The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  The first concern was where and how I would receive him. It was decided that I would meet him in Naples and then lead him into Rome myself.

  The next concern was in what capacity he would be received. As a guest? As a client king?

  We met in one of the smaller workrooms in the palace, gathered around a long wooden table that held a map of Rome and the surrounding country.

  “Since this is unprecedented, I propose to receive him as an honored ally, but one whose kingship is dependent on Rome. He surrenders his eastern crown and I place his diadem on his head. This will be in public ceremony in the Forum,” I said, looking around at the men.

  Tigellinus just nodded curtly. So did Nymphidius.

  Helios said, “What sort of ceremony will this be?” He was a stocky man, solid but not weak, balding, with dark penetrating eyes.

  “We will have to create it ourselves,” I said. “The obeisance and exchange of diadem for crown should be on the Rostra where the most people can see it.”

  “The Praetorians will be needed to keep order in the Forum, manage the crowds,” said Nymphidius.

  “From the Forum we will proceed to the Theater of Pompey for more ceremony. I will order the interior to be gilded, and over the open sky, a giant silk purple awning with the stars and me driving a celestial chariot in gold.”

  Phaon began to fidget. “The expense . . . I will have to compute it. The gold leaf . . . the silk awning . . .”

  “And I will order white robes for the people in the Forum, so they are all in white when the sun rises,” I said, suddenly seeing it. Yes, a multitude in white.

  “Robes? For everyone?” he asked, his voice squeaky.

  “We will process from the Theater to the Temple of Janus, where I will formally close the doors. Then there will be a celebratory banquet.”

  Phaon now grimaced. “Caesar, I fear the treasury cannot support this. You have already given Tiridates an exorbitant travel allowance, thousands of sesterces a day. And he has been traveling for nine months! What does this add up to?” He reached for the pitcher of juice on the table and poured himself a big cup.

  Epaphroditus asked, “What of the problem of his dagger? It is his official emblem of rank, but weapons are not allowed in the emperor’s presence.”

  Helios massaged his cheek and said, “Let it be nailed to its scabbard so it cannot be taken out. A diplomatic solution to a diplomatic problem.”

  Oh, he was good. How fortuitous that I had found him.

  “The banquet will conclude the festivities?” asked Phaon.

  “No, we have games the next day.” And I would race, but I didn’t tell them that.

  “Then is it over?” begged Phaon.

  * * *

  • • •

  As the time grew closer, one idea gave birth to another, as if the event had a mind of its own. It swelled and swelled, billowing out in my imagination.

  A Triumph. Up until now, Triumphs were celebrations of military victories, rejoicing over the conquest of a foreign enemy. During the Republic, the Senate granted generals the right to celebrate a Triumph, and famous ones like Scipio, Sulla, and Pompey paraded through the streets on the predetermined route from the Campus Martius through the Forum and then on to the Temple of the Capitoline Jupiter. There were strict requirements: the general had to have won a major land or sea battle and ended a war, and killed at least five thousand of the enemy. But since then, the privilege of celebrating a Triumph was reserved to the imperial family, and the rules became less defined. Augustus had had a triple Triumph, celebrating his victories over Dalmatia, Actium, and Egypt. In the last, the three children of Cleopatra and Marc Antony marched as captives. Germanicus had had a Triumph for his wars in Germany. And I had watched Claudius’s in recognition of his conquest of Britain. All of these celebrated military victories. But why should a diplomatic victory, a bloodless one, not be equally worthy of honor?

  A diplomatic victory was more than equal to a military one; it was superior to it. Lives were spared. Cities were not destroyed. Treasuries were not emptied. Hatred between conquering and conquered was avoided. Trade was not disrupted.

  And I had achieved this. I had brought about peace with Parthia, peace with our perpetual enemy, peace that had eluded us up until now. True, I had had to direct the military strategy and the stalemate had not been achieved without generals, but they had only laid the groundwork for the negotiations.

  Parthia. The country that had defeated Crassus, beheading him and then pouring molten gold down his throat in mockery of his wealth. Parthia, the country that had annihilated the army of Marc Antony, starting his long fall from power.

  Parthia, the country Julius Caesar was on the eve of setting out to conquer, considering that a victory there would be his greatest achievement.

  But I, Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, had done what none of these national heroes had managed to do.

  L

  There were a thousand details to manage, and I relished tackling them all. To absorb myself in choosing the exact degree of whiteness of the robes, the length of the palm branches to be carried in the Forum, the thickness of the gold foil to be applied to the wood in the Theater of Pompey—all these purged my mind, channeling it away from the places to which it wanted to return, the loss of Poppaea, the perfidy of the conspirators. Nothing could ever restore that fullness of content, of trust, shattered and lost forever. But to dwell on it only increased its power; better to lose myself in what I realized was trivia, but diverting trivia.

  Oh, how I imagined what Poppaea would say. How she would comment on all these details, teasing me and suggesting changes. As I looked around the room, seeing the empty couch where she liked to sit, the unpressed cushions mocked me.

  What I would give to speak to you on the most trivial subject. But no amount of gold, nothing I possessed, would make such a swap possible.

