The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  We also ventured to some of the other villas lining the coast, some of them as sumptuous as any palace. The wealthy aristocrats—the snobs who scorned my music—wanted showplaces where they could entertain and impress their clients, and the coast of the bay was the prime spot to do it. The sprawling complexes were adorned with statues, the walls were frescoed in bright and costly colors, the floors covered in precious stone mosaics, and most of the places offered baths and gymnasiums and exercise yards as well.

  Suspicious as I was of them—for I could never trust that class again—I felt it wise to make gestures of friendship, for I would have to work with them in Rome. An emperor does not have to wait for an invitation; the mere hint that he might like to come was enough to elicit one. I enjoyed the days with them, in spite of myself, although I viewed them as an investment, learning to know new people, with the ranks of the old destroyed. I would have to start all over again building up relations within the Senate. And where would it be less of a chore than here?

  They tiptoed around the Subject, which was fine with me. I did not want to discuss it, to have it brought up. I was still wounded by it, but the wound would heal in its own time; nothing could hurry it, certainly not discussing it with these men.

  Yet they, in their lightweight way, were good medicine. They seemed to have little in their heads but furnishing their villas, overseeing their fishponds and gardens, and attending the races at the Circus. Cautiously they congratulated me and asked questions about my horses. They inquired about the coming state visit from the Armenian king Tiridates, asking when he would arrive. I laughed and said the gods only knew. He would travel the long land route, bringing his queen with him. I promised them there would be a grand welcoming reception and a splendid ceremony in which I bestowed his crown. And after that, I said, I would close the doors of the Temple of Janus.

  It was a great feat. But what credit did the conspirators give me for it? Did Seneca appreciate it? No. Did Faenius? No. Or any of them, the vile— I stopped myself. I had to stop letting it consume me like this. I had to. I turned and smiled at my hosts.

  * * *

  • • •

  Back in Rome, the eleventh anniversary of my accession loomed. Memories of the ceremonies, overlaid with images of the traitors who attended it last year, blighted the idea of a repeat event, and I decided to let it pass without recognition.

  But Poppaea objected. “If you forgo it because of them, they will laugh from the underworld. You have much to be proud of. Last year the Golden House was barely finished. Now it is nearly complete. The gardens have taken hold and are a pleasing vista from the terrace. The Neronia was a success. The rebuilding of Rome is almost finished. Eleven years of reign. Is that not something to mark?”

  She seemed oddly insistent on it, as if it somehow reflected badly on us if we did not have one. So once again invitations were issued to celebrate the accession. They went out to the entire Senate, public servants, and this time, freedmen of standing. Yes, let Phaon, Epaphroditus, and even important slaves like Sporus come. And I invited the common people to stroll the lower gardens and help themselves to food from the long trestle tables I would set out. Free wine for all.

  The day was a fair one, a mellow golden blaze. Warmth from the sun-soaked valley wafted upward, enveloping us as we stood waiting to welcome the throng. I warned Poppaea that she need not stand the whole time and to lie down whenever she felt the need. She claimed, however, that she felt well and that the weakness that had plagued her last time had not returned.

  She was wondrous fair in a sky blue gown that, with its airy folds, disguised her growing size. Her rich hair, licked by the reddish sun rays, glowed a fiery bronze. She reached out her hands to me, and I carry forever the image of her face as she did, lit by the sun, touched with color.

  The guests arrived in a rush. A flurry of white togas, gowns the color of summer gardens, and embroidered cloaks crowded the terrace. Eager heads bobbed in the sea of people, all heading toward us to greet us extravagantly.

  “Caesar, I am humbled, let me kiss your hand—”

  “Augusta, your beauty blinds me—”

  “The honor is too much—”

  “I cannot breathe in the exalted air around you—”

  And so on. These were the faces of the senators who had kept out of the conspiracy—who knew what was in their hearts?—and who had proposed the excessive honors to me, such as building a temple to my divinity. They were my new reality, and I would have to know them, but my capacity for trust was exhausted.

