The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  I had to admit, the idea beguiled me. Perhaps if one lives long enough, one finds delight in discarded ideas after all.

  I presented him with a Roman counterpart, a finely wrought gladius in a jeweled scabbard.

  Speeches followed, dull ones by ambassadors and senators. The sun shifted from overhead to west. People began to fidget; I could see the movement in the audience. There was one thing left to do.

  A herald stepped forward and said, “In closing, the emperor will perform a poem he has written for the occasion.”

  I had worked on the poem, and its accompanying music, for some time, along with several others I was practicing to perform in Greece. It had been difficult to enter into that frame of mind, but if I could not harness my energy to create material, I could not think of going to Greece.

  The cithara was placed in my hands, and I took it reverently, passing the strap over my shoulder and positioning the instrument so my left arm supported its weight. I looked out at the audience.

  Apollo, Sol, guide the hands and voice of your son if you want him—and you—to be honored.

  I began. For the first moment the old terror, the old awkwardness, seized me, and then Apollo enveloped me and they vanished, and there was only the music and the poetry and the joy of expressing them. I was freed from where I stood, an earthly creature, and soared into the realms of imagination and eternity.

  LI

  I never left them. In all the hours that followed, I was still transported, not really of this time and this place, although I trod the stones of the streets and stood on the mosaics of the banquet hall. But a glow suffused them, so they seemed unreal, and my actions likewise. Was this a protective shield given me by Apollo?

  Still in my Triumphator’s robe, with crowds behind me, I climbed the steep hill to the Temple of the Capitoline Jupiter, standing before his statue. I removed the laurel wreath from my head, feeling its smooth leaves slide away, and laid it before the marble feet of Jupiter.

  Here is my Triumph crown of the sacred laurel, my offering to you. Accept the symbol of this personal Triumph, a departure from tradition.

  Did its leaves quiver, or was that just the breeze? I was used to gods now, to their silences and their whims, their favors and their desertions, and would not stay to fret about it. I could only offer what I had, and what I was, and there was no arguing with a god’s decision.

  Now I must perform a duty not as emperor but as Pontifex Maximus, and a place was provided for me to change into the appropriate robes, then set out for the Temple of Janus near the Forum. Back down the hill, and the shadows were long now, stretching out, as the glorious day of Sol was coming to its end. I must perform this rite while it was still daylight. But in May the light lingers long.

  I reached the temple just as the last warm rays of sunshine were caressing it. I turned to the people, still in their white robes, still filling the streets and Forum, now bathed in the rosy light of sunset.

  “Good people of Rome!” I said. “I am come here today to celebrate a profound accomplishment—the entire empire is at peace. There is no war anywhere. From the wilds of Britain to the cataracts of the Nile, from the sands of Persia to the Pillars of Hercules in the west, strife has ceased. Therefore we can shut the doors of the temple of the god Janus.”

  Cheers went up, and the now-bedraggled palm branches waved.

  “Why do we open and shut the doors, and what have they to do with peace or war?” I asked them.

  “Janus has helped us in times past!” a man called.

  “True. He is the god who guards the inside and the outside, the east, west, north, and south, what is past and yet to come. Endings and beginnings. But long ago he caused a torrent of boiling water to surge forth from his temple and overwhelm our Sabine enemies. So we leave his doors open when we are at war, so he can help us again. When we are at peace, and do not need his aid, we can close them. I do so now, for the first time since the days of Augustus.”

  I turned and faced the ornate bronze double doors, now gaping open on their hinges, with a statue of the two-headed god inside—the two faces of Janus, looking forward and backward. A ray of sun slanted into the interior.

  I could not stretch my arms wide enough to pull both doors, so I closed them one at time. They creaked and groaned, their hinges rusty. They were extremely heavy and it took all my strength to move them, but only the Pontifex Maximus could do it. The first door clanged into place, making a hollow ringing noise. The second followed, fitting itself beside the first, sealing the interior shut. Now that they were closed, I could marvel at the fine bronze work, the six panels on the door with a large arch at the top. One of the acolytes then hung a garland across it in celebration.

