The Confessions of Young Nero

by Margaret George

  For years I had played with toy chariots, had seen wall paintings of chariot races, but the real thing was beyond my imagining. The parade of drivers in their chariots slowly circling the course, warming up, the dust rising behind them, the spokes of their wheels glinting; the snorting and prancing of the horses, sometimes all the same color, other times a mixed team; the shouts and cheers of the crowds. Then they would take their places at the starting gates, awaiting the signal to begin, impatient and twitching and pawing the ground. And in an instant they were off, moving so fast it was hard to distinguish one from another. By the time they got to the first turn they had begun to separate, and usually at that first turn, one would smash against the wall, or against another chariot, causing them to careen off the course. I could hardly breathe when that first turn came, but then came the next turns, each more dangerous. Only when the race was over and I was dizzy did I realize I had cheated myself of air.

  Sometimes the racers had two horses, other times four. Anicetus told me rarely there were six and that he had heard someone once raced with seven, although he wondered where the seventh horse was attached.

  There were other exercise grounds nearby, too, where men could compete in contests not popular in Rome. We would stroll over to them and watch the athletes wrestling, running, and boxing, in a small arena with special fine sand from Alexandria. Here there were no cheering crowds, no money changing hands, no betting or attention. These competed for the sheer challenge and joy of the sport itself, and they seemed different from the popular charioteers. Anicetus and I would sit comfortably and watch, Rufus leaning against a pillar in the background. I was taken with the skill of the athletes and their beautiful bodies. What a pity that they had so small an audience and so little appreciation.

  “That is here in Rome,” said Anicetus. “In Greece it is different. They are revered there, and the national games—the Panhellenic Games—have the same excitement as the chariot races and gladiators do here. Boys train for them from about—well, your age. Their dream is to go to Olympia or Nemea or Isthmia or Delphi, compete there, win crowns.”

  “Crowns? A kingdom?”

  Anicetus laughed. “No. Perishable crowns of leaves. Olive for Olympia, wild celery for Nemea, pine for Isthmia, laurel for Delphi. They wear them only for a day.” He paused, looking carefully at my expression. “But that’s just the beginning. Winners are honored in their hometowns all the rest of their lives—they even get free dinners—and with a statue where they competed. On their tombstones they turn their wilted leaf crowns into stone by having them carved there. The highest honor is to have won all four contests, and then you have all the crowns carved on the tombstone. They call such a winner a periodonikes, a circuit winner. It is very difficult to do this.”

  “What do they have at these games, besides racing?” It was obvious there would be races. And wrestling.

  “There’s boxing, and javelin and discus, and long jump. In various combinations, and even chariot and horse racing. But besides that, at Delphi there are poetry, drama, and music contests, all sacred to Apollo.”

  I found myself trembling, so eager to see such a thing, a wish from half-formed dreams of what I loved and what excited me. All together! Not only the body, but the mind! “I want to compete someday,” I said. “I want to, I must!” I wanted to leap up and join the men on the sand right then.

  “I am sorry to say, you are not eligible,” said Anicetus.

  “Of course I am not eligible now—I am not old enough, I would lose!”

  “You are not Greek,” he said. “You must be Greek to compete. Sorry, dear Lucius.”

  An older spectator, dressed only in a tunic and sandals, edged his way toward us. He hesitated, then spoke to Anicetus. I was pouting in disappointment and barely noticed him.

  “Please forgive me,” he said. “I could not help overhearing you. I am a trainer—I train Romans now—but once I was periodonikes and I can explain more about the games, if the lad wants to hear.”

  I jerked my head around and stared at him. He was not a large man, but he was wiry, and even though his face was lined, he moved with the ease of a big cat.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I muttered. “I cannot compete in them.”

