The Confessions of Young Nero

by Margaret George

  “Tell me of her!” I blurted out. I wanted to hear something personal about her.

  He shut his eyes for a moment, and kept silent so long I feared he had gone to sleep. Finally he said, “I remember her voice best of all. It was low and melodic, like a harp.”

  As he described it, the sound of the cithara floated in my mind. I could hear it once again, clear and divine.

  “When she spoke, I wanted to hold my breath. It was that magical.” He shook his head. “But something more concrete than that? She was not very tall. She had a pet monkey she was fond of. She was good at figures—she could add sums quickly in her head. She laughed easily, and her laugh was an extension of her extraordinary voice.”

  Now he fell silent, as if he could not think of anything else to tell me. But I want to know more! I thought. I want to hear everything about her.

  “I will give you something to help you picture her,” he said, summoning a slave. The man scurried off, then quickly returned with a sandalwood box.

  Alexander held it out to me. Inside was a pile of silver coins. “Take one,” he said.

  I reached in and grasped one. It was a heavy one, and the portrait on it was the lovely profile of Cleopatra.

  “This is a tetradrachma from Ascalon,” he said. “Made when she was very young, before she met Caesar, before she met Antony. You can see what she looked like then. It is yours.”

  I clasped it. “Truly?”

  “I cannot think of anyone who would treasure it more. Besides myself, of course, and I have others.”

  “How did you know I would treasure it?”

  “Because you sought me out. Because you are the only one who has ever asked me these questions. Everyone else steered clear of the subject, but you embraced it.”

  Slowly he drew himself to his feet. The visit was over. I saw how tired he looked.

  “I apologize for wearying you,” I said.

  “On the contrary. You have breathed new life into me,” he said. “I feel more alive than I have in some time.” He put his arm around my shoulders. “Cousin, I am glad to have met you.” He opened my palm and pressed down on the coin. “Take good care of her. I surrender her and her dreams and ambitions into your safekeeping.”

  XIII

  Then, suddenly as a cold blast of early winter descending on flowery fields, my idyll of freedom ended.

  “Master, they have returned,” said Anicetus. “They have docked at Brundisium and will be in Rome in ten days.”

  Back. Mother was back. Instinctively I pulled my ivory model chariot closer to me. I would have to hide it; I knew she would not approve of such toys. I smiled—or tried to. “I am relieved that they have returned safely. That part of the world has proved deadly for too many—I think especially of Germanicus.”

  Anicetus’s eyes danced. “Alexander the Great? Crassus? The list is long.” I noticed that he left Antony and Cleopatra off it.

  • • •

  A sturdy, creaking carriage drew up to the villa and they alighted. Mother was swathed in a palla of piercing colors—yellow, scarlet, and lapis—in intricate patterns of the east. For that one instant she was a stranger, and I saw her beauty as a stranger would. Not only was her face beguiling, but her posture and stance said, “I am somebody.”

  She was looking around as if to ascertain what had changed—for the better or the worse. Crispus stood behind her, not judging, just seemingly joyous to be home again. He looked up and saw me in the window.

  “Lucius!” he called. “Come down here at once so we can know we are truly home.” Mother was silent. When I came out the door, Crispus swept me up in his arms and said, “Have you kept it safe for us? Yes, I can see that you have!”

  After he put me down, Mother came over and bestowed two cool kisses on my cheeks. “Dear son,” was all she said before turning to march into the house.

  • • •

  Crispus had been appointed consul for the coming year, so his time had been cut short in Ephesus. Still, it was such an honor that they could hardly regret it. Mother seemed especially pleased—more than Crispus himself—at her upcoming high status. Soon the house was swarming with guests at various entertainments they gave. They dove back into Roman society like a boy eagerly jumping into a summer lake.

  It wasn’t long until the inevitable invitation came from Claudius to attend him at the palace before proceeding to the gladiatorial games together. I had no interest in going, except to hope that the cithara player would somehow be there among the musicians. I did not care to see Octavia or the newly named “Britannicus,” and I especially did not want to see Messalina. But children’s wishes count for little, and I was dressed in my boy’s purple-banded toga and given many unnecessary instructions about how to act. Anicetus winked at me and said, “Just don’t tell Messalina she looks fat. Otherwise you will be fine.”

  “Is she fat?” I asked. I did not remember her being particularly so. Of course, he was out and about as a free man and had probably seen her in passing lately.

  “The life she leads is hardly very healthy,” he said. I pestered him to tell me what he meant, but he shook his head.

  “Let’s just say she does not always watch what she eats.” Then he laughed at his incomprehensible (to me) joke.

  So now I would have to watch keenly to see what she ate. It gave me something to do. And off we went to the palace, all jostled together in our carriage, until we switched to litters for the climb up the Palatine.

  There were effusive and insincere greetings once we arrived. Messalina pretended to welcome Mother and me; I pretended to be pleased to see Britannicus and Octavia; likewise they pretended to be glad to see me. Only Claudius and Crispus were obliviously congenial.

  “Savior of the east!” Claudius said, smiling at Crispus, who responded, “Victor of Britain!” to Claudius.

