The Confessions of Young Nero

by Margaret George

  • • •

  Twelve is a magical number. There are twelve months in the year, twelve signs of the zodiac, twelve labors of Hercules, twelve Olympian gods, Twelve Tables of Law. And so twelve was the magic year in my life just before I stepped over the threshold into another world.

  • • •

  Just before Saturnalia I turned thirteen. Mother made much of the occasion, reliving the day I was born and all the omens. I had learned to let my mind drift off during one of her recitations while maintaining a look of attention.

  “. . . and so we will have the ceremony early, by the gracious consent of the emperor,” she was saying. Suddenly I heard her.

  “What ceremony?”

  She was draped over one of the couches in my room, languid after one of those interminable family dinners. Claudius had been carried off in a litter, dozing, to bed. This was happening earlier and earlier. Was it natural, or was Mother plying him with doctored wine? “The toga virilis ceremony,” she said. “What did you think it was—an initiation into the Eleusinian Mysteries?”

  An initiation she could never undergo, as no murderers were permitted. But Augustus had joined, and he had killed so many people their blood could have coated all the streets of Rome, so how stringent could the rules be?

  “Sorry, I wasn’t really listening.” I sat up. I was exhausted from the boring dinner. Perhaps I should have been carried off in a litter as well.

  “I have persuaded Claudius to let you assume the toga early. Three months from now.”

  “But I am two years underage. One year might not be noticeable, but two . . .”

  “You are tall and look older than your age. You will be perfectly presentable.”

  “What is the point of rushing it?”

  She rose and drew her woolen palla around her. It was chilly in the room, and its marble floor did not help. I clapped for someone to bring more coal for the brazier. Only when the slave had come and gone did Mother answer.

  “It is important that you be established as an adult as long as possible before Britannicus. This will put you five years ahead of him instead of three. This way you can be given official duties that he is not eligible for.”

  Official duties! What sort of official duties? They would be tedious. Official duties meant wearing uncomfortable clothes and listening to dull, endless talk about inconsequential subjects.

  “It will be for show only,” she said. “I am the one presiding at official duties these days. I am, after all, the Augusta.”

  “That title does not bestow an office,” I said. “No woman can hold a political office in Rome.”

  She threw back her head and laughed, her swanlike neck curved sensuously. Her gold necklace rose and fell on her throat, its ornaments tinkling. “That is what you think, child.”

  “Don’t call me a child,” I said. “If you think I am a child, then you have no business elevating me to an adult status.”

  “You will be useful in the position—child. My child.” She walked toward me, holding out her slender hands. She took my face in them and solemnly kissed each cheek. Her perfume, a heavy lotus scent, rose from her wrists. Her lips lingered on my skin.

  Then, abruptly, she turned and walked out.

  I sat rubbing my cheeks as warmth spread through them.

  As she meant me to do.

  • • •

  The ceremony went forward, I the center of it but the still point of the turning wheel, while all spun around me. It was once again March, and now I was to enter the Forum of Augustus along with other candidate boys, all older than me. The day was clear and bracing, the sky a throbbing blue, the brisk wind lifting the veils of mothers watching their sons pass from boyhood to manhood. I mounted the steep steps before the temple, alone, not part of the groups before and behind me. I was, as always, solitary and singled out. As I lifted each foot I was acutely aware that hundreds of eyes were watching me, evaluating how I moved, what my bearing was.

  Inside the temple there was only the god Mars to contend with—a far less critical judge than the people of Rome. I looked up at his fierce visage, at all the war standards and trophies, but they failed to stir me. As we came forward one by one, a magistrate and his slave removed our boyhood togas and dressed us in the unblemished white toga of manhood. They folded our old togas each in a neat package and presented them to us, with the admonition to lay aside our childhood and put on the mantle of manhood. To take up the duties of Roman citizenship. To protect the Roman state and found our own families. To serve in whatever capacity Rome might require of us. To live up to the proud example set by our ancestors.

  I clutched the bundle of cloth that encapsulated all my years until this day—a small, soft pillow—and turned away to make place for the next candidate. Then on to the hall, where I would leave it at the feet of the Augustus statue. He looked as formidable as ever, as godly and distant as last time. Was it really possible I had the bloodless blood of this creature within me?

  “Augustus,” I murmured, “if you were ever like me, give me a sign.” Nothing happened. But I would be watching for it.

  • • •

  For the other boys, the ceremony at the Temple of Mars was the focal point. For me, it was just the beginning. Immediately afterward, I was to march at the head of the Praetorian Guards to the Roman Forum. I carried a heavy shield and led them—hundreds of them—across the way and to the central area near the Rostra. I then mounted the platform, where a party of senators welcomed me and announced that I had been awarded the rank of proconsul, with the powers of a general, outside Rome and made a member of all four of the Roman priesthoods. I then gave my first public speech—written for me by Seneca—thanking the Senate for these honors and announcing a distribution of monetary gifts to the soldiers and citizens in my name. “The largesse of Nero!” bellowed one of the Praetorian prefects.

  “The largesse of Nero!” the crowd roared back. “Nero, Nero, Nero!” The voices echoed off the marble buildings surrounding us.

