Have you lost your mind?” cried Tigellinus in the privacy of my rooms, where I spent the hours others were at the banquet. “What have you done?”
Close beside him was Epaphroditus, his face a map of worry. “This is a disaster! What will Rome say? How can you do this without consulting the Senate?”
I had foreseen all the objections and put them to my legal advisers. “I didn’t need their advice. And the Senate is an advisory body only, not a legislative one. Only I have the power to enact laws. I am Rome.”
“But oh! Oh! The loss of revenue. That is unthinkable, it’s . . .” “Treasonous” trembled on his tongue and was replaced by “irresponsible.”
“Greece has been a senatorial province,” I said. “I will replace it with the imperial province of Sardinia. The Senate should be pleased with the substitution. The truth is, Greece is a poor country and didn’t contribute much to the imperial treasury.”
“But it sets a horrible example! What do you think the Judean revolt has been about? They want to be free of Rome as well. And have you forgotten the Boudicca revolt? Britain wanted to be free, too. This is madness! Take it back!” said Tigellinus.
“I cannot. Then I truly would appear mad, someone who is unstable and doesn’t know his own mind. And I do not want to take it back. It was a gift. If those other countries want a similar gift, let them earn it! Let them be creative geniuses. I don’t see any poetry from Britain or great artworks from Judea.”
“They have other strengths,” said Phaon, who had just joined us. “Territory, goods we can trade, warriors.”
“But the Greeks are unique,” I said. “Their gifts are of a different species.”
Suddenly Statilia, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, sprang up. “You have blown your admiration for Greek art to ludicrous proportions. Yes, they paint lovely vases—or did. Yes, they carved beautiful statues of marble. But have you noticed? That was long ago. Now they are just like everyone else and only living on past glories. Everyone but you can see that! You have become blinded to the reality of today.”
I turned around and looked at her. “Only a wife can speak to her husband in that way.” I laughed and addressed the men. “I imagine your wives have taken you to task a time or two as well.”
“If you mean that I should be ignored, then say it!” she said. “But think of what I have said. You gave yourself away when you lamented that Greece was no longer at its zenith. It isn’t, and hasn’t been for a long time. You are in love with a ghost!” She then withdrew and left me with the advisers.
“What does this mean, legally?” asked Epaphroditus. “And when does it take effect?”
“It means that Greece is free of tribute to Rome and can govern itself, within limits. We do not surrender our right to include it in the empire, and Corinth will continue as a Roman city.”
“A small consolation,” said Phaon. “That we are not expelled, at least.”
* * *
• • •
Winter was closing in. We would stay in Greece until the seas opened for safe sailing in the spring. I allowed myself to imagine staying there forever, of sending everyone else back. But it was pure fantasy, I knew.
As the winds grew in ferocity I often went to the site where the canal was being dug. Watching the waves whipped up into a fury, I thought how useful the canal would be, sparing sailors from the open hostile sea. The workmen had carved an image of Hercules in the rock, as if to say, This is the thirteenth labor of Hercules. Certainly it ranked with the other twelve in difficulty.
I was utterly unprepared when Helios, the freedman I had appointed my deputy in Rome, appeared at my quarters, pale as an apparition.
“Are you real?” I cried, leaping to my feet.
“Yes, Caesar,” he said. “All too real, and battered from my journey.”
“I don’t wonder. This is not the season for safe travel.”
“I didn’t have the luxury of waiting,” he said. “You must return to Rome with me. Now.”
“Calm down,” I said. “Sit.” I called for someone to bring him food and drink. “Catch your breath.” I sat down, trying to model serenity. But my heart was racing. What was this?
I let him breathe for a few minutes. Then I said, as gently as possible, “Now, what is this about?”
“There is a plot. Another conspiracy. I can’t control it. You must return and put it down, or there will be nothing to return to.”
He had been sending importuning letters for my return for some time, but they had not been specific.
“Who is it?”
“A group of senators. Malcontents. And the news of the Liberation of Greece has incensed them.”
“It takes a long time to get here,” I said. “Your news is old by now.”
“I left seven days ago.”
That was well nigh impossible. “Unless you flew with Hermes’ sandals, I cannot believe it.”
“Believe it. I risked my life to come here to fetch you, Caesar. Rough seas, a near shipwreck—but I am here. If I could have flown, I would have.”
I was touched. I was also alarmed. “It will be equally difficult to return now. Perhaps that is why they have stirred up the conspiracy, assuming that word won’t reach me, and even if it does, I cannot get back in time to do anything.”
“Undoubtedly that is what they think.”
Immediately I made up my mind. “Then they will get a surprise.” I never shied from a challenge.
LXVIII
We set out the next morning in high seas that battered the dock and turned the boat into a bucking horse. Spray flung itself inland, and the foam left behind was thick as a snowfall. I had spoken of the protection the gods of Greece had given me on land and sea. Now I hoped they would continue to do so, as I was flirting with death to board that ship.
