartedness, we lost our chance.”

  The sound of the hands on the swords behind me . . . I shuddered. “Why have you forgotten your oath of loyalty? As a soldier, that is part of your honor,” I said.

  He glared at me. “Because I detest you!” he spat. “I was as loyal as any soldier in the realm as long as you deserved my respect. I began hating you when you murdered your mother and wife and became a charioteer, actor, and incendiary!”

  His strange, garbled accusations rang out—that driving chariots and acting were on a criminal par with murder. Or arson.

  “But I didn’t want Piso,” he continued. “I told them, why replace a lyre player with an actor? No, some of us, including me, wanted Seneca.”

  So that was where Seneca came in. Now it made sense.

  “I h
ad a mind to slay you when you were unguarded during the Fire. Or better yet, in sight of thousands while you were onstage!” he crowed.

  I stared at him, stunned. Then I turned to Sulpicius. Even bound, he kept his rigid posture, back straight as a lead pipe, head aloft. “And you?” I asked.

  “It was the only way to put an end to your evil ways. The only remedy at hand.”

  Four more Praetorians were bound and waiting in line, among them Silvanus.

  I faced him. “And you?”

  “That is why I could not deliver the death command to Seneca. Faenius told me I had to go through with it or arouse suspicion, but I couldn’t.”

  At least he had a tattered remnant of honor in his behavior.

  “Take them all away!” I ordered the loyal soldiers holding the prisoners. I could bear no more.

  * * *

  • • •

  I withdrew into my inmost chamber in my apartments. Outside the rain kept pounding, blowing sideways and splattering through the windows, while the bushes whipped their branches back and forth.

  The stunning revelation that many Praetorians had turned against me was so devastating that I almost could not even repeat their names to myself, as if that would conjure up more evil, open more abysses. I felt as if I had fallen into one, a long bottomless black one. It would take me a long time to come to terms with this deep betrayal by those pledged to protect me and whom I trusted utterly. And in the meantime I had decisions to execute—oh, that word!—that could not be delayed.

  The doll lay on a table in the corner. Could that truly have been the talisman that saved me just hours from death? I could never know. Fate is inexplicable.

  Eventually I sent for Tigellinus. He was loyal—wasn’t he?

  “Is anyone?” I cried to the blank walls. “Is anyone?”

  Tigellinus entered gingerly, bringing a wine pitcher and a plate of fruit. He set them down carefully, then said softly, “Caesar, here is some refreshment.”

  “Refreshment?” My head was buried in my arms on the table. Now I looked up. “There is nothing that can ever refresh me again.”

  “I hate to be so down to earth, but you will feel better if you eat.”

  “Ever the soldier,” I said. But I made no move to pick up any food.

  “Shall I send for Poppaea?”

  “Not yet,” I said. No, not yet.

  “They are dead,” said Tigellinus. “Faenius, Sulpicius, and Subrius.”

  But their hatred would live on. “Oh,” I said listlessly.

  “Don’t you want to hear?”

  “You obviously want to tell me,” I said.

  “Faenius wrote a whining will lamenting his sad fate,” he said.

  “So I will be kind to his family,” I said. How tedious. How predictable. Where were his noble principles now—begging to the charioteer he hated?

  “Subrius complained about the grave that was dug for him. He said it wasn’t up to military standards, proof of how discipline had fallen off under your command.”

  Any other time that would have made me laugh. But now, no.

  “Let him rest in it in peace,” I said. “Even though it isn’t up to standards. He will get used to it.”

  That night I lay motionless on my bed, floating as if in a warm and still sea, my mind emptied of everything but desolation and despair. Perhaps this was what the Furies really were—not wrinkled horrors with dogs’ heads, but—this.

  * * *

  • • •

  Lucan was allowed to return to his home, under guard, and permitted to commit suicide in his own time. His mother was not arrested. He had accused her, likening her to Mother, only to wound me. He had succeeded.

  His demise was witnessed and described by his guards; three days afterward I read the report. As he weakened from loss of blood, he had recited lines from his poem about a wounded soldier who had also died of blood loss. He had made sure his last words were literary, and thus he would be remembered—as a poet, not a traitor.

  Vestinus followed likewise, committing suicide in an upper chamber while his dinner guests sat downstairs, surrounded by guards. He made no speeches or statements. Neither did Scaevinus, Senecio, or Quintianus. Those three had gallant deaths out of keeping with their lives. Their exit from the stage of life proved their bravest moment.