  And the conspirators, some rotting in their graves, others a tidy pile of ashes in urns—for how long would I continue to see their features stamped on living senators and soldiers, invading and tainting the present?

  Agitated, my morning disturbed, I turned back to the charts drawn up for the ceremony in the Forum, and all that would follow.

  There were people moving about the chamber, fussing with curtains and trays, gliding soundlessly about. More distractions. I turned around and saw them, looking like a lot of mice, scurrying here and there. And then, among them, in the shadow of a corner—Poppaea.

  I strained to see. Could a ghost move among the living? But no. It was Sporus. I motioned for him to come over to me. The dim light did nothing to dispel the impression that it was she, she herself.

  “Take a look at this chart,” I said, pointing to the one with sketches of the tunics. I waved the other attendants away.

  Come closer. Let me see you. Come back to me.

  He smiled, happy to look, to give an opinion. He bent his head over the drawings.

  “These are for the morning at the Forum?” he asked.

  “Yes. We will give out the tunics the night before, so the people can spend the night there, already waiting and attired at the first light of dawn.”

  “As the night gradually flees and the sky turns purple and then opalescent, the robes will glow,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “But we must have a clear sky.”

  “The gods will grant it,” he said. “I am sure of it.”

  The voice. The words. As she would say them. As she was saying them.

  He stood and we looked at one another, our faces on the same level. I bent toward him—toward her—and kissed her full on the mouth. It felt the same.

  Instantly I recoiled. Was I mad? This was another person entirely. But was it? The resemblance—more than a resemblance, an exact reproduction. But no. Not exact. No.

  “Forgive me,” I said. “It was�
��it seemed—”

  He touched my shoulder. “I miss her, too. We mourn together. If I can ease your grief, I am honored. And if I can make her live again, my own grief is lessened.”

  I waved him away, shaking my head. What had I done?

  But for that moment, my pain had vanished.

  And now that I knew it could vanish, how could I keep from seeking that solace again?

  When word came that Tiridates was within a hundred miles of us, I had a two-horse carriage meet him to convey him and his queen south to Naples, where I would receive him. I went early, always eager to be in Naples. I visited the site where Poppaea’s shrine was being built; work was proceeding apace, and the foundations of the building were already laid. Soon the columns would rise.

  The shrine would commemorate her life and divinity. The memory of the living Poppaea would be subsumed into this inert structure, while the warm breathing one . . . the warm breathing one lingering on in another guise, in another being . . . was she still with me after all?

  * * *

  • • •

  At last I gazed upon the face of Tiridates, so long almost a make-believe figure to me. He was a dark-eyed, short, wiry man, a few years older than me but still young, somewhat bandy-legged but quivering with energy. His queen, wearing a golden helmet to comply with Roman custom rather than the veil traditional to her culture, kept mostly silent, so unlike our chattering Roman women.

  I was relieved that he spoke Latin, for I certainly did not speak Parthian, and it is always better to forgo a translator. We were able to converse quite freely, and he told me of his country and its neighbors, Colchis and Pontus. He invited me to visit Armenia, and on impulse I accepted, which led him to propose that we launch a joint exploratory military campaign through the Caucasian Gates, which lay just north of Armenia and from which we could smash the troublesome Alani tribe.

  “You can name your legion the Phalanx of Alexander the Great,” he said. “Have only very tall soldiers.” He leaned over and whispered, “People in my region are short, and this would strike fear into them.”

  I laughed. “Alexander, alas, was short himself. So the name would hardly be descriptive.”

  “What matter? Who will know?” He smiled. “He has grown tall in legend.”

  I liked the man. I liked him even better when, at the exhibition games put on in his honor at Naples, he displayed his archery skills in killing two bulls with a single arrow.

  “The Parthians are known for their prowess in archery, but I have never witnessed anything like this,” I told him. “The person I admire most in the Trojan War was Paris, and he was an archer.”

  Tiridates laughed, showing little white teeth. “He did what the heroic Hector could not, slaying Achilles. Arrows are mightier than swords.”

  “The modern usually destroys the antiquated,” I corrected him. “Or, it is always safer to kill from a distance.”

  * * *

  • • •

  All was in readiness in Rome; I waited in satisfaction that the next day was the day. I had a new imperial purple toga at the ready, and for once I did not mind wearing it. The wreath made from fresh-gathered branches from my sacred imperial laurel at Livia’s house was plaited and rested on a golden tray.

  Helios tiptoed in at the dividing line between day and night, when the sky dims and the first stars appear.

  “Caesar,” he said, bowing, “all the signs of rain are with us—there is a ring around the moon. The hawks are flying low, and seagulls are flying inland.”

  I leapt up and went to the window. Sure enough, there was a halo around the moon. And the breeze hitting my face felt damp. Curses! We would have to postpone the ceremonies.

  “Notify the Praetorians, and halt handing out the tunics,” I said. “There must be clear skies for this!”

  “Caesar, I have already warned them about it. They only await your official orders.”

  I nodded. He seemed to anticipate everything. “Good,” I said. “You are resourceful. I appreciate that.”

