The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  I chose a site on a hill overlooking the bright bay, where her villa was just visible. I would design the shrine, and when it was done, would call to her, “Come home again.”

  Now the melancholy tasks of laying her to rest were over, a sadness in itself. For in mourning rituals, in the clearing away of the beloved dead, we put away something precious in ourselves that we know we will never see again.

  I returned to Rome. The palace was still, deserted—or so it felt without her. In truth it still bustled with slaves and petitioners and messengers. But at night, when they had left, emptiness descended, along with haunting thoughts. Mother. In returning to Naples and the bay, I had also evoked her memory, inextricably tied to the area, along with Poppaea’s. And now her mocking curse in the Octavia rang through my mind as I sat, nursing a cup of wine, in the shadow-filled chamber.

  My bleeding hands infernal torches bring

  To greet this impious marriage; by their light

  My son shall wed Poppaea; these bright flames

  The avenging hands of his infuriate mother

  Shall turn to funeral flames.

  I took a big swallow of the wine, feeling its tart sting slide down my throat. You were wrong in that at least. There were no funeral flames. I set the cup back down; it was empty. I refilled it, up to the brim.

  I did not need to consult the actual manuscript. The words were burned into my memory. Mother crying,

  In the face of all this evil

  Your stricken mother’s anger should be silent,

  Whom in your wickedness you killed?

  She had succeeded. She had punished me with an ultimate, ironic, cruel revenge—by watching me, cursing me, so that I now had killed the person dearest to me in the world by accident, just as I had killed her by intent.

  She was Hera to my Hercules. Hera, who had driven Hercules mad so he killed his wife and children by accident. And when he regained his senses, did endless penance, felt endless remorse.

  I drained the rest of the cup of wine. Endless remorse. And for me, no Twelve Labors—no killing the Nemean lion, no destroying the Lernian hydra, no cleaning the Augean stables. Just being emperor, guarding and guiding the Roman empire as wisely and bravely as I could, amid criticism and opposition as well as cloying sycophantism and opportunism to wade through. And at the end, ambrosia and a welcome on Mount Olympus, like Hercules? No, the best I could hope for was an honorable place in history—mortal history.

  The emperor must go on, go on the stage of political affairs that were so much less interesting than the real stage in the theater. Why is it that the reality is dull, whereas the stage, impersonating reality, seems so much more real?

  The state visit of Tiridates would take place in late spring; he had been traveling from Armenia for four months already but still had a long way to go. I must plan it, must arrange a spectacle suitable for the occasion. At the same time, the idea of going to Greece to compete in the contests refused to evaporate; instead it grew stronger. If I were to do it, I would need to practice my arts and compose new material—difficult to do even in times of exuberance; almost impossible when the spirits are low. Yet I knew that Greece might be the only thing to cure me of my despondency. Not only would I compete in the arts, but I wanted to drive a chariot, perhaps with more than just four horses. Set myself a high challenge. If my mind and body were preoccupied with these tests, it would banish everything else from my head.

  In the meantime I faced a test of another nature. The immediate mourning period over, a number of senators were ambitious for their daughters to become the next empress. They hinted, at first coyly, that I might like to invite Drusilla or Flavia or Quintina to the palace for an intimate dinner. When I did not respond, they became more strident, swarming like bees on a warm day. I fled.

  But alone in my quarters, I had to ask myself honestly: did I intend to remain single for the rest of my life? I was twenty-eight. I still needed an heir. I was solitary and it felt right that I be, but—forever? If I did take up with one of these daughters, would I feel less alone—or more?

  At length I relented, capitulating to the siege. I invited Aelia Paulina, the daughter of Senator Aelis, to dine with me at the palace. Dine—and what else? Not stipulated, not even to myself.

  * * *

  • • •

  She was fifteen, a willow of a girl with light hair and an oval face. She was escorted to the palace by her father and two slaves. The father, after bleating out the customary greetings, melted away. The slaves stayed, as chaperones, but did not follow us into my dining chamber.

  I motioned for her to sit on one of the couches. I had a slave bring us wine and olives, to put her at ease. She sat primly on the edge of the couch, with folded hands, and looked at me with rounded innocent eyes.

  “You are frightened of me, aren’t you?” I asked, gently I hoped.

  She nodded, now casting her eyes down.

  “You needn’t be,” I said. I won’t bite.

  “But you rule the whole world!” she said.

  Oh, that. “One gets used to it.” But she never would, I could see that. She was too young. She was a child compared to Poppaea.

  Further awkward conversation revealed that she had been tutored at home, could weave and play the flute and had a pet parrot. Other than that, there was little to say, those being the sum of her interests.

  She was very sweet, very modest, and way too virginal in all ways for me. I returned her to her father in the same condition she had arrived.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next invitation went out to Horatia, the daughter of Senator Horatius. This one held more promise; I knew she had studied Greek. I was beginning to feel I was back at Lanatus’s stable, choosing a horse for certain qualities.