We left from the somewhat sheltered inland channel, but the moment we hit the open Adriatic Sea, the waves rose up like monsters and at one point almost dashed us on a rocky shore. It loomed closer and closer, with black jagged teeth waiting to bite, but another gust of wind blew us past it at the last instant. I clung to the rail, limp with relief. The whole trip was beset with storms, and when we finally landed at Brundisium I was too drained to have any thought other than the feeling I had escaped a dire fate. Now I had to go forward and confront another dire fate in the making.
The land journey back over the Appian Way retraced the earlier, jolly trip when we were carefree and had the games before us. It had been summer then, and summer in our minds as well; now it was ugly, icy, muddy, and inhospitable. And all the way I wondered what I would find when we got to Rome. The wagon rumbled and slid over the slippery stones while we shivered inside.
What did I expect as we approached the environs? Three and a half years ago I had crested a hill to behold the Fire. I half expected today’s danger to manifest itself palpably, to paint the sky black. But Rome slumbered benignly under a leaden winter sky, looking harmless when we arrived sixteen days after leaving Corinth.
I entered the palace, which had also slumbered, waiting for its master to return. How odd it felt to be back here, as if the Nero who had lived here was another person entirely. It was familiar but not familiar; the furniture was the same but somehow the setting felt different. The servants were effusive in welcoming me back, and, dazed, I walked around the apartments, touching this and that to convince myself it was still there, to anchor myself to it, but my mind was still in Greece.
The next morning, having slept off the exhaustion of the journey, I woke up truly back in Rome.
* * *
• • •
I quickly called a meeting with all my freedmen administrators. In addition to Helios, there were five others, but he was the one with the highest authority. Outside the palace, the December winds were howling, driving sleet against the windows. Even in the morning, it w
as gloomy enough to require lamps to be lit.
I sat rigid in a chair, watching them. They were unimpressive in appearance but had quick minds. Nonetheless they were widely disliked by the senatorial class and considered upstarts.
“Let us begin with the conspiracy discovered that brought me back here. I want the details,” I said.
“We dealt with it,” said Halotus, the next in importance behind Helios. Helios gave a start.
“You did?” he asked.
“You have been gone more than three weeks. It was urgent that we move at once. The suspects have been executed.” When Helios did not respond, Halotus added, “Caesar, you gave us power to act in your name. And we have done so when we deemed it necessary, while you were away.”
“Just how many of these executions have there been?” I asked.
“Some . . . oh, perhaps twenty,” Halotus said. “We could not tolerate the merest suggestion of a plot. Rome had to be kept safe for you.”
“To be honest, Caesar,” said another man, Polyclitus, “most of these malcontents were from the old aristocracy, a faction always hostile to you. However, our . . . severity . . . in dealing with their members has hardened them further against you.”
“We have had to rely on informers, which made us disliked, of course. But if it were not for informers, how would we know about the traitors? They, and their sympathizers, will hardly turn themselves in,” added Halotus.
I groaned inwardly. What had I come back to? This was ominous.
“What else?” There must be more, and I must hear it.
“The grain ships have been erratic in arriving, and people are short of bread. The ongoing war in Judea has disrupted shipping.” Although Vespasian was making steady progress, the war was far from over, and the region was in turmoil.
So now the common people had reason to be angry with me as well.
“I shall order extra ships to take the place of the ones tied up in supplying Judea,” I said. At least that should alleviate the acute problem of the grain here in Rome.
“And there have been anonymous placards and graffiti appearing on statues and walls,” said a short, keen-eyed man named Coenus.
“What do these say?” I asked.
He was reluctant to answer, pretending he didn’t remember the exact wording, just that they were critical of me.
“Bring me a report quoting them, please,” I said. “But take them down once you have read them, and scrub off the writing on walls. What else?”
“That is all, Caesar.”
“It is enough to keep us busy making amends,” I said. “But I have plans to share my Greek trip with the entire populace, and that should please them. We begin anew. It is almost New Year’s Day, when a fresh, empty calendar awaits whatever we choose to write upon it.”
* * *
• • •
It was customary for the legionaries to pledge fealty to me on New Year’s Day, and for me to appear before them in white robes shot through with gold thread to accept their allegiance. And so I stood on the Rostra on that chilly morning, dazzled by the winter sun striking the frost on the white monuments, making them twinkle like stars. Before me stretched rows of soldiers filling the entire Forum.
I was flanked by Eagle standards on each side and by censers emitting clouds of incense to mark this as a binding and sacred rite. In unison thousands of voices united to recite the pledge, the sacramentum.
“In the name of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, I swear allegiance to Imperator Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus as supreme commander. I will obey the emperor willingly and implicitly in all his commands. I will not depart my commander in order to take flight or through fear, nor to retreat from the line except to recover or obtain a weapon, strike a foe, or rescue a friend. I will always be ready to sacrifice my life for the Roman empire.”
I in turn said, “I accept your pledge of loyalty and vow to lead you in good faith and with courage.”
Greece was magnificent in its faded glory, but Rome, in its muscular grandeur, inspired awe, even in me, this morning.
