The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  “It is not almost out of control, it is out of control,” said Gaius.

  I nodded for Epaphroditus to summon Tigellinus and several of the Praetorians. “Explain yourselves,” I said.

  “Earlier in the spring, the Jews launched protests against the taxes and began attacking individual Romans, people who were just going about their everyday lives. There were riots in Caesarea. We put that down. But then the zealots, who are gaining control of the country, stopped the sacrifices in the temple for you. Then prefect Florus went into the temple and took silver from the treasury,” said Marcus, the courier.

  The fool! The Jews had rioted when Caligula tried to have his statues put there. The temple was sacrosanct to them, and any non-Jew entering it was to be put to death. I groaned.

  Tigellinus and the other soldiers arrived. I repeated the news about the sacrifices and then said, “Continue,” to Marcus.

  “Things quickly got out of control. A band of armed zealots attacked the Roman garrison at Masada and the Antonia Fortress in Jerusalem.”

  “And?” I asked. Surely they were repelled.

  “Horrible! Horrible!” said Publius. “The same day, Greeks, in retaliation, attacked Jews in Caesarea and killed twenty thousand. Both sides declared war. Prefect Florus asked General Cestius Gallus in Syria for help, as the forces stationed in Judea were not enough. He set out with the Twelfth Legion, the Fulminata, as well as cohorts from other legions and auxiliaries. He had thirty thousand men.”

  Ah. Now surely the rebels were quelled. “Good. Is order restored?” I asked. Why had no one told me about this earlier? But no matter. It was over now.

  “No!” Gaius wiped the sweat off his forehead, which was running in rivulets down his cheeks in spite of the cold. “He arrived in Jerusalem but found the resistance fierce, and he—first he—the Antonia Fortress had fallen—”

  “What was the outcome?” Never mind about the intervening details.

  “He was destroyed. He lost everything but his own life in the retreat from Jerusalem.”

  “Retreat?” barked Tigellinus. “Retreat?”

  “He had to retreat. He was beaten. The dishonorable lying rebels promised him safe conduct if he withdrew, but they massacred his rearguard, over five thousand men, and he was forced to abandon his transport train and his artillery, which the rebels have now seized.”

  Oh, all the gods! Beaten! Driven from Jerusalem like a whipped cur, the mighty soldiers of the Roman army. The shame!

  The province—we were in danger of losing it, then. For the second time in my reign, a province might slip away. First Britain, a few years ago, now Judea. And in both cases by armed but untrained rebels.

  “Who is their leader?” I asked. Was it another woman, another Boudicca?

  “There does not seem to be any clear-cut command,” said Publius. “They fight even among themselves. There is no unity. But they have sixty thousand out in the field now.”

  This was a fire out of control, like the one that had raged through Rome two years ago. But we had better means of combatting it than the Vigiles Urbani and their wagons and buckets. We had the finest army in existence, and if we could not crush this uprising, then we did not deserve the name of master of the world.

  I listened to the details of their report, then asked that they be fed and given quarters to rest from their long journey. They were ushered out and the door closed behind them.

  Tigellinus sprang. “What, I wonder, has happened since these men left? Every day counts, and they have been gone a fortnight. A fortnight, while the rebels there roam the countryside and strengthen their position.” He leaned on his knuckles on the work table, bending forward, his keen eyes fastened on me.

  “I must think,” I said. “This is crucial. We cannot make hasty decisions, as we will not have a chance to undo them.”

  “Think quickly,” he said. “Think quickly, or all will be lost.”

  Many of the entourage were wintering in Corinth, so I sent for senators and officers who were knowledgeable about that part of the world. A day later they gathered in the meeting room and offered what they knew, but opinions differed. Some thought it was not an emergency and could be controlled quickly by larger forces; others that the rebels’ means of fighting were difficult to counter with traditionally trained troops. What everyone agreed on was that we must move fast.

  I needed a general, a capable one. Corbulo would have been the obvious one. Who else was there? Who could be dispatched quickly? Who was already at hand?