  “It is done!” I said. “May the peace last forever!”

  Oh, what a dream.

  * * *

  • • •

  The formal banquet would be held at the Golden House pavilion—where else? I had spent little time in it since the horror of Poppaea’s death there, but I could hardly abandon it, for political reasons. People had murmured against the expense and the expanse of it, and not to use it now would be foolhardy.

  Consulting not only with Helios and Epaphroditus but also with the head cook of the imperial kitchen, I had settled on a menu that included Parthian dishes, incorporating even the costly and rare silphium plant. I had also engaged Parthian minstrels to provide music, as I understood that their culture set great store by it.

  For the invited guests, I had, albeit reluctantly, invited the senators, as well as the ranking Praetorians, and scholars who studied eastern literature and history to mingle with the Parthian entourage. I had also made sure to include translators.

  As this was a diplomatic and formal occasion, I kept on the Triumphal purple toga and wore a wreath of gold laurel leaves. The dusk was thickening as I stood in the courtyard waiting to welcome the guests. Torches flared all up and down the long facade, and the sweet winds of May swept up from the blooming gardens below, warm kisses of perfume.

  I fairly ached from loneliness. But here came my guests—a thousand people, but no one who could make this feeling abate. Still, it was better to be surrounded by noise, light, and music than to be alone, if only a little better.

  A tinkle of chimes signaled the approach of Tiridates and his company. He had changed into formal regal Parthian wear: multicolored layers of tunics, vests, and overcoats, loose billowing pantaloons, and red leather shoes. He proudly wore the just-bestowed diadem on his elaborate headdress. In the interval between the Temple of Janus ceremony and the banquet, he had had his beard dressed with jewels and curled; likewise his hair, which protruded from the headdress and hung to his shoulders.

  “My brother,” he murmured, leaning forward to bestow a ceremonial kiss on my cheek. I did likewise with him. “My queen,” he said proudly. Beside him, a woman with dark eyes bowed her head. She now wore a veil that made it hard to see the rest of her features.

  Behind him were lined up his senior officials, his envoys, and Zeus knew who else—we emperors and kings have many in our trains.

  Soon the Romans arrived, their jaded eyes open wide with curiosity. Quickly the noise of many voices was reverberating off the walls and the Parthian minstrels could scarcely be heard over the chatter. But that the guests were engaging with one another was the important thing.

  “You are another Alexander,” said Tiridates, suddenly by my side. “Look! Togas and pantaloons, side by side! Bare heads and conical hats. Shall we have a mass wedding, like Alexander did in Susa? Having his Greek officers marry the daughters of Persian nobles?”

  “How many nobles here brought their daughters?” I asked. I looked around; there were many Parthian women.

  “Quite a few,” he said. “They were curious to see Rome.”

  “Curious enough to remain here with a Roman husband?” I asked. I did not men
tion that such a marriage would be illegal in Roman law, which did not recognize the union of a Roman citizen with a foreigner. Marc Antony found that out, as had even the Divine Julius.

  Tiridates laughed. “Who can say, until we ask them?”

  We strolled over to one of the tables displaying some of the dishes to be served. Mounds of Parthian beans, Parthian lamb, and Parthian bread were the centerpiece, arranged on gold platters.

  Tiridates helped himself to a tidbit.

  “How authentic is it?” I asked. “My cook could only work from guesswork.”

  He nodded. “It comes close,” he said diplomatically. “I can taste the silphium. However did you come by it? We have to substitute asafoetida.”

  “We have our ways,” I said. The truth was, it was almost impossible to obtain, had cost a fortune, and had strained the business connections of our source in Cyrene.

  “Mmm,” he said, savoring the taste. “Like Alexander, you can do the impossible.”