  “But you can follow them; you could even sponsor an athlete in Greece. It is very expensive to train and then travel to the competition sites. Some very gifted athletes never have the chance to compete because they cannot afford it.” His voice was gentle, persuasive. “Besides, in a few years’ time, who knows? The rules may change. You could train hoping that will be the case. If it isn’t, you would have done something valuable for yourself. Honestly, the Romans—they simply don’t understand sports. They just want to watch, not participate: Watch the races. Watch the gladiators. Do nothing themselves!” He gestured toward the competitors. “Of course, there are still a few, and I am in demand for training them. But I would be honored to have you, such a young one, with no bad techniques yet to untrain, as a pupil—what is your name?”

  “Marcus,” I said. I did not want to give my real name. I didn’t want either fear or fawning. “And this is my tutor, Anicetus. A fellow Greek.”

  Immediately they started speaking Greek, which I could just barely follow, knowing only a few words. Anicetus was animated in a way I seldom saw him, discovering his countryman. Finally they quieted down and Anicetus said to me, “Would you like to train in the Greek sports?”

  He had to ask? “Yes, yes!”

  “Then Apollonius here will train you. Twice a week? After our reading lesson? Here? What should he bring, Apollonius?”

  “A tunic he does not mind dirtying, that’s all. We have the oil and strigils here. A headband if he sweats a lot and wants to keep it out of his eyes.”

  “Agreed!” Anicetus said.

  We fairly danced home. I would say that was the happiest of all the happy days of my youth, happier even than when I actually trained with Apollonius. For the event is never equal to the anticipation, and I was so pumped full of anticipation I could have floated.

  XI

  Claudius was back. He had followed his victorious army across the sea and into Britain, claiming it for Rome. It is true that almost a hundred years ago, Caesar invaded Britain, likewise claiming it for Rome, but he had not set up anything permanent there.

  Upon his return, Claudius told tales of fierce warriors in the wilds of Britain, with matted hair, painted faces, and ugly rites of human sacrifice, which the people of Rome loved to hear. In spite of the fact that he was there only sixteen days, and his generals had done all the fighting, he was granted a Triumph to celebrate his victory in his military venture, and I was invited to join his family in the imperial box. If Mother had been here, I would have had to go, but as it was my tutors could beg off, saying I was too young to truly appreciate it or to endure the lengthy ceremony. Of course, that did not stop us going to watch it ourselves, standing with the crowds, seeing it as they saw it.

  A Triumph has a very set and traditional route: it begins outside the old walls of Rome and then winds its way through the Forum and finally up to the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline—about three miles. Booty and spoils are displayed for a few days beforehand in the Campus Martius; we went to look them over.

  The Campus Martius was an open field west of the Forum long ago, where soldiers drilled and children played games; but now it was filled with civic buildings, temples, theaters, and baths. It still felt more spacious and airy than the crowded Forum and houses in central Rome. Strolling about in it was a pleasure rather than a fight to make one’s way.

  We found the flat, paved square where the war prizes were being displayed on stands and tables, guarded by fierce-looking soldiers. To my disappointment, there was little to see. There were stacks of hides, oblong ingots of tin, piles of rough yellowish stones, bowls of tiny pearls, and, snarling in cages, enormous dogs. I jumped back from one when
I saw foam dripping down between the bars.

  “What is this?” asked Anicetus, likewise pulling back.

  “The broad-mouthed war dog from Britain,” the soldier said. “Very precious. Much better at fighting than the Greek Molossian.”

  I edged up closer. The dog had retreated into the shadow of the cage and I could see nothing but the white bared teeth and hear a low growl like distant thunder.

  “They will be in great demand here in Rome,” he said.

  Anicetus gestured toward the display tables. “Where is the rest of the treasure?”

  “This is all there is. There is not much of any worth in Britain. Just territory.”

  “I gather the yellow lumps are amber?”

  “Yes, good but unpolished. But the pearls over there are a disappointment—small and dull of color. And, oh, are you in the market for slaves? The people make lovely slaves. There’s a tent of them over there”—he pointed—“filled with the most beautiful blond children. Really, sir, you should see it! I think they will be sold for a bargain after the Triumph. But first they will have to march in it. We have to have something to show, after all the expense of going there.”