  Vespasian. Vespasian had come to Greece, at least initially. Was he still here? Or had he left for the winter?

  Luckily he was in Athens, and thus Titus Flavius Vespasian was able to stand before me three days later.

  “Caesar?” he asked. His broad face, with its wrinkled forehead, seemed stolid and reassuring to me.

  I explained the military situation and gave him the dispatches to read for the details. “You served Claudius in his invasion of Britain over twenty years ago,” I said. “But it was not your war. Now you have the opportunity to make a war your own, to wed your name to a conquest forever. I want you to take command of the Roman response to the uprising in Judea. I have utmost confidence in you.”

  “I am to leave my mule trade?” he said, smiling.

  “You can leave the mules behind,” I assured him. “Your future lies elsewhere.”

  After he had carefully read the dispatches and questioned the messengers, we met again. He would take command of two legions in Syria—the Fifth, the Macedonia, and the Tenth, the Fretensis. His son Titus would bring up the Fifteenth, the Apollinarius, from Egypt. That would make a force of fifty to sixty thousand.

  “Gallus thought it would be easy. I will not make that mistake,” he said. “I will leave Jerusalem for last. I will reduce the rest of the country, destroy the rebels in the field, so there is no one left behind us as I take on Jerusalem. It will be slow but methodical and inexorable. We will advance foot by foot if necessary, but whatever we conquer stays conquered.”

  “I wanted a wise and thoughtful general, and I have found him,” I said.

  * * *

  • • •

  These military disturbances upended my protected oasis of tranquility and escape. I sat brooding for hours at night, thinking how difficult it was to manage the empire, to contend with ambition and treachery on our own side and rebellion on the other. Now I began to question my planned campaign with Tiridates to fight at the Gates of the Caucasus. This was not the time to launch an expansion of the empire but to stand firm in its defense. Reluctantly I admitted I would have to call it off.

  As always, when something went deep with me, I tried to convert it into art, to wrestle it into another form, one I could confront. For the upcoming cithara competitions in Nemea, I would abandon the Trojan War and write a composition about war itself and its meaning.

  It is always easier to write about an action than an idea, I soon found out. Hector and Achilles, and their swords, yes. The concept of war, very difficult, partly because I did not know myself what I truly thought about war. I came from a family of warriors, the most notable being Germanicus. The entire empire was built on war. Through war Rome had expanded from a small inland town in central Italy to rule the world. We had done it through increments, the way Vespasian was going to fight the Judean War. The slow, inexorable expansion had been more solid and lasting than Alexander’s lightning conquests that did not outlive him.

  More than a half century earlier, Horace had written Dulce et decoram est pro patria mori—It is sweet and honorable to die for your country. It was the Roman theme, as well as the Greek. But so many lives were lost in unnecessary wars, wars started by the greed or vanity of one king. Thousands would die because of the stupidity of a leader. Was that sweet or honorable?

  I said as much to Statilia one evening as I struggled to compose
the words for the poem.

  “Another subversive idea from you,” she said. “That to die for Rome might be a waste.” She leaned back in her chair and eyed me, teasing as she often did. “An emperor who sings, dances, and races chariots and now questions the sacred idea of war?”

  “I don’t question war itself,” I said, picking up the cithara. “There are only two classes of people: the conquerors and the conquered. In order to avoid being in the latter, you have to protect yourself by fighting. I am only questioning the idea that all wars are equal. Some are foolish. The soldiers who die for them die in vain, yes. It is the legionary who pays the price, not the king who sent him.”

  “A fine distinction,” she said. “People may not see the difference.”

  “What people? The audience at the competitions who will hear me? I am lucky if they stay awake!”

  I began to touch the strings of the cithara. The liquid sound, as always, transported me. The notes were sweet . . . sweet . . . yes, I could adapt Horace’s words, then refute them . . . contrasting the sweet sound of the cithara and the very word “sweet” itself with the carnage of war, marrying the two art forms, music and language, into one. Yes!