* * *
• • •
Coenus delivered his compilation of the insulting graffiti and placards, as well as the names of the people who had put them up, thinking they were anonymous. But informers could ferret out everything. I turned the list over to the Senate but told them not to pursue punishment for the culprits. I had incurred enough animosity to want to avoid stirring up more. And publicizing the taunts might inspire more of them.
Clearly there was much going on beneath the surface in Rome; these visible signs of discontent were just a warning. There is never just one mouse in a house, although you may see only one.
My long absence had given the mice a chance to flourish. The senators had been right to worry about it. But I had brushed their misgivings aside, so eager was I to depart for Greece.
So things were now taken in hand, with Rome settled, or seemingly settled, and I could embark on the final leg of the Greek tour, the customary eiselasis, the triumphal return home of the winning competitors. In Greece, their hometowns would tear an opening in the city walls and parade their victors through the streets, showering them with flowers and accolades, for the honor belonged not only to them but to their cities as well. In my case, I had accepted every victory in the name of the Roman people and the empire, and they deserved to share my prizes with me. I hoped, also, that in my return in this new year, the eight hundred and twenty-first year of Rome, I could renew my frayed bond with my subjects.
Antium being my actual birthplace, I had an eiselasis there and was wildly greeted by the townspeople; I had come home to them. Antium was always a refuge to me, a retreat that, with its sea vistas, promised horizons that were large beyond comprehension, and I treasured it.
Next I went to the place where I had been “born” as an artist when I had first performed on a public stage, Naples, and had a larger eiselasis, the entire city filled with ecstatic people. The citizens of Naples, always emotional and immoderate, showered me with so many flowers that the streets were knee deep in them, being trodden into treacherous footing before long. No matter to them; they would cheerfully clean it up as the proof of their extravagance.
But it was Rome that would have the greatest eiselasis, an adaptation of the Triumph, remade into a parade of artistic, not military, prizes.
This took careful planning; no aspect could be overlooked. The date of the Triumphal entry was announced, along with its Greek name, but I withheld any further details. To describe an event in advance is to dilute the impact of it on its day.
Sol was kind to me, his chosen son, on the day in February I selected for the event. He shone warmly; even though the leaves were not yet open, it felt like spring, not late winter. As a token of the traditional eiselasis, a small ceremonial breach was made in the city wall. Through it marched men carrying the wreaths, palms, and ribbons I had won, with placards citing where and when. Then, behind them, I entered the city, driving the gold Triumphal chariot of Augustus—that I had rescued from the Fire—wearing the Olympic crown of wild olive, and holding the Delphic one of laurel. I was greeted with such cheers and shouts that my ears rang, and flowers, ribbons, and sweetmeats rained down on me. Beside me in the chariot was not the slave muttering, “Remember you are mortal,” as in a traditional Triumph, but a lyre player holding his instrument. Four white horses pulled the chariot, and I wore the purple and gold-starred robe of the Triumphator. Along the route the streets were sprinkled with saffron perfume. As we moved slowly through the Circus Maximus and then toward the Forum, the sun struck the half-finished statue of me that stood in the grounds of the Golden House.
Sol, thank you. I promise to give it your features.
Now in the Forum the monuments were hung with garlands, there were blazing torches, and rows of senators and legionaries stood at attention on their steps. T
hey, and the common people surrounding them, shouted in unison, “Hail, Olympian Victor! Hail, Delphic Victor! Augustus! Augustus! Hail to Nero, our Hercules! Hail to Nero, our Apollo! The only Victor of the Periodonikes, the only Roman from the beginning of time! Augustus! Augustus! O, Divine Voice! Blessed are they that hear you.”
It was head-spinning, but more than that, it vindicated my belief that Greece had been as much for them as for me. The stormy past between me and Rome had been healed, smoothed over, and now we could go forward together. Or so I wanted to believe.
The chariot of Augustus rolled slowly through the Forum, and I passed the spot where I had stood as a boy watching the Triumph of Claudius. Now I had converted his military model to an artistic one, completing my attempts to show Rome a different emphasis.
I came to the spot where the Triumphator customarily stopped the chariot and ascended on foot up the Capitoline Hill to the Temple of Jupiter to dedicate his crown. But I turned the other way; I stepped out and made my way up the Palatine to the Temple of Apollo. As I climbed the height, and looked back to see the sea of people thronging the Forum, exultation filled my being, higher and stronger than even the actual moments of victory in Greece. Nothing would ever eclipse this supreme moment for me.
I made my way to the restored Temple of Apollo that honored him in his guise as citharoede. The fresco fragment depicting him that I had found in the ashes after the Fire still hung in my palace and still spoke to me of art and its survival.
Now I fell on my knees and spoke to him. “Great Apollo, you have blessed me beyond all worthiness. I am your servant. Allow me to keep this mortal token of my victory in your sacred games, this laurel wreath, and accept this gold one in its stead.” Respectfully I held them both up. “If I can keep this laurel near me, cut from your own tree, I know it will kindle the flame of inspiration in me, directly from your divine fire.”
I looked up at his face, impassive and calm. I sensed that he would allow me this.
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