The Confessions of Young Nero

by Margaret George

  “Uhh . . . he fought a great sea battle against Augustus, at Actium, and he lost.”

  “More than that, he fled back to Egypt, rather than falling on his sword as any self-respecting Roman general should do,” finished Silanus. “Before he had defected to the east, he had married Augustus’s sister. He left two fine daughters behind, Antonia the Elder and Antonia the Younger. You are descended from both of them. Never forget you are the heir of the Roman Marc Antony, not the debauched and debased Greek one.”

  He was so fierce about it I nodded just to get him to look away. Finally he did, standing up and telling Paris to get back to his regular lessons with me, and none of that Greek nonsense.

  After he was safely gone, I said, “But what happened to Marc Antony back in Egypt?”

  “Augustus pursued him there and he died. He is buried in Egypt, not in Rome. Now, Egypt is a very interesting place—there are ancient ruins and huge pyramids—many tombs—and all in all, not a bad place to lie for eternity.” He whispered to me, “Antony had other children in Egypt; Augustus brought them back here and raised them as Romans.”

  “Did it work? Were they good Romans?”

  “As far as anyone could tell. The girl grew up to be queen of Mauretania, and her son came to Rome later. He would have been your cousin.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Caligula had him executed—because he dared to wear royal purple in the emperor’s presence. Now do you see how lucky you were that he only threw you overboard? And that he let someone rescue you? And only laughed about it?”

  • • •

  Aunt Lepida fetched me from my room one blustery day, beaming and carrying a child in her arms. She put the little creature down, where it teetered and took halting little steps, burbling and speaking nonsense.

  “Someone for you to play with!” she announced. As if I could play with this baby, who could barely walk and could not talk. “My granddaughter Octavia!”

  So this was what she preferred for me rather than the slave children? What was I supposed to do with her? I bent down to look closely at her, and she reached out and pulled my hair. Then she started crying. An unpleasant little bundle she was. Then I saw another woman behind Aunt, peering over her shoulder.

  “Is this your little cousin?” she asked the baby, as though she actually expected it to respond. When it didn’t, she addressed me. “Why, little Lucius, I do believe you have the family wavy hair! Very desirable! As do I,” she said, fluffing up her curls. “We are first cousins, you know—very close!” She bent over and kissed my cheek. The deep fragrance of crushed iris wafted from her. Her voice was low and warm. “I am Octavia’s mother. I hope you will grow fond of one another.”

  Aunt Lepida looked on possessively. “My daughter, Messalina. Although she is married and a mother, there are only seventeen years between you.”

  “I envy you, out here in the country,” Messalina said, with her syrupy-slow voice. “I miss it.”

  “She lives in Rome with her husband, Claudius—the brother of your illustrious grandfather Germanicus.”

  “He must be very old, then,” I blurted out.

  Messalina laughed, and her laugh was as enchanting as her voice. “If you meet him, you must never say so!” Even as young as I was, it did not escape me that she didn’t argue the fact.

  “Well, so we have visitors—family visitors?” said Silanus, striding into the room.

  “Yes, family visitors,” purred Messalina.

  “Family visitors are the best kind,” Silanus said. Why did they keep repeating “family”? And why did the proper and self-disciplined consul seem flustered? “It has been a while—too long—since you have visited us. But it is hard to extricate oneself from Rome. I understand.”

  “Not so hard if one truly wants to.” She moved closer to him. Only I saw it, because her feet were right beside mine. It was only a minute move.

  “I am sure that Claudius appreciates having you nearby,” said Silanus, moving almost imperceptibly back. Why were these adults scuttling about like crabs, albeit slow-moving ones?

  Octavia let out a wail and a slave came to pick her up.

  “Let us share some heated wine,” said Silanus. “These days we crave warmth.”

  They retired to another room, and left me to myself.