  I would be lying if I didn’t admit I loved it. It was a drug I never knew I wanted.

  In the private celebration later, I was struck by the change in how I was treated. Myths are full of stories of transformations—Daphne into a tree, Callisto into a bear, Actaeon into a stag, Narcissus into a flower—but I witnessed firsthand what it meant to change into another creature. Suddenly I was perceived as an adult, a responsible and influential person, a political presence. It was apparent in every gesture, every word. Only Mother continued to treat me the same way—her wayward boy, in her thrall to command.

  • • •

  More followed swiftly. There were games in the Circus to celebrate my coming of age, and I wore the robes of a general celebrating a Triumph, while Britannicus was in boyhood dress and totally ignored by the crowd. Mother had been right that the contrast between us would be striking, and she meant for us to appear that way in public as often as possible.

  That summer Claudius left Rome for three days, to spend some time in the Alban Hills, and appointed me city prefect of Rome. I was to hear law cases!

  This was too much! I told Claudius it was not appropriate, but he just said, “It is g-good that you learn. I will instruct th-them not to bring difficult or important c-cases before you, but simple ones.”

  But they disobeyed, eager to put sensitive cases before me for my judgment. That was due to my new high status—a decision by me would be more prestigious than that of anyone else, even an elder.

  I spent hours learning about the legal system and even more hours pondering the cases. To my surprise, I enjoyed studying law. It was a great challenge and an equal satisfaction to apply that knowledge to specific cases. It was also a good feeling to settle something, to find an answer, which did not happen in the rest of my life.

  Later I was to have the opportunity to argue about cases being decided. The
city of Ilium, ancient Troy, had applied to be exempted from Roman taxes. I gave an oration in Greek supporting its claim, citing the historical link between that city and Rome. The petition was granted, and I like to think I was instrumental in restoring the dignity of this place so dear to me.

  XXV

  Time flew by, months and months tumbling past in a blur, and one day I came into my room to find a box waiting. Inside were two scrolls, some legal certificates, a gold ring, and a necklace of pearls. I was fumbling through them when Mother appeared.

  “What is this?” I knew she was in back of it. I also had a sinking feeling I knew what it was.

  She sauntered over to me with the smirk I disliked. The one that said, The joke is on you. “It is for your upcoming marriage. Yes, it is time you and Octavia were wed. You are fifteen now, she thirteen. I’ve taken the auspices, and it shall be in June. You don’t look pleased.”

  “I don’t care for her, remember?”

  “What has that to do with it?”

  “Everything. And when you tricked me into it years ago, you said it would probably never come about.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “No, you lied.”

  She shrugged. “Be that as it may, it was formally sealed, and now the time is at hand.”

  “And what are these things?” I rattled the box.

  Wearing her exasperated frown, she leaned in and picked the scrolls up. “These are the stipulations regarding the marriage, the lineage, your duties, property rights, and so on.” She held up the legal certificates. “These are to be witnessed and deposited in the archives after the ceremony. This ring is what you will give her.” She handed it to me. It was heavy, bright gold, and showed two hands clasping. “And this is your gift to her. Pearls from the Red Sea.” She waved the necklace about, then slammed the box shut.

  She thought she was so clever. But she had overlooked one thing. “You can put those things away. We won’t be needing them.”

  She threw up her hands in aggravation. “Don’t be contrary. You are trying my patience.”

  “Haven’t you forgotten?” Now I would deliver the blow. “Octavia is my sister now, and under Roman law a brother can’t marry his sister.” I crossed my arms and stared at her in triumph.

  She smiled her poisonous smile. “Oh, I took care of that. Claudius had her adopted into a compliant patrician family who were only too glad to acquire a royal daughter.”

  Oh, gods. She had bested me. And all this time I had floated in a false security. “When was this?”

  She shrugged. “Oh, a while back.”

  In secret! “Can’t this wait?” My last hope.

  “No. It must take place, before things change.”

  “Change? What things?”

  “Things we can’t foresee. That is the dangerous game fate plays with us. We must fortify ourselves against disruptive change.” Then her voice changed, became soft. “Postponing it won’t make it easier; it will make it worse. Why do you find her so repellent?”

  I sighed, sat down on the cushioned coach. “Repellent is too strong a word. It’s simply that she seems an empty vessel. No spark of life there, nothing I can reach out to. And, perhaps, the feeling that she does not like me, either.”

  “Have you given her a chance to?”

  I shook my head, as if to fling away all extraneous ideas. “Our spirits do not touch one another.”

  “Bosh. You sound like a schoolgirl. In this marriage only two things need to touch: the first I needn’t tell you, the second is the legal boundaries of each family.”

  I snorted.

  She bent down and caressed my cheek, moving her fingers very slowly. I tried not to respond to it. “Remember, we have each other. No one else matters.” She kissed my ear, whispered, “No one else.” I had a near-overwhelming desire to turn my head just slightly and seek her lips. But it did not overwhelm me. I conquered it.