  We wandered around the grounds, peeking in the tents, fingering the meager goods on display, and listening to the blunt comments of our fellow visitors.

  “Waste of money!” a fat man muttered. “What was the point of bothering with it?”

  “It’s the first new province in ages,” said his wife.

  “Hardly worthy of the name,” he said. “We ought to name it Ridiculania.”

  They meandered off, after glancing at the slave children. “We don’t need any more, Quintus!” said his wife. “They look appealing on the stand, but once you get them home—”

  Two men in tunics were fingering the hides. “Greasy and stiff,” one said.

  “I like the color,” his companion said. “It won’t show the wear.”

  “Neither does an old goatskin.”

  “This stinks worse than a goatskin.” He dropped it back onto the table. “Is our emperor going to load these on carts and parade them around?” He laughed heartily.

  “What did you expect? Cleopatra?”

  “Don’t they have a queen there? I thought they did.”

  “Yes, I heard something about one. I guess we didn’t capture her.”

  “Or maybe she stank worse than the hide! So no general wanted to get near her.”

  “Ignorant fools!” whispered Anicetus. “Listen well, Lucius. These are the famous ‘people of Rome.’ They know little and care less, as long as there are free amusements and food.”

  We looked in the tent with the British children, some almost adult. Their coloring was what stood out in the dim light—many had golden hair and eyes like the sky in October; a few had rusty red hair instead.

  I tugged at Anicetus’s cloak. “Do you think Helen had such hair?” I said.

  “Homer does not tell us what color her hair was,” Anicetus said. “But perhaps he did not know. Since she was the daughter of a god, I imagine her hair must have been like gold.”

  “We wouldn’t need an extra slave, would we?”

  Anicetus laughed. “I suppose we could buy one, but it is like getting a puppy. It has to fit into the household and be trained. From the looks of these, they are quite wild and would take a lot of work.” Seeing my disappointment, he said, “There are sure to be some on sale after the Triumph, and Claudius may reserve a few for us.”

  • • •

  The day of the Triumph was clear and fine. We hurried across the river to take our places in the Forum early enough to get a good view. Anicetus said it was best to position ourselves near the end of the processional route; that allowed us the widest perspective. Festive garlands draping the buildings ruffled in the slight breeze. We found a place where no one could block my view; I could hardly wait to be taller and not have to worry about such things.

  We stood on the Via Sacra right in front of the House of the Vestals; the way narrowed here and that would give us a close look at the parade as it passed. It was slowly making its way through the Triumphal arch just outside the Campus Martius, skirting the Tiber, inside the Circus Maximus, making one circuit of it, then to the Via Sacra, and finally to us. We could guess its progress by the roar of the crowd. First it was far away, then it grew louder and louder, and then the first of the procession burst into view. Ranks of toga-clad senators and magistrates marched abreast, followed by trumpeters, their horns blaring. Rumbling behind them were the carts laden with the spoils of the war, such as they were, along with paintings of various battles Claudius had supposedly fought in.

  “Of course, he wasn’t there at all,” said Anicetus. “But that’s the privilege of artists, to put in what isn’t there and to remove what actually was. Or, perhaps I should say, it is the privilege of the emperor to rearrange the truth.”

  I watched the canvases swaying as they passed, showing Claudius clad in battle gear, vanquishing quavering barbarians, with eleven kings kneeling before him in submission. Someone behind me laughed. Then another, until the whole section was giggling and guffawing. A soldier turned a stony look at us.

  “Claudius has come to believe it, so I hear,” said a low voice nearby. “He has changed the name of the Roman colony there to the ‘Colony of the Conquering Claudius.’” More stifled laughter.

  The miserable prisoners marched next, laden down with chains. There was no leader or ruler to parade out, so they made do with captured warriors and their families. The golden heads of some of the children I had seen the day before were visible behind their parents.