  • • •

  It was hard to keep the family—to use Silanus’s seemingly favorite word—straight. There was so much intermarrying that everyone seemed related to everyone else. One of my favorite rooms housed a number of busts of ancestors and I liked to study them, so I could link a face with a name. Since they were all dead, I would never meet them, but at the same time they seemed as alive as anyone else, since they popped up in conversation all the time. “The great Germanicus”—“Antonia the Elder”—“Marc Antony”—“Octavia the Younger”—you would have thought they lived down the road.

  In the hushed shadows of that room, which seemed seasonless to me—the marble floor was always warm in winter, and slippery-cool in summer, but the air was always the same—the busts presided over that little kingdom. They were all of white marble, except the one of Marc Antony, which was a dark purply-red porphyry. He had a lot of tousled curly hair and a thick neck and I imagined the rest of his body to be stocky. He looked different enough, in his dishevelment, that I would never mistake him for anyone else. His daughter Antonia the Elder was on a nearby stand. He had never seen her as an adult; the last time he had seen her she was a baby like Octavia. The busts were immobile, forever apart.

  I studied her face carefully. I wish I could say that my grandmother had been beautiful, but she was plain and forgettable. It would be hard to remember her no matter how many times you met her. They say her younger sister, my great-grandmother on the other side, was much prettier. She died just around the time I was born. Perhaps someday I would see a bust of her and I could compare them.

  The family god, Germanicus, had a larger bust set apart from the others. He was handsome and youthful, and youthful he would remain in our stories, dying while he was governing far from Rome. Like all people who die before they have fulfilled their promise, high achievement was bestowed upon him as if he had actually earned it. I heard people lamenting the death of the noble Germanicus and bemoaning that he was cheated of his destiny to become a great emperor. But who knows, really, what sort of emperor he would have been? Promises turn sour and watched buds do not always open to reveal a lovely flower. Death saved him from being found out.

  There were many others, going further back—several Luciuses and Gnaeuses of the Ahenobarbus tribe, and their wives who had left little imprint on their descendants. As they seemed to belong to the very misty past, I did not trouble myself to study them.

  IV

  Days passed very slowly at Aunt Lepida’s. I cannot say they were all the same, because what Paris taught me changed, and sometimes it was golden and sunny outside, and other times dreary and chill and we stayed indoors, warming ourselves by braziers. But the variation was small, and there was little excitement. I could spend hours playing with my chariots, sprawled out upon the floor, and no one took notice.

  The olive harvest was one thing that broke up the even march of the days; it happened in autumn, and I was given the task of following the slaves who picked up the fallen olives and making sure none were left on the ground. In truth, it was just something to keep a little boy busy, but it made me feel very important as I searched the ground for a telltale rounded shape. Many were bruised or had been trampled, and the sweet, heavy smell of their oil hung in the air.

  “It’s liquid gold,” said the overseer. “More useful than real gold. You can eat it, light your room with it, dress wounds with it, smooth dry skin with it, cook with it, dip bread into it—truly a gift from the gods. Without it what a tasteless world it would be. And your aunt would be the poorer, too. Olives may not have the l
ure of gold, but they are a much more reliable source of income.”

  There was a commotion behind us and I turned to see Aunt Lepida walking with a man, who lurched and swayed as he approached.

  “Poseidon’s balls! It’s Claudius!” the overseer gasped. Then he turned to greet them, with a smile as slippery as the olive oil he extolled.

  “Yes, it’s a fine harvest this year,” Aunt was telling the man, who looked around vaguely, plucking at his cloak.

  “I—I—yes, I see,” he said. His eyes took in the grove of olive trees, stretching across the hills. The sun was striking them at an angle, giving their green leaves a silver-gray sheen.

  The overseer bent low. “We are honored, O prince,” he said.

  I looked around and saw everyone else bowing, so I did, too.

  “You need—need—need not bow to me,” said the man. He reached down, took my hand, and pulled me up. “I am your g-g-great-uncle Claudius, the b-b-brother of your grandfather Germani—Germanicus.”