  Phaon and Epaphroditus stayed back, and when I was through greeting the unctuous politicians, I was able to speak to them.

  “Caesar, forgive us if we do not bend our knees,” said Epaphroditus, a smile on his broad face, glancing over at the crowd. Phaon nodded.

  “You know too much,” I said. “How can you bend your knee to the same person you have discussed latrines with?”

  Tigellinus joined us, Nymphidius at his side.

  “A goodly crowd,” he said. “Purged of its rot.” He looked around smugly.

  Nymphidius stepped closer to me, saying, “It is an honor to work with Tigellinus in this position.”

  I looked at him. Did he resemble Caligula, his purported father? Like Caligula, he had a grim triangular face with small eyes. “I welcome you as Praetorian prefect,” I said. “You proved your abilities in directing the firefighting efforts.”

  He smiled grimly, like Caligula, whose smiles were dangerous. Perhaps the rumors were correct. In any case, he would work well with Tigellinus. There would be no rivalry there; they were cut from the same cloth. Cloth that I could use to fashion what I wanted.

  I had to give a formal welcome, so I made my way to the center of the terrace; Tigellinus and Nymphidius clapped for silence.

  In the past I had written out my thoughts, or at least practiced them. Now I would just say what came to me. “I welcome you here to share with me the anniversary of my becoming emperor. Eleven years ago I set out from the palace on the Palatine a prince and returned an emperor. In those years much has been accomplished. But in those years much has befallen us to challenge us. Not only a rebellion in the province of Britain, turmoil in Armenia and Parthia, but destruction of our beloved city by a conflagration, the likes of which has never been seen.”

  And a dastardly conspiracy, aimed to kill me like a sacrificial ox in your sight.

  They were quiet, looking at me with benign faces.

  “But we have overcome all these misfortunes. Britain is secure, pacified. The Armenian question has been settled definitively, with the king agreeing to acknowledge Rome as his source of power. Even as we speak, Tiridates has just set out on his way here to receive his crown from my hands. When that happens, I will be able to close the doors of the Temple of Janus, something rarely done, in fact not done for almost seventy years since the Divine Augustus, and only six times through our history.”

  They were nodding and smiling.

  “And Rome has been rebuilt. Yes, what you see around you is our gift to you. A shining city, modeled on new architectural visions, a people’s park in the midst of the city, and this pavilion and its gardens to serve as a center for art and beauty.”

  Again they nodded, as if the Golden House and its expense had not been a matter of fierce opposition. And as if much of the cost of rebuilding Rome had not come from confiscated estates of traitors.

  “And now I invite you to dine with me in the Golden House!” Slaves threw open the doors into the reception room, ready and waiting with mounds of food on long tables, rows and rows of amphoras with enough wine to supply Agamemnon’s army, rose petals covering the floor, musicians, and tall bronze lampstands blazing with dozens of lamps.

  I led the way, and they streamed in behind me, filling every corner of the room. They fell on the food like starving wolves, eager to taste what they presumed was
expensive imported fare usually out of their reach. They were correct—I had ordered boar from Lucania, aged cheese from Bithynia, and heaps of sea urchins from Portugal, in addition to the usual milk-fed snails from Sardinia and anchovies from Spanish waters. There were even flagons of that exotic barbarian drink, beer, for the truly adventurous. Let them eat well and drink deep. We celebrated the rebirth of Rome and the end of troubles.

  * * *

  • • •

  It was past midnight when the last of the celebrants departed, leaving us standing on a floor of crushed rose petals, dropped food, and spilled wine. Slaves cleared away the tables and the debris and started to sweep and clean the floor, but I said, “Later.” So they left us alone.

  “I told you it was the right thing to do,” said Poppaea. She leaned her head on my shoulder.

  “Entirely the right thing,” I agreed. “You were correct, as you usually are.” I kissed the top of her head.