  Like her predecessor, she was brought by her father and had two slaves in tow. Unlike with the first candidate, though, her father wanted to be treated to the meal as well, and he had to be dissuaded and told he would have an invitation at another time.

  Horatia was a strapping girl, tall and broad-shouldered, and almost seventeen—late to be unmarried. Was there something wrong with her, or was she just picky? Instead of sitting rigidly on the edge of the couch she had chosen, she draped herself on it and crossed her legs, exposing muscular calves.

  She was not afraid of me, oh, no. She asked me questions, some of them personal. Did I like to bathe in cold water? For how long? What sort of ointments did I fancy?

  She ate voraciously, rather than daintily. Her fingers were soon greasy. She quoted a line about eating from Pindar—yes, it was true she knew Greek—and then asked me to match it. We embarked on a Greek quote contest.

  The meal being over, musicians came in to play and we continued the conversation—or rather, she continued it. At length I motioned to the players to quit. When they were gone, she came over to me and put her hands on my shoulders and tried to kiss me.

  “Now for the last course of the dinner,” she said.

  I backed away. “That wasn’t on the menu,” I said, trying to make light of it.

  “It is on mine,” she said. “I will carry the memory and the honor of being in the emperor’s bed with me the rest of my life.”

  Now I felt like the horse being chosen, rather than being the chooser.

  “I fear I cannot say likewise,” I replied.

  She, too, was returned to her father in whatever state she had entered the palace.

  * * *

  • • •

  It was some time before I ventured down that road again, and this time almost by accident. Senator Gaius Tullius, whom I liked, happened to mention that his daughter had become obsessed with the Greek games and wanted to go to Olympia and run in Hera’s race, the only one in all the games for girls.

  “Is she fast?” I asked.

  “Yes, very. But
there are so few contests where she can test herself.”

  “What’s her name—Atalanta?” I asked, joking.

  “Tullia,” he said.

  “I should like to meet her,” I said, and meant it. It had been years since I raced, but I was still keenly interested in the sport. And a girl who did it seriously was unusual.

  * * *

  • • •

  Tullia was brought to the palace, and this time I was pleased to have her father join us in the beginning. The conversation was pleasant, and Gaius explained that his wife, Tullia’s mother, had died and it was just the two of them in the household. Tullia was a comely girl, sixteen, with a ready laugh and an ease beyond her years.

  “How long have you been running?” I asked her. “And where do you run?”

  She smiled. “I’ve run since I was a child. Children’s races. I was always the best. I beat the boys.” She spread her hands. “But that stopped when I got older. The boys had the trainers and the training grounds and the races. The girls had nothing. So I do not know if I am still fast, or if it is just a memory.”

  Yes, I knew about that. It had been so long since I had run an actual race. But I had switched to another venue, chariot racing, whereas she could not.

  “I found out that in Olympia they do have a girls’ race. It is dedicated to Hera. It is my dream to go there.”

  On impulse I said, “You shall. I shall take you there when I go.”

  She and her father stared at me. “What do you mean?” he finally said.

  “I hope to go to Greece and compete in all the games,” I said. “Soon. You may join my retinue.” I looked at her father, assuring him, “There will be many people with me; she will have much company.”

  Although until that moment it had only been a hope, suddenly, for the first time since the conspiracy, since Poppaea’s death, I felt a surge of true excitement for a concrete and immediate goal. I would go to Greece.

  “Truly?” she said. “That seems—beyond anything I could have expected.”

  “Start training,” I said. “You will need all the time to get ready. Only the best compete there.”

  Her father discreetly left after the meal, telling her cheerfully that he would be waiting for her at home.

  Now we were alone. But awkwardness did not descend. I was glad she was there; I welcomed her company. I trusted her and she, me. It seemed entirely natural to end up in the bedroom by the end of the evening. I took her in my arms, and she fit. She was neither shy nor bold, but at ease, relaxed. I kissed her, and that felt natural, too. But I would go no further without asking her, if not in so many words, then in my actions. And she said yes, wordlessly but definitely.

  To hold another woman in my arms instead of Poppaea, someone who felt different, who was made differently, smaller and stronger and with a different scent, was strange to me but not unnatural. She responded as if this held no fear or hesitation for her, as if it was the race she had yearned to run. And I responded likewise, losing myself in her, losing the heaviness that had pursued me like a dark gloom, weighing me down. I was set free, free to feel joy and pleasure again.

  Afterward we lay and talked. It was astounding, a miracle, for me to lie thus again. She said, “I hope you do not think I only wanted to be taken to Greece.” But I knew she knew better. In our desire to compete in Greece, we were kindred spirits, and that had opened the door for us to know one another.

  I played with a strand of her hair, drawing it across her forehead to make a headband. “And I hope you do not think I only offered to take you there to end up here tonight instead.”

  She smiled. “No, I don’t.” She put her head down on my chest with a sigh. “I enjoyed this journey on its own merits.” Then she said mischievously, “But when do we leave?”

  “Mid-July,” I said. There. I had decided. Made a commitment.