  I almost laughed but stopped myself in time. But was this a joke? Everyone said Germanicus was the ideal of manhood, and that bust Aunt kept made him look like Apollo, but this man was a shambling wreck.

  “So we treasure him all the more,” said Aunt Lepida, taking his arm. He looked bewildered. “He is all we have left of that paragon of a soldier.”

  “I am not a r-relic!” Claudius burst out.

  “No, you are my beloved Messalina’s husband, and nothing is too good for her.”

  Oh, Messalina—that woman who had exuded more ripeness than the olives all around me. That odd woman with the uninteresting baby.

  “She is—c-coming,” said Claudius. “She was delayed in Rome but is f-f-following me.”

  “I am grateful you are bringing her,” said Aunt. “I have seen her seldom of late.”

  “The n-n-new baby makes demands. So I seldom see her, too.” He smiled.

  Suddenly Aunt bent down as if she had something of great interest to tell me. “Lucius, you have a new cousin—a little boy named—what is it, Claudius?”

  “T-Tiberius Claudius Germanicus,” he said. “G-Germanicus to preserve the precious name and show that the line goes on.”

  And that is how I first heard the name of that future rival to my life and my standing.

  Just then Claudius gave a shudder and reeled against the overseer, almost knocking him over. His eyes rolled upward and his mouth went slack.

  “Shh, shh . . .” Aunt wiped his forehead and stroked his face. Then, turning to us, she said, “He has these fits but they pass quickly. Take no notice.”

  As if we could not! I stared at his blank face, his gaping mouth. It was as if a spirit—one of those the cook talked about, demons that took control—had entered him.

  Then it passed, as Aunt had said it would. Claudius blinked, closed his mouth, wiped the drool away with his hand. He looked around to orient himself.

  “A noble name,” said Aunt, continuing the conversation as if nothing had happened.

  They returned to the house, Claudius leaning on her.

  “Nothing to envy, is it? The poor sod,” said the overseer. “Even if he is Germanicus’s brother. How did that happen, anyway? Was his mother unchaste, or do the gods just like to play with us?”

  “You are speaking of my great-grandmother,” I said, with all the dignity a child can muster. Then I laughed. “So I must choose the idea that the gods toy with us for their amusement.”

  I went back into the house, just in time to see Messalina bustling into the hall. She had the little girl with her, as well as a bundle that I presumed held the new addition.

  “Oh, Lucius!” she said, rushing to me and enveloping me in her ample bosom as if we were dearest friends. The bundle—which smelled bad—was crushed between us and let out a howl. “Here is your new cousin, Tiberius!”

  I looked at the little face and tried to smile. What I mainly wanted to do was extricate myself from her grasp. “Very sweet,” I said.

  Messalina pulled Octavia over to us and hugged us all together. “Is there any greater joy than cousins? How fortunate we are to have each other.” Then, abruptly, she let us go and stood up. Her voice changed as she called for a slave to come and tend the babies. She clearly meant to include me, but I shuffled off to one side and went to my room. As if I belonged with these infants!

  I amused myself playing with my chariots and trying on the miniature dramatic masks Paris had made for me, enjoying the quiet. It began to rain and the soft patter of the drops outside was lulling. Eventually I put my head down on my arms and drifted away in sleep.

  I had no idea how long I had dozed when I awoke, but it was getting dark outside. I heard soft footsteps outside my door; someone was looking in. I kept my eyes closed and pretended to still sleep. Then I heard the person leave and, in a voice I could just barely hear, report to people in a nearby room that it was safe to speak. Then a murmur of voices rose, some speaking at the same time so I could not separate them.

  What was so secret that they needed to make sure I—or anyone else—could not hear? The idea of such a secret enthralled me and I crept out of my room as quietly as I could. I dropped to my hands and knees so I could inch along, feeling my way, and be out of sight if someone looked.