  What was he leading up to? Or was this just routine eastern flattery?

  “Not always,” I said, waiting for the request.

  “About the new legion,” he said.

  So that was it. “What about it?”

  “I was serious when I proposed the joint venture. As you know, we have been threatened by the Alani tribes just north of us, over the Caucasian Mountain pass. I know Rome wants to settle the Black Sea piracy problem once and for all, and you can only do that by encircling the sea and putting an end to the independent countries there. So your interests coincide with ours. If you contribute a legion, and we contribute our archers and horsemen, we could cross the pass and destroy the Alani, expanding our territory and ending the threats to both of us.” He grinned, his lips spreading his bushy beard wide.

  It was an inviting proposal. “It has many things to recommend it,” I admitted. As it stood now, Rome controlled the lands encircling the western part of the Black Sea, but if we could control the eastern portions as well we could close the gap and turn the sea into another “Roman lake” like the Mediterranean. The Alani tribes lurking near the Black Sea could not stand up to Roman legions, and so we had little to lose. That part of the world had beckoned and beguiled Alexander himself. The campaign would be at best an adventure and at worst a waste of time. But it would confer Alexander-like glory on me and give me military laurels at last.

  “Before I depart, we should make an agreement. While we are standing face-to-face, not thousands of miles apart, where messages take weeks to go back and forth, if they arrive at all.”

  I nodded. “I believe in swift decisions,” I said. “But for tonight, we must concern ourselves only with the entertainment and protocol. It is time to announce the banquet and the order of seating. We will revisit this question in privacy.” I signaled for the master of ceremonies to address the company and for the servers to bring out all the dishes.

  The royals would dine from a long table, in keeping with eastern custom, on a dais built at one end of the hall; others had a choice of Roman couches or smaller tables, whichever they preferred. Tiridates and I would sit side by side in the center of the table, looking out at the rest of the diners. I had provided drinking rhytons for the Parthians, although the Romans were welcome to drink from them as well. Most were decorated with animal heads—bulls, lions, boars, and griffins.

  The presenter held up the platters of special Parthian dishes and described them, but in truth they were not unfamiliar to us in Rome; they were already a popular novelty.

  I was eager to speak to Tiridates about horses, as the Parthians were renowned horsemen.

  “Well, as the saying goes,” he said, “we learn to ride almost before we can walk.” He held up the rhyton, inspecting it. “Because we can’t put a rhyton down, since it has no flat bottom, we have to drink it fast. I suppose that is why we end up so drunk.”

  “Don’t do that here, or you will be thought truly barbarian!” I warned him.

  “What, the Romans don’t get drunk? You can’t expect me to believe that. I have heard much about your drunken parties.”

  “All true, but we like to imagine we are more refined.” I took a sip from my own, footed goblet. “You see. No need to gulp.” I smiled. “But about the horses. It is curious that you ride them, one man on one horse, whereas we harness them to pull chariots.”

  “Do Romans not ride, then?” He seemed puzzled.

  “Yes, in the cavalry, but most of those are auxiliaries, not Romans, although they serve in the Roman army. And of course some ride for travel, or as couriers, or as acrobats in circus stunts. But we don’t often race on horseback.”

  “It is strange how different customs arise,” he said. “I understand you race chariots. Did other emperors do that?”

  The servers put down platters of Parthian chicken, Parthian beans, cucumbers, and melons before us and refilled our drinking vessels.

  I laughed. “Now I know you are a foreigner! No! And it is considered scandalous that I do. But having endured the scandal, I have no plans now to stop racing. In fact, I am going to race here at the games celebrating the treaty. The Greens have invited me to race in their colors, a great honor.”

  “So I will be able to watch?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. “What horses do you have in your team?”

  I told him about the selection I had made, and he nodded approvingly.

  “And here’s a secret.” I leaned toward him. “I am training to race a ten-horse chariot.”

  Now he looked surprised and impressed. “Where?”