  I would be pleased to have her in Greece, to make her dream of racing come true. But she was a girl still. For empress I needed a woman, a mature woman of experience. Tullia would be a friend, a fellow competitor and companion, but she could never be my wife.

  XLIX

  With the spring, I renewed, fresh sap pushing the sludge of winter out of my being. For the first time since the early days of last spring, when I was still ignorant of the conspiracy, I could look out on the world and see it as benign and even pleasant. As the Feast of Ceres approached again, I noted it but did not plan to attend the ceremonies. I would give thanks in my private chambers for having survived, but I would spend the day at Lanatus’s stables, choosing new horses and ordering a new chariot. The open countryside sang of life and warmth, and riding through it was a balm.

  I confided to Lanatus my growing desire to drive more than four horses and my plans to go to Greece.

  “Horses don’t travel well,” he said. “Even in the special ships built for horse transport. You would be affecting their stamina. Why do that?”

  “Because I want my own team there. I can’t use just any local horses.”

  He stroked his chin. “It’s true, Greek horses are not the best.”

  “And they wouldn’t have been trained by me. We would have no way of speaking to one another.”

  He relented. “I can see you won’t change your mind, so let’s get down to business and look at some.” He stood back and said, “I can only tell you I am glad to see you here again.”

  I knew what he meant. No need to dwell on it. “Thank you,” I said.

  We strolled over to the paddock, and he pointed out several horses he could recommend. He was particularly enthusiastic about the long-legged bay at the far end. “He’ll be five this summer. Perfect. He learns quickly and will adapt to you.” He waved his hand toward some others grazing together. “What size team did you have in mind?”

  “Ten,” I said.

  He whipped his head around, staring. “Ten? Are you insane?”

  I laughed. “There are those who think so.”

  “Now I am with them. You can’t drive ten horses. Almost no one can. Name me anyone who has.”

  “Mithridates?”

  “I mean, that you have seen with your own eyes.”

  “I haven’t,” I admitted.

  “And with good reason. They can’t be controlled. There is only one shaft, with two horses yoked to it. The other eight would be on individual traces, controlled separately. Eight separate reins! No, forget it.”

  “But I’ve heard it can be done.”

  “Leander swam the Hellespont, too. Could you?”

  “No, but if I practiced . . .”

  “You are childishly stubborn,” he said. “But this is dangerous.”

  “A refrain I have heard all my life. Anything worth doing seems to be dangerous: racing chariots, competing—being emperor! Especially the latter.”

  “Yes . . . well . . . another drawback is that the chariot team is so wide it takes an enormous flat track to accommodate it. You know the tracks in Greece aren’t like ours. They are much more primitive, just open fields, really.”

  “Good. A field ought to be wide enough.”

  He sighed, then put his arm on my shoulder. “Let us start selecting.”

  * * *

  • • •

  On my other ventures, poetry and music, I spent most evenings composing. Like the Neronia that they inspired, the Greek festivals had three categories of competition for me: poetry, music, and chariot racing. But they were huge ventures compared to ours, many more contestants, and many more contests. They were held all over Greece, at Olympia, at Delphi, at Isthmia, at Nemea, at Actium, at Argos, and there were numerous other local festivals as well. Some ran on a four-year cycle, others on a two-year cycle. But they would adjust their schedules so I could attend each of them in their own cities. It would be an exhausting tour; it would be an exhilarating tour; it would be my rebirth.


  In writing to the game officials to request the changes in schedule, I was committing myself. It was with great determination that I sent the letters off. The Senate did not object. They wouldn’t dare, not these days.

  The evenings were oases of quiet and contentment as I worked on my poetry and Tullia read nearby. She was a soothing presence, a friendly companion as excited about the Greek expedition as I was. I had assured her a place and time to train at the palaestra beside the gymnasium and baths, along with several other girls who wanted to cross over to Greece with us. As a bedfellow she was pleasurable and undemanding, if not torrid and experienced, which I missed. She told me that a bed could only hold one such person, and it had it in me; there should not be two of us. But I knew better—that is the true meaning of the word experienced.

  * * *

  • • •

  So by day I drove my horses and trained my neglected singing voice under the tutelage of Appius, and by night I composed, and day and night I had to plan for the imminent arrival of Tiridates. It had taken him nine months to make the journey, but he was now entering Roman territory from the north, having come all the way on land with an enormous company—not only his wife but three thousand Parthian horsemen and a huge baggage train. This was a unique occasion, similar to a Triumph but not truly one. We had not conquered a foreign enemy but made an ally and vassal of him, and he would parade in the streets of Rome but as an honored guest. There were many questions of protocol to be settled.

  I relied on my trusted freedmen and the Praetorian prefects to discuss things with first; next would come the Consilium and last the Senate. The Praetorians had common sense; the freedmen were all trusted ministers. In addition to Epaphroditus, Phaon, Tigellinus, and Nymphidius, I had rediscovered an old freedman of Claudius’s, Helios. He had served Claudius well behind the scenes, never rising to the prominence of Pallas or Narcissus; all the better. So I assembled my little private group of advisers, and we tackled the particulars of the Tiridates visit.