  I wrote it in a white-hot heat. It was, I felt, my masterpiece. How odd that an incident I did not welcome had given birth to the finest work I had ever done. Even the melody sprang naturally from the words, and I felt joy in performing it. I would be ready when we moved to the first games of the new year, those at Nemea.

  * * *

  • • •

  Spring came to Greece in all its legendary glory. An undercarpet of wildflowers surrounded the orchards, the trees drooping under frothy white blossoms. With each wind, clouds of loose petals flew aloft, scattering and swirling. The sky was a piercing blue, the air soft and rich with the scent of honeysuckle and cyclamen. Dancing poppies around the creamy white Temple of Zeus at Nemea rejoiced that winter was over.

  Nemea was situated below a ring of low hills studded with pines and wild olive trees. Like Olympia, the games here were dedicated to Zeus, and his temple loomed over the site, framed by a sacred grove of cypress. When the games began, the valley would fill with tents, but for now it was peaceful and empty. We had arrived early.

  I stood at the starting gates for runners at the fine stadium, looking down the long track. My running days were past, but now I regretted that. The thirteen lanes stretched like ribbons before me, beckoning. I put my toes in the marble grooves that served as the start line and inspected the intricate wood and rope mechanism that released all the runners at once. Very clever. Across the way was the tunnel leading from the athletes’ changing room out onto the track. I entered it, reading the notations athletes had scratched on the stones. I win. My strength to the gods. In my mind I swore the competitors’ oath that was administered there before each race: Do you swear to abide by the rules of the Nemean Games and to do nothing that would bring shame to you, your family, or the spirit of the games? Yes. Then go forward into the stadium, and be worthy of victory.

  I walked slowly through the tunnel, imagining that I had so sworn, emerging out onto the track. The desire for the coming contests surged through me. I was eager for the games to begin.

  As contestants began arriving, tents sprang up in the valley and turned Nemea into a city. We were housed in fine temporary wooden quarters built for us, but I often went out strolling in the cool of the evening to visit the tents and to watch the athletes training. In the changing room they shed their clothes, oiled themselves, and practiced in the stadium. I had not noticed before, but a fresh water channel circled the track, so that competitors could drink or cool themselves off. Again, very clever.

  The music and drama contests would take place elsewhere, in a temporary theater constructed some distance from the stadium. Walking toward it with me one twilight, Statilia asked, “Do you know yet who your competitors will be?”

  “No,” I said. “I can guess at some of them, but they can come from all over the Greek world.”

  The setting sun had turned the Temple of Zeus rosy and softened the new stone of the theater. As I stood in a field before it, plants tickled my ankles and I bent down to pull one up. Wild celery. What an auspicious omen. I said so, taking the stem and twisting it into a circle to make a wreath.

  “How so?” asked Statilia.

  “The winners here receive a crown of wild celery.” I held it but would not put it on my head. It would be bad luck.

  “So perishable,” she said. “So fragile.”

  As was everything, I knew to my sorrow. But that does not diminish the shining moment.

  * * *

  • • •

  The competition for the champion of musical composition and performance will now commence,” a black-robed judge intoned. He stood on the floor of the theater and further explained the rules. Each contestant would perform only one piece. There could be no wiping of the face, no dropping of the instrument, no clearing of the throat. To do so would mean immediate disqualification.

  He then introduced the competitors. There was a man from Crete, another from Patrae, two from Sicily, one from Rhodes. And then came the thunderbolt. “Terpnus from Rome,” and Terpnus stepped out and bowed.

  Terpnus! My teacher from my youth, the man who had first shown me the magic and beauty that the cithara alone could command. I nodded to him. To compete against my teacher! I was suddenly unnerved. There was no way I could ever be better than he was.

  But I steeled myself. A performer is only as good as he is on that particular occasion, I told myself. A great citharoede could have a lesser presentation one time. And a poorer one could give the performance of his life.