  It had been a success. I was elated that it had gone so well. In my feverish exuberance, the floor beneath me seemed to pulsate, pieces of the mosaic peeking out between the rose petals, puddles of wine glinting.

  I turned Poppaea to face me, took her hands. “I am the happiest of all mortals,” I said. Seized with a desire to move, to express my exaltation, I swung her out in a circle, as we had done once before, the time we knocked off the vase. As I spun around, her legs flew higher, and I spun faster, she squealing in delight at the weightlessness of it. Faster and faster, and then my feet slipped on the sleek floor, I lost my footing, she flew out of my grasp, hitting one of the lampstands, knocking it to the ground, and I followed, landing on top of her, crushing her between the lampstand and my body.

  She moaned, and I tumbled off her. In the dim light I could see her head tilted back at an unnatural angle, her legs twisted away from her body. On my hands and knees I crawled closer, trying to see better.

  I called out her name. I screamed out her name. But no answer. I sat up and took her head on my lap, frantically smoothing her hair. Her lips parted, and she groaned, tried to form words. “I . . . fell . . .” she whispered.

  “No . . . you are safe . . . you are well . . .”

  “I . . . weak . . . can’t stand . . .”

  “You are safe, all will be well,” I kept repeating. Her eyes were open. She was speaking. All would be well.

  But when I looked down I saw an ominous dark shadow spreading out around her beneath her hips. A jolt of horror went through me. Not taking my eyes off hers, I put my hand down to the shadow and it came away red with blood.

  I wouldn’t scream. No, I wouldn’t. It would frighten her, so with all my self-control I said, “Let me move you from this floor.” I picked her up, acutely aware that I must be wary of my footing, more difficult now that I carried a heavy weight.

  We were nearest the Hector room, and I knew a cot was there that the painters had used. So, moving slowly, I took her in and laid her on it; she winced and cried out when I put her down.

  There was one lampstand burning in the room, enough that we could see. I watched helplessly as the stain appeared again around her and was soon dripping beneath the cot on the floor. I needed to call someone, but I dared not leave her. I took her hands. They were cool.

  “Poppaea, we need help. I have to call someone. I have to find a slave; they are somewhere here but not nearby.” I squeezed her hands, willing them to return the gesture, willing strength into them.

  “No . . . do not leave me . . .” Her voice was soft.

  “I have to, to get help!”

  “Stay with me, don’t leave me,” she repeated. “Please!”

  So I knelt beside her, murmuring assurances, all the while seeing the blood seep around us, until it reached my knees where I knelt.

  Even as that was happening, she seemed to regain strength, which dulled me to the danger. “I told you . . . I said I could not give you a child, you should have divorced me . . . now this . . .”

  “Don’t think of it!” I said. “You will be well again, child or no child.”

  “No . . .” She smiled. “Do you remember, I said . . . I did not wish to live longer than my beauty would last. I wanted . . . to die beautiful.”

  I did remember that, but I said, “No, I don’t. It’s a foolish wish. You will always be beautiful to me.”

  “I am granted my wish,” she said. “I . . . feel it.”

  “No, no!” I cried. “You are wrong.”

  Her eyes held mine. “Dear Nero. You always have trouble . . . seeing reality. You live in the then and the maybe . . . not the here and now.”

  “I see you, here now.”

  “Not . . . much longer. Hold me.”

  I leaned over and took her in my arms without making her sit up. “Whenever and wherever you . . . are Gaius, then . . . I am Gaia,” she said. “Remember that . . . when I am gone. I will always be . . . your Gaia.” Now her voice was fading again. I gently moved her, to restore it.

  “And I your Gaius,” I whispered.

  She turned to look at the opposite wall. “If I can, I will come . . . back like Protesilaus . . . did to Laodamia . . . good . . . I requested that . . . story . . .”

  “I won’t let you go!”

  “Three hours . . . we will have three hours . . .”

  Three hours. What were three hours out of all the ones we should have had?