  * * *

  • • •

  The trials went on. And on. In the end there were forty-one confirmed conspirators—nineteen senators, seven equites, eleven soldiers, and four women. Fourteen senators were sent into exile, as well as Scaevinus’s wife, Caedicia. Three people were pardoned, including Antonius Natalis. One was acquitted—the conscionable Gaius Silvanus. Lucan’s mother, Acilia, was never charged. These people had not been actively involved, or, like Lucan’s mother, were named out of spite or revenge by someone with no proof. There were enough actual traitors without drumming up false ones.

  Petronius was the last to perish. In characteristic fashion, he hosted a dinner at his house on the Aventine. The guests arrived after he had already cut his wrists. But he bound them up, entertained, then loosened the bandages again, and so on all night, dying little by little, but making it seem a game. His entertainment was not lofty words nor philosophical discourses on the immortality of the soul à la Seneca but light verses and frivolous poems. When he finally expired, it looked natural, as if he had dozed off after too much wine—something the guests had witnessed many times before. Thus he laughed at death, treating it as inconsequential.

  Will my venture succeed? Thanks be to all the gods, the answer was “no.”

  It was finished. From mid-April until late May, Rome had been in the grip of the upheaval of the conspiracy and its aftermath. I published an edict of the proceedings of the trials, appending statements of the informers and confessions of the convicted, and their sentences.

  For Rome, it was over. For me, it never could be.

  XXXIX

  I had hardly noticed the spring, and now it was summer. An entire season had passed, slipping by, while I grappled with the trials and the dismaying consequences. It was June—a luscious, rose-scented June—when I had to address the Senate, or what was left of it.

  That was a turn of phrase. In truth, the loss of the nineteen senators did not strip the Senate of its numbers. But they did strip it of my trust. Looking out at the remaining senators, I could never know how many were traitors in their hearts, who had just not been detected, or who might become traitors in the future. They had murdered my sense of safety if they had failed to murder my person.

  Nonetheless I must play my part and play it better than Scaevinus and Faenius had played theirs. I wore my finest lightweight imperial toga to address this august—in their own minds—body. I was flanked by the two consuls of the year, one of them being a substitute for a substitute, as consul-elect Lateranus had been first replaced by Vestinus, who had likewise proved a traitor, and a replacement had been found for him as well.

  A hundred faces looked back me, hard to see with the light against them. It being warm, the great doors of the Curia had been left open, and the bright summer sun streamed in, caressing and heating the marble floor.

  Before I could speak, two senators came forward, bowing and prostrating themselves. “Oh, blessed emperor!” they said. “We thank the Sun himself for miraculously preserving our most glorious emperor.”

  Sol. Yes, Sol had protected me. In doing this he had shown me that I was his true son, as he had revealed in the dream.

  “Rise,” I said. The two men stood up.

  “I thank you,” I said. “I am truly blessed, as you call me, but blessed in having such loyal subjects as you all before me. We will not speak of those who have forfeited their places here; you can read all the proceedings in the edict I have issued and posted all over Rome. What is important is what remains—the foundation of Rome a
nd your emperor, chosen by the gods to protect it and you.” I sat back down. Was that flowery enough?

  Then poured out the honors and flatteries. There were to be formal thank-offerings to Sol in his ancient temple in the Circus Maximus, the site of the planned assassination. A Temple of Welfare would be constructed. The month of April, the month I was saved, was to be renamed Neroneus. There would be a memorial in the temple from which Scaevinus had taken the dagger.

  “That is not enough!” a senator from Tarracina suddenly said, rising and addressing the entire body. “We must erect a temple to his divinity, to the god Nero, who is more than a mortal and should be worshipped as such.”

  Everyone leapt to his feet and cried, “Yes! Yes!” They bowed toward me, as toward Sol himself.

  Now I rose. “No, no,” I said, holding up my hands. “That is not fitting. I refuse to allow it.”

  They then extolled my godly humility.

  But it was not my humility. Since traditionally an emperor is only deified after death, there would come men who would take it as a mandate to help me enter that state where I would indeed be eligible for the title. Let me not tempt fate.

  “I myself will dedicate the dagger on the Capitoline to Jupiter the Guardian,” I said, to mollify them. “That is enough for me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I held the dagger in my hands. Milichus had not sharpened it, disobeying the order to do so, and it was dull and rusty, but could have carried out its task well enough. It would have been even more painful than a sharp, clean blade. Now I ran my thumb along it, feeling its rough edge. A dagger fit for an emperor? If assassination is the goal, any dagger is fit for it.