  “Many years ago Augustus marched the children of Antony and Cleopatra in his Triumph in golden chains,” said Anicetus. “They had to walk behind a painting of their mother dying of snakebite. Or so they say. But Augustus did not drop them off at the Tullianum prison to be executed. That would have been unpopular. So he took their hands and let them walk with him up to the sacrifice at Jupiter’s temple.”

  “What happened to them?” I had heard whispers, hints, from Mother, but never the whole story.

  “Augustus’s long-suffering sister, Octavia, took them into her household and raised them. How jolly that must have been—Antony’s brood of half siblings all under one roof. But Augustus, as always, had a deeper plan—to turn them into good Romans by immersing them in a household steeped in Roman virtue.”

  “Did it work?”

  “It seemed to. No one has heard of them, or their descendants, challenging the throne. The girl was married off to another political prisoner, Juba of Mauretania, and lived out her days there. The boys? One died young; the other became a soldier and served in the army of Drusus in Germany. I heard that he lived to a great age. In fact, he might even still be alive, although that would make him—hmmm—in his eighties.”

  Before I could probe further, a great cry went up. The emperor was approaching, surrounded by lictors in purple tunics, clouds of incense, and musicians piping flutes and strumming harps; the delicate sound wove itself into the incense, a caressing of the senses.

  Claudius rode in a special Triumphal chariot, pulled by four horses. He wore a purple toga painted with gold stars, his brow was crowned with laurel, and in his hand he held an ivory scepter with a gold eagle. He looked magnificent, godlike.

  “Costumes are magic,” said Anicetus. “They can turn anyone into an emperor.” He ruffled my hair. “Even you, Lucius.”

  Then I saw them—Octavia and little Tiberius Claudius standing in the chariot beside their father, smiling and waving. From time to time Claudius picked them up to give them a better view and, holding Tiberius up, exclaimed, “Behold Britannicus! I bestow my new title upon him, my beloved son!”

  Anicetus was taken by surprise. “I knew the Senate had named Claudius Britannicus, but I had not heard about this. So Claudius wan
ts the world to know that this is the next emperor—even if he is still learning to talk.”

  “It’s bad luck,” I said. “It makes the gods target him. They don’t like people being too sure of their future.”

  “When did you become such an expert on the gods, Lucius?”

  “Since I’ve heard the stories of what they do. You cannot trust them.”

  He made a mock silencing motion, then clapped his hands over his ears. “Don’t let them hear you!”

  I lost interest in the gods as I saw Messalina inside a carriage that bumped along behind Claudius, her eyes searching the crowds, her head held high and haughty. I ducked away lest she see me. Coming to Messalina’s attention was never good. I stroked the gold bracelet I still wore with the snakeskin inside, protection against her wiles.

  More carriages followed, carrying the generals who had actually won Britain.

  Then came rank upon rank of the regular army, then white oxen with gold-painted horns, driven by priests. These were to be sacrificed to Jupiter up on the Capitoline Hill, where Claudius would also dedicate trophies of war.

  His chariot had stopped at the foot of the steep street leading up the hill. He dismounted and, supported by two men, went up the incline on his knees. By this point I could not see anything, with so many taller heads surrounding me, but I heard the gasps of the crowd and the comments.

  “Did he fall?”

  “He’s so fat and clumsy.”

  “He’ll never get up there at this rate.”

  “He’s imitating Julius Caesar, you blockhead. Caesar went up on his knees to show humility for his victories, not because he couldn’t walk!”

  Anicetus put his hands on my shoulders. “Let’s leave now, before the crowds crush us. It’s over.”

  I was glad to follow him out, sliding between people, always being careful to keep my footing on the uneven stones. The excitement of the occasion was still high, and people looked dazed. It was their escape from the dreariness of everyday, and a reminder that Rome ruled the world, even if they themselves ruled nothing. It was an escape even for the ruler himself, who could put aside his human limitations for one day.