  Her eyes closed as if she slept. Her hand went limp in mine. Now I pulled away, leaving her, running through the connected chambers of the palace, shouting out for someone.

  I found a group of slaves in the peristyle garden, far from the Hector room. “Midwife! Midwife!” I cried, frantic, hardly knowing what I was saying, only that I had to explain, so they could help. But words failed me; I was incoherent. I took a deep breath, struggling. “I need a midwife. A physician. Anyone with medical knowledge. Hurry, find him or her or all of them! Bring them to the Hector room. The Augusta is there.”

  They looked puzzled, then leapt into action, scattering.

  I rushed back to the Hector room, finding Poppaea unchanged. Standing back from the bed, from this distance I could see the extent of the blood on the floor. Could anyone survive the loss of so much blood?

  Once again I knelt by her, my knees in the sticky blood. Her face was pale, and her hands still cool. Her lips had a bluish cast.

  “Speak to me,” I said, willing her to, commanding her.

  She smiled, faintly. Then she whispered, “Farewell . . . my love . . . let . . . the earth lie lightly . . . upon me . . . Now I rest . . . among the dead . . . while still youthful . . .”

  It was no use. I had to let her go, not vex her spirit by restraining it. “The gods granted you your wish,” I said.

  There was no answer, and she slipped away from me even as I held her.

  “You are now a goddess,” I said, touching her face. She would join Claudia. But what comfort to us left behind?

  As I waited for the now-useless midwife or physician to arrive, I trembled. I had done it. I had taken her hands and swung her out, and slipped and caused this. Foolhardy and clumsy. I had smashed the dearest vessel in the world, not deliberately as Petronius had crushed the murrhine cups, but blindly, stupidly. Persia had rocks aplenty that could yield more cups, but nowhere in the universe was there the means to create another Poppaea.

  XLV

  I sat by her side, seeing her sink into stillness, that stillness that no living creature can claim. Her features grew paler, and the hand I held grew cooler. I cradled it, as if I could transfer the warmth from my own into hers, could infuse it with life again. But it continued to grow colder.

  The blood congealed on the floor, turning dark. I could not think, could hardly even feel, as if a lightning bolt had wiped my mind clean, leaving only pain and confusion. The lamps flickered on the wall, coating the frescoes in yellow li
ght. Hector and Andromache. Protesilaus and Laodamia. Bereavement from long ago, sealed over in time, prettily preserved in celebrated verse, rendered stale and impotent. Not searing, fresh, and bleeding.

  And I had caused this. Had I not been so filled with joy I would not have swung her around. But no, I had swung her around another time, with no mishap. Yes, but then I didn’t lose my footing. But this floor was slippery, and if I had only let the slaves clean it up . . .

  But . . . but . . . but . . . a thousand buts, a thousand ifs, a thousand other ways it could have turned out, and I would not be gazing on a lifeless Poppaea. But it turned out only one way. This way. This horrible, fatal, final way. With no restoration from the gods, in spite of the tales we love to hear.

  A slight hint of daylight illuminated the chamber, dulling the lamplight, when two midwives and Andromachus appeared, along with several slaves. They peered into the chamber, apprehensive and hesitant, carrying cloths and basins. Then the older midwife approached, followed by the others.

  “May I see closer?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. But I left the chamber. I could not bear to look, to see them examine her. I waited in the next room, hearing them murmur, hearing the scrape of the cot on the floor as they moved it.

  Andromachus came for me. “Caesar, we have finished,” he said. “Come.” We returned to the chamber. Poppaea had been moved away from the bloody floor and covered with a clean linen sheet. Her hands were crossed on her chest.

  “She died from loss of blood,” said Andromachus.

  As if anyone but a blind person could not have seen that.

  “The injury to her abdomen caused the child to dislodge, suddenly, and rip away from the womb. When that happens, the loss of blood is so catastrophic that the mother dies, and usually the child as well,” said the midwife, more practiced in this area than Andromachus.