  “Ah, we h-have much to celebrate,” said Claudius. “When I have such f-faithful stewards as you, I know the empire is well guarded.”

  Soon we were back in the large reception room I remembered. A subtle perfume filled the air from curved glass bowls heaped high with red and white rose petals. The entire room now had a rosy hue from the filmy silk window covers that dimmed the sun’s glare.

  Mother spoke first. “We regret not seeing your Triumph, Uncle.”

  “It was mag-magnificent,” he said. “We invited young Lucius to view it with our party, but his tutors said he was too young.”

  Of course I could not betray that I had seen it all. I merely hung my head sadly.

  “I have been thinking of replacing those tutors,” Mother said. “They were adequate for an infant, but not for such a young man as my Lucius is growing into.”

  No! She could not take Anicetus and Beryllus away from me! But the truth was, she could. I was, as always, powerless.

  Crispus jumped into the awkward conversation gap. “‘Britannicus’! An honorific is no small thing. There have been so few of them—Africanus, Asiaticus, Germanicus, and now—Britannicus! How generous of you to bestow it directly on your heir without wearing it yourself for very long.”

  At that, the child leapt into the circle and bowed and capered. He reminded me of a monkey. Everyone billed and cooed and the silly thing grinned all the more.

  Just then I caught Messalina glaring at me. She had been watching me rather than her son. I gave her a watery smile, thanking the gods that she could not hear my thoughts. I also thought, fleetingly, that she did not look fat, and puzzled about what Anicetus had said.

  “I could not w-wait for h-him to have it,” said Claudius. “I will enjoy it all the m-more seeing him wear it. Now he truly is ‘the hope of the dynasty.’”

  “We all await his greatness,” said Mother.

  Then all thoughts of Britannicus and Messalina were vanquished for me, and I was rewarded for enduring this tedious event.

>   “My musicians,” said Claudius, as three entered the room, and one—oh, praise to the gods!—was the cithara player. He was clearly the main performer, and he was flanked by an aulos player and a panpipe player. They all made obeisance to Claudius and then took their places in a little alcove and began to play.

  The sound of the cithara was both piercing and sweet at the same time, like an indescribable joy. It was no wonder I had not been able to reproduce it in my memory, for it was impossible to capture. One could only listen to it, in rapture.

  But to my annoyance, the company kept talking. Inane conversation and comments, and the shrieks of Britannicus as he capered around, almost drowned out the divine sound. I ached inside for the musicians, who had to stand heroically through this insult to their art. I wanted to yell and smack the audience. Someday when I was an adult—oh, this joined the list of all the things I longed to do—I would.

  I had to fight to hear every note, and when it was over, Claudius merely said, “Th-thank you, Terpnus, for entertaining us.” That must be the name of the citharoede. Now I knew it and would never forget it.

  “M-my dear,” Claudius said to Messalina, “do they perform in any of the plays you have seen? You go so often to the theater.”

  She swiveled her rather thick neck and looked at Claudius from beneath her eyelashes. “I have not noticed them, if they were there.”

  “Tell me, Messalina, what plays are you most fond of?” asked Mother.

  “I like Plautus and Terence,” she replied. “And sometimes Ennius. Why do you ask?”

  Mother sighed. “I have been away awhile and need to know what is being performed these days. I suppose, though, it depends more on the actor than on the play—would you not agree?”

  Messalina shrugged. “One actor is the same as any other to me.”

  At that, Crispus laughed, and so did Mother, who said, “How fortunate for them.”

  Claudius frowned. “What is so f-funny?”

  Messalina giggled girlishly. “I have no idea,” she said. “Give it no mind, dear husband.”

  • • •

  The gladiatorial games we were to attend were the last of the celebrations of Claudius’s victory in Britain. I had never attended one, although in our rambles through Rome Anicetus and I had watched crowds pouring into the amphitheater of Taurus, rushing like a restless river downstream into the entrances. Everyone attended the games—broad-faced men in togas, young servants in tunics, old wives and nubile maids, and even the Vestal Virgins, who had their special section. But Anicetus did not like them.

  “They are nothing but executions in costume,” he said. “In Greece they are not permitted. We are not barbarians.”

  His prejudice made me curious, and so I was wide-eyed as we entered the amphitheater, which was packed with spectators, all of whom rose and cheered the arrival of their emperor. Handkerchiefs waved and a chorus of song rang out, greeting him. We were escorted to the royal enclosure, which permitted us the best view of the spectacles. Half the audience was in white, as togas were required for the upper classes, all sitting in the same reserved areas. Higher up in the stands the colors were mixed.

  I wished someone were there to whisper in my ear what exactly was happening and what it meant. I was seated with the annoying Claudian children, far from Crispus, who would have been the one most likely to have explained things to me. As it was, I was left to puzzle over what I saw before me.

  The center of the amphitheater was spread with raked sand. Around one side of the rim of the highest tiers spokes projected; over them a silk awning was spread to shade the spectators. It could be moved or unfurled by long ropes, worked by sailors from the Roman fleet.