  • • •

  The upcoming nuptials were formally announced. Now I was publicly trapped. I endured congratulations and smutty, nudging asides from Anicetus and Tigellinus. Particularly Tigellinus.

  Since he had been recalled from his exile, Tigellinus had steadily insinuated himself with Mother—who made Claudius revoke the ban on his presence in the palace—climbing ever upward in palace appointments and special duties, always the capable executor of any task, especially the unpleasant. He had won me by taking me into the world of horse breeding and racing. Under his tutelage, I had begun driving, first a two-horse, and now a four-horse, chariot. Next would be learning to race against others. We were looking for a suitable venue, private and safe. Despite Mother’s belief that she knew everything, we had kept this hidden from her. So we were allies and, despite our age difference, friends. He understood me, or so I believed.

  His was the only teasing I could stomach about the Octavia marriage. One afternoon as we were returning from the stables, he said, “Your little bride grows paler and paler.” He was munching hazelnuts, throwing the husks on the ground as we walked. “I would not have thought it possible.”

  “Yes, she was already a ghost,” I said. “Perhaps I’ll be lucky and she will disappear.”

  It was April. There were less than two months left. Rome had just finished celebrating its founding, eight hundred and six years before; trampled flowers and fruit pits littered the streets. I was supposed to have bodyguards whenever I left the palace, but Tigellinus was the equivalent of three. Strong, quick, and vicious, he was a trained fighter. He had the strapping good looks women loved, with piercing blue eyes that never dropped their gaze in deference to anyone. His high cheekbones and strong jaw made him look noble, even godlike, belying his low background.

  He laughed. “You will embrace her and find yourself clasping empty air.”

  “I wish,” I said.

  He slowed his steps. “Even if she were lovely, perhaps you would still dread the wedding. People dread a test they dare not take.” Before I could question him, he stopped and put his hands on my shoulders, looking at me with that unflinching stare. “Do you know what to do with a woman?”

  “She isn’t a woman, she’s a girl.”

  “You know exactly what I mean. Answer me.”

  I could have said, how dare you question me like this? And reminded him of my rank. But as he was one of the few I could be honest with, his question was almost a relief. “Not exactly.” Isolated as I was, yet always the center of attention, I had never had the opportunity to learn what other boys my age were indulging in. Maybe he could fix this. He was expert at solving problems.

  “Just as I thought. Well, my dear Caesar, there’s an easy remedy for this.” He turned and gestured in a different direction. “Shall we take care of it?”

  I felt my breath draining away. Now?

  “It’s past the ninth hour; the houses will be opening soon.” He turned in the direction of the streets of the common people, right behind the stately Forum of Augustus. As we passed it, I burst into nervous laughter, having to stop and hold my sides.

  Tigellinus frowned and looked to see what was unusual in the Forum.

  Gasping, I said, “This is—this is—a parody of the tour I took with Seneca, to see all the historic monuments.”

  “Seneca! Well, Tigellinus will take you to see unforgettable monuments,” he promised me. “Much more impressive than all the Augustus memorials.” He took my hand and dragged me past the Forum, into the warren of little streets, dark from the shadows of the tall apartment blocks—insulae—on either side. The crowds were pressing, the cooking smells from the little street-level tavernas thick around us, the filth underfoot slippery.

  “Not the Rome of marble you’ve been seeing, eh?” he said. “This is the reality behind it. This is where the real Rome is.”

  Faces of all nationalities bobbed in the crowd. Dark ones: Nubians, Ethiopians. F
air ones: Germans, Britons. Olive-skinned ones: Arabs, Jews, people of the steppes. Hair straight and curly, black, gray, red, gold. Robes, tunics, turbans, sun hats, helmets, veils. Sometimes there was a flash of gold from a necklace or earrings, startling in the surrounding poverty.

  A vendor with sausages stopped us, and Tigellinus bought us each some. “You need your strength!” he said, elbowing me. He gulped his down; I thought of a snake swallowing a mouse. “Look here,” he said, indicating everything around us. “This is your Rome. These are your people. When you rule, remember them.”

  He had said the words that everyone avoided like a rain puddle. When you rule.

  “Because I can assure you, they will remember you.”

  Did they recognize me? Was that what he meant? Surely not. They could not have known who I was. Not in this mash.

  “Fortified now?” he asked, laughing. “We are almost there.”

  My throat felt dry and I spit out the rest of the sausage. Hunger had no place in me. We went farther down this street, one of the widest in that area, then turned into a very narrow one with a steep incline. Tigellinus strode to one door halfway up, knocking softly. The door creaked open. A blast of perfume rolled out.

  Tigellinus stepped in and motioned me to follow. I had a roiling desire to run the other way. But I entered the house and found myself standing in an atrium flanked with pots of lilies and papyrus. It was nothing like its surroundings; crossing the threshold had taken me into a different world.

  A slave girl appeared. “Yes?”

  “Is Vorax here?” asked Tigellinus.

  “I’ll fetch her,” she said and disappeared. A few moments later she returned with an Amazon-like creature, taller than Tigellinus, with wavy black hair and eyes rimmed with kohl. Heavy bronze bracelets ringed both her forearms.