  Then an unexpected emotion surged through me. I wanted to beat Terpnus. He had all but accused me of starting the Fire, obviously harboring bad thoughts about me. For someone to believe the worst of you, they had to have thought badly about you to begin with. I had not deserved that; he should surely have known me better than that. The cordial years we had spent together were suddenly swept away, and I wanted revenge, the only revenge that would count: vanquishing him in his chosen field of virtuosity.

  “Diodorus of Rome,” the judge announced. Another citharoede I had known and practiced with!

  So, both Terpnus and Diodorus had made the journey here but disdained to be part of my company and did not even have the courtesy to inform me they were coming, as any true friends would have done.

  More were announced, from various places: Philippi, Naples, Naxos.

  Then another shock. “Pammenes of Athens.” A wizened man tottered out, clutching his cithara. He was legendary but must be ninety years old.

  We would perform in the order in which we were announced. That meant I was in the middle, the position I favored. I listened as my predecessors stepped out and presented themselves, then sang their chosen pieces. They were all astoundingly good, but then, no one but the best journeyed to the games here.

  Think only of your own composition, your own words. Hold them in your mind, do not be distracted.

  Then it was I on the stage. I faced the audience and said the customary words to the judges.

  “I will do what I can to the best of my ability, but the outcome is in the hands of Fortune. You are all men of judgment and experience and will know how to evaluate fairly and eliminate the role of Chance.”

  They looked back at me, as expressionless as stones.

  Now it was here. The moment I had longed for and dreaded. One chance. One chance. I took the cithara, holding it on my left arm, and made myself ready. I breathed deeply. No throat clearing. Then I began, and once past the first few notes, I thought only of the message of my song and its reinterpretation of the glory of war. People needed to hear this; they needed to ponder it. It was not a song about nymphs or centaurs or Zeus. It was a song about today, about choices we had to make today—or tomorrow. Choices
that ordinary people, who fought in the ranks of soldiers, would encounter, not deciding which of three goddesses is the most beautiful. Choices that their commanders must make. Thus art can be urgent, can raise burning questions and leave it to us to answer them.

  Sweat was gathering on my forehead, running into my eyes, but I could not wipe it away. It blurred my vision, making the audience swim before me. It made the cithara slippery in my hands. Then, miraculously, the song was over.

  Suddenly my legs almost buckled under me as I stood trembling on the stage for recognition that I had completed my presentation satisfactorily. Then the weakness passed, and I left the stage to make way for the next.

  After several of them, Terpnus took his place on the stage. He played one of his signature pieces. He played it perfectly. But there was nothing exciting about it; it was as conventional as it was possible to be.

  Next was Diodorus, whose selection was melodic but whose voice was not at its best, and the rule against clearing the throat doomed him.

  More contestants, and then old Pammenes appeared, shuffling out. In a wavering voice he addressed the judges, then straightened himself and began to play. Miraculously, his voice transformed itself into a strong one for the duration of the song.

  A few more, and then it ended. Now we waited, pretending to be calm but in reality so apprehensive it was difficult to sit still with straight backs. At length the judges rose, and the chief judge announced, “We award the crown to Nero Caesar for his composition and the execution of it.”

  The sweetest words in the world! I rose and went to the judges, bowing my head while they placed the crown of wild celery on it. The leaves were cool on my damp forehead; this crown was real, not one I had made myself.

  “Nero Caesar accepts this crown in the name of the Roman people,” I said. Oh, the joy of saying it, and feeling the crown on my head.

  Afterward there was a celebration, put on by the officials; the contestants, their guests, and enthusiastic audience members milled around. Statilia, Sabina, Tigellinus, Epaphroditus, Phaon, and others from my household congratulated me, but I could tell they were surprised. At that moment, in spite of everyone here surrounding me, I wished Acte could have been here, could have shared this. Had things been different, I would have wished my teacher could have seen it, instead of competing against me.