  They were gathered in the library room, encircling the glowing brazier. Aunt sat on a stool, as did the infirm Claudius and a woman I had not seen before, but the others were standing. Having seen them, I ducked back out of the doorway, where I could hear just as well. In the brief moment I had glimpsed them everyone was gesturing and the men were pacing.

  “. . . he cannot be truly mad,” was the first thing I heard, followed by:

  “. . . it comes and goes.”

  Then: “Lately it has been coming quickly and going slowly.”

  “If it did not affect others, no one would care if he wishes to dress as Jupiter or connect his palace to the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline. But the murders are mounting. There, I’ve said it—the murders are mounting. The fact that I can say this as a plain fact is shocking.”

  They must be talking about Caligula. I could certainly attest that he was a murderer—he had tried to murder me.

  “Keep your voice down. The slaves—”

  To my annoyance they spoke more softly.

  “He was ill and I thought he might not recover. But he did. And . . . should anything happen to him, who would replace him? His only child is a baby girl, and he has not adopted an adult as his heir.”

  “It is truly not safe to speak of this. Even here. Spies might be anywhere.”

  “Then we are controlled by him and might as well admit we are helpless. Is anyone safe? He strikes at random.”

  “No one is safe. Not even anyone in this room, relatives that we are. We know he kills relatives—ask Ptolemy of Mauretania. Except that he cannot speak.”

  I jumped to my feet and rushed into the room. My fear and loathing of Caligula overcame my caution and I cried out, “I can speak! I can speak! He tried to drown me!”

  They all turned to me in shock.

  “Lucius!” said Aunt. “You must return to your room. Go back to sleep.”

  “It is t-t-too late,” said Claudius. “He has already h-h-heard and is too old to forget. But h-he has honor and will keep what he has heard to himself. Isn’t that r-r-right, Lucius?” His head twitched when he spoke but his words were commonsense.

  “Yes, sir. And none must repeat my words, either. But he took me out on his boat and tried to offer me to Diana. He called me bad names and threw me in. A soldier saved me.”

  “Do you think the soldiers are still loyal to him?” asked Messalina.

  “The P-Praetorians are traditionally loyal to the emperor,” said Claudius. “But if they should turn . . .”

  “I have heard that he belittles them and mock
s them,” said Messalina. “Will they endure it?”

  “That depends on how m-many of them he humiliates,” said Claudius. Another commonsense answer.

  “I might suggest another way, if you are willing to follow it. I assume that is why you have called me here.” The unknown woman I had seen earlier now rose. She had dark hair and was striking in her posture and composure. “My professional name is Locusta, and for safety’s sake I will not tell you my real name. I specialize in making an ambrosia that has carried many to Olympus, although I cannot say whether, once there, they are turned into gods or not.”

  “In other words, a poisoner!” said Messalina. “We would not stoop to such methods. But . . . can you name some of your . . . successes to prove your point?”

  “Of course not. I am not that stupid. So far I have a clean record and have never been convicted. But only a fool would advertise her hand in what passes for nature. You would have to trust me. I could, of course, do a demonstration for you on an animal of your choosing. And you can order a slow, intermediate, or quick-acting agent. It depends on what sort of . . . event . . . would most suit your purpose.”

  “We might do that,” said Messalina.

  “I cannot be a party to this!” said Claudius. “I cannot even l-listen to it. My ears have heard nothing. Swear it!” He looked around the room at each face, ending with mine. “Even you, little Lucius. I have h-heard none of this.”

  “Great-Uncle Claudius, you have heard nothing that has been spoken in this room. You were not even in the room!” Let us go one better.

  “So it is,” he said, limping away down the passage to the dining rooms. “Messalina, we will return to R-Rome sh-shortly.”

  “Yes, my love,” she called after him. “Rome,” she said. “These days, we never know what is waiting for us there.”

  “Do not fret yourself, my dear,” said Aunt. “You are safe as Claudius’s wife. Caligula keeps him as a pet. He enjoys humiliating him more than he would enjoy killing him.”