  “At Olympia. I am going to Greece soon to compete in the games there.”

  “Now that is something I would love to see.”

  “Come with me, then. Delay your return to Armenia.”

  “I am tempted. But a new crown needs to be guarded for a while. I need to return to make sure my title is secure.”

  “I understand.” He spoke true. Nothing is more wobbly than a newly minted crown.

  The banquet proper being over, the gathering devolved into a drinking party. Tables were cleared away, the Parthian minstrels stopped chanting and lamenting, and acrobats and dancers took their place. Amphoras were wheeled out, and stacks of cups were set by. Both red and white wines, plain and flavored, were offered. So, too, was the barbarian favorite, beer. It was all there for the taking—and more taking. The Parthians contributed their own magicians and fire-eaters to entertain us, and under the flickering yellow light of hundreds of oil lamps they wavered before us.

  The crowd was close around me, but Tigellinus and Nymphidius were keeping a keen watch. The days when I could carelessly assume no one wished me harm were as dead as the conspirators. But even so I felt a slight pull on my clothing, subtle but there. I stood very still, pretending to watch the fire-eater standing on his hands in the circle before me, but holding my breath. There. It came again—the tug on the back of my toga. Even through the layers of cloth, I could feel it. Such is the sharpened power of discernment that comes after barely escaping assassination. I waited for it to come again. When it did, I whirled around, grabbing the back of someone bent over the hem of the toga, cutting it with a small knife.

  I should have yelled “Assassin!” but I was too stunned. Instead, by instinct, I yanked the person up and shook her. Yes, it was a woman. She glared at me.

  It was Statilia Messalina, Vestinus’s widow. I twisted the knife out of her hand, forcing her to expose her palm, which clutched a small cut square of the gold border of the toga.

  No one around us had noticed. It had happened so swiftly and silently that it had not even interrupted the entertainment.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. I had not seen her since the trial of the conspirators, and I had not invited her to the banquet. I’d assumed she was in mourning and would not want to come to such a celebration, especially one hosted by me.

  She
continued staring defiantly at me, saying nothing.

  “Answer me, or I will turn you over to the guards, who will make you talk.”

  “Like you made the innocent people talk in their trials?”

  “They weren’t innocent,” I said.

  “My husband was,” she answered.

  I looked around. We needed to leave this room so we could talk privately. I kept a hold on her arm and steered her out a door at the far end. I nodded to the guards. “It is all right,” I said. “She feels faint, and we will go outside for fresh air.”

  Once outside—although there were other guards posted nearby—I let her go. “Now tell me.”

  She rubbed her arm. “How trusting you are, still. I may have another knife, a bigger one than the one meant for cutting cloth.”

  “I doubt it.” I waited. She stayed silent. “If you did, you would have cut me rather than the cloth.”

  “I needed the cloth, and it can do the job of a knife well enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A little patch of the imperial toga, worn on a day of self-congratulation and smugness, carries with it all the traits of its owner.”

  She was going to curse me. She wanted the piece of toga as something that not only had been on my person but had symbolized my office.

  “This makes you a traitor, too,” I said. “For you know the law—anything that endangers my person is lèse-majesté and is treason.”

  “The law. What do I care for the law?”

  “Be careful what you say,” I warned her. “Do not doom yourself with hasty words.”

  “I have already doomed myself. I have been caught. Come, do what you will with me. Call the guards!” She started to gesture to them. Once again I grabbed her arm.

  “That is too easy,” I said. “You will tell me exactly why you tried to kill me. I deserve that much. And this is no court; only I will hear you.”

  She took a deep breath, thinking. I remembered how I had enjoyed her company at the races and her words at the opening reception for the Domus Aurea, telling me I had done well to race the chariot. She had seemed to be a sympathetic and wise friend, able to see beyond the obvious and the mundane. Someone, even, to confide in. So this stung more than if she had been someone else.