  Claudius settled himself on the royal couch spread with purple; he himself had put on his imperial toga with gold embroidery, and on his head he wore a gold wreath. Messalina lounged on an adjacent couch weighted with gold and pearls. Another couch beside them seated Crispus and Mother; we children were relegated to a bench in front of the royal one and down one step. The royal enclosure had the comfort of small tables and dainties to eat and drink, with slaves standing by to fan us. Even with the sun’s direct rays shielded by our canopy, it was hot, and the tall sides of the amphitheater cut off all breezes.

  Beside me Britannicus squirmed and Octavia fidgeted. This was going to be a long afternoon. “Have you attended these before?” I asked Octavia.

  “No,” she said. “Father was away and Mother never went to them, so I did not have to.”

  Britannicus was playing with toy gladiators, one dressed like a Thracian and the other like a hoplomachus. He moved their arms about and made groaning noises. A slave, on Messalina’s orders, shushed him.

  Just then I was spared further make-conversation when a commotion down on the arena floor drew all eyes. To the sound of trumpets, a long cortege of effigies was emerging from the door, followed by purple-draped statues of the gods. The effigies were of the late emperors; as they passed, Claudius rose and the crowd cheered, acclaiming the living one. Quickly following was a wagon with the program of fights listed on a large board, then slaves carrying the swords, shields, and helmets of the gladiators. Next came carriages with gladiators, who stepped out and were greeted with a roar of welcome. They then paraded around the arena, raising their arms and whipping the crowd up into raucous cries for action.

  Officials brought out a large urn and drew lots to assign fighters their partners. Then they inspected all the weapons, making sure they were in good order. Dull swords were replaced with sharp ones and the helmets and shields were likewise inspected. Now all was ready.

  But I was not ready—not ready to see men actually die while I was looking, while the crowd was yelling, while Claudius was calmly eating pine nuts. In the first pair, the crowd demanded one man’s death and Claudius agreed. The loser took the stance of kneeling, grasping the knee of the victor, and baring his throat. Without flinching or wincing he remained still while his opponent drove his sword into his neck. Slowly he leaned back, spurting blood, and soon lay in its pool on the sand. The crowd cheered.

  Two figures approached. One was dressed like Hermes, his skin painted violet, carrying a red-hot caduceus. He poked the man with it to assure that he was really dead and not just unconscious. Then followed a man in a dark tunic and high black boots, wearing a raptor-beak mask. This was Charon, lord of the dead. He swung a long-handled mallet and smashed the man’s head. The underworld had officially claimed him now, and slaves loaded the corpse on a litter and took it out through the door designated for the dead.

  Crispus sensed our discomfort and moved as close to us as he could. Leaning over, he whispered, “It is a custom. The man was brave.”

  “What will happen to him now?” I asked.

  Crispus shook his head. “They will attend to the body, remove its armor, and take his blood.”

  “What?”

  “Gladiator blood is highly sought after. They will sell it after the games. People think it is a tonic and a cure for certain illnesses.”

  How disgusting.

  Now the next pair had come out, and Crispus settled back into his seat. These were a net-fighter who used only a net and trident to defend himself, and no armor at all, with an opponent who carried a large shield, a short sword, and wore a conical helmet. The task of the net-man was to entangle the other; but the smooth helmet made it difficult for the net to catch. Against my will I found the different defenses of the men made exciting watching. The man with no helmet and no armor was vulnerable but had freedom of movement, while the encumbered man was more protected. It truly was a test of skill.

  In the end the net-man fell, but only after clever fighting and an exhaustive chase. According to custom, he had to kneel and submit to the judgment of the crowd, but the crowd loved him and cried out, “Mitte! Free him! Send him back!”

  Claudius stood and looked calmly
about. Then he turned his thumb down and said, “Jugula! Cut his throat!”

  He then munched on his pine nuts as the man died, his uncovered face contorting with pain.

  • • •

  After that I only wanted the day to be over. Claudius continued to condemn every net-man who fell, regardless of what the crowd wanted. By the end of the day the sand in the arena was pink, since the blood spilled on it was raked over and over, but finally it was saturated and there was no clean sand to be seen.

  In the litter on the way home, I sat rigidly while Mother chattered on. But Crispus noticed my silence and asked me what was troubling me.

  “Claudius!” I said. “He was so cruel. He did not even acknowledge what the crowd wished. He ordered so many killed!”

  “Only the net-men,” said Crispus. “That is because they alone of all the gladiators do not wear helmets, and so Claudius can watch their faces as they die.” He took a deep breath. “He likes that.”

  XIV

  Crispus was kept busy with his consular duties, and I found that I missed him when he was not home. He wore his office as easily as he wore his toga, that voluminous garment that had to be draped a certain way and needed a helper to do it. It surely was the most uncomfortable covering ever devised for a man; I envied women who were spared the duty of wearing it. But Crispus never seemed overwhelmed by its folds and yardage and he never seemed ruffled by whatever debates were going on. In the evening, at dinner, he often spoke of the day’s deliberations in an amused manner, while imitating some of his shrill colleagues in the Senate.

  “They puff and pant like old roosters in a barnyard,” he said, taking a sip of his wine while sprawling carelessly on the dining couch. “Such a bluster. Such a dither.”