  But oh! What a disappointment. Things postponed lose their luster.

  In the morning the skies were leaden but no rain fell, and by late afternoon the sun was out. The ceremonies would proceed the next day. That night the city was lit with torches and garlands hung from buildings, and the streets were thronged with people. Celebrants, clad in their white robes, poured into the Forum where they would wait all night, and stood on the rooftops of all the surrounding buildings, so thick the roof tiles could no longer be seen.

  I awoke very early, before the sun even tinted the eastern sky. I needed to be attired and waiting with the guards and senators long before the procession actually got under way through the Forum. There had been no rehearsal, for that would spoil the element of surprise. So the first time had to be perfect.

  The new toga, rich purple from the dye of a thousand snails, draped lightly around me. The smooth laurel leaves circled my head and felt cool against my hair. Their subtle scent spoke of solemnity.

  Now I would go forth to complete the Neronian triumph of diplomacy.

  By the time I stood with my companions at the eastern entrance to the Forum, the sun was just about to rise. We made our slow way toward the Rostra at the western end, walking in pairs. The cohorts of soldiers in parade dress fanned out through the Forum to direct the crowds, and I ascended the Rostra and took my seat on the magisterial chair, surrounded by military standards.

  The sun suddenly burst out from the clouds, hitting the white garments of the people in the Forum, flashing off the armor, weapons, and standards of the soldiers, hitting me full in the face. Tiridates appeared at the far end, walking through a lane of soldiers, then stopping at the foot of the Rostra where he and his entourage did obeisance to me.

  “Master, I am the descendant of Arsaces, brother of the kings Vologases and Pacorus, and your slave. I have come to you, my god, worshipping you as I do Mithras. The destiny you spin shall be mine, for you are my Fate and my Fortune.”

  The crowd gave a mighty roar, and when it subsided, I stood, looked down upon him, and said, “You have done well to come here in person, so that you might enjoy my grace. For what neither your father left you nor your brothers gave you and guarded for you, this I give you freely and I make you King of Armenia, so that you and they may understand that I have the power to take away kingdoms and to bestow them.” I then motioned for him to ascend to the Rostra by the special ramp that had been built and to sit at my feet.

  He did so, moving supplely, and took his place at my feet. I bent over, took his hand, and raised him up, while I stood with him. I removed his tiara and replaced it with a diadem, and shouts of celebration rung out, resounding in the Forum and the open air.

  “Rome crowns you,” I said. “And with this diadem, all nations know you are recognized as the legitimate king of Armenia.”

  Now I would lead on to the gilded theater, I who had been equated with Mithras, the eye of the sun. The Golden Day would continue, blessed by Sol.

  He—Sol—shone down upon us as the people processed to the theater, in orderly files, to take their appointed places within. There was room only for eleven thousand people, and thus, unfortunately, attendance was limited.

  After enough time had passed for the audience to be seated, Tiridates and I descended from the Rostra and made our way through the cheering crowds, a dazzling sea of white with splashes of green from the waving palm branches.

  “This was worth the nine months’ journey,” he said. “We hear of the splendor of Rome but few of us have seen it, and the only crowds of Romans we know are the legions of soldiers come to fight us.”

  “From now on, our legions fight with you,” I assured him. I dodged as a shower of roses was flung over us, with cries of excitement.

  “Rome is so wealthy she can even trample roses underfoot,” he said in wonder, as he s
tepped on them, crushing the petals beneath his boots. The drowsy warm scent surrounded us. Then we passed on.

  The great facade of the theater was hung with garlands; we stood before it for a moment, then entered. The sun was almost directly overhead, shining through the purple silk awning stretched across the open air, bathing the interior with violet light, giving the white robes of the audience an otherworldly glow.

  We stepped into the theater, and the audience rose, cheering. Once inside, my eyes were bedazzled by the luminous glow of the gold walls that seemed to pulsate. And above, pictured on the purple awning, myself in a chariot surrounded by stars, all in gold. I turned once around, basking in the beauty and symbolism.

  “Mighty Imperator!” the people cried, rising to their feet. “Imperator!”

  Imperator. I now could assume the title, meaning supreme victorious field commander, permanently by popular acclamation. So be it. I held up my hands for silence. “I humbly accept the title, by your bestowal. And we are here to celebrate this great moment in Roman history, a conciliation between us and our ancient enemy, and the gift of peace. Peace all throughout the empire. As such, I will close the doors of the Temple of Janus.”

  “This is truly the Golden Day!” they cried. “We are surrounded by gold, immersed in it! And peace, a golden moment, crowns it!”

  Tiridates and I ascended the stage, and ceremonies of speeches and gift exchanges followed. As I looked out over the rows of white-clad spectators, the sunlight moving slowly across them as Sol made his journey in the sky above, I felt transported. The warmth of the sun on my head seemed to anoint me. All will be well. The troubles are over and gone, and sun returns after the storms.

  Tiridates presented me with a prized possession, a Parthian sword, encased in an enameled scabbard. Handing it to me, he said, “It is a match to mine. We can carry our swords when we march through the Gates of the Caucasus as brothers.”