The Confessions of Young Nero

by Margaret George

  • • •

  Later that night the physician told me that Britannicus had died. “He was dead before he finished falling,” he said. “There was no hope of reviving him.”

  “A life cut short. A tragedy when that happens.”

  I gave orders that he should be cremated that night. “It is an old custom that untimely deaths are not publicly celebrated, forgoing processions and eulogies, lest it is too disheartening.” Then, as if I had just thought of it, I added, “You may use a cremation tower already prepared in the Campus Martius that I recently saw, not far from the river. I am sure whoever it was erected for will not begrudge its use for this tragedy in the imperial household.”

  It was over. I had prevailed. But now I had joined their ranks—the ranks of imperial murderers, stretching in a long line behind me. I flung off the robe I had worn. I would order it destroyed. I took off the snake bracelet. It had done its job, protected me. Perhaps Mother regretted having me wear it.

  Oh, I was weary. Weary, weary, heartsick. I flung myself onto the couch and lay staring up at the ceiling. I did not sleep but wandered in a field of dreams and phantoms. Hours must have passed. Then beside me, Acte touched my shoulder.

  I jolted full awake, heart pounding.

  She was silent and embraced me. I held her. We lay side by side the rest of the night, in one another’s arms, no word spoken.

  XXXIX

  The sun rose upon a world without Britannicus. Everyone by now knew that. I must make an official appearance, issue a statement. Looking over the balcony, I could see restless crowds in the Forum below, milling about. I could not see the Campus Martius from that angle, but the smoke from the cremation would have dissipated by now.

  I called for the Senate to meet and duly went to the Curia that afternoon. It had to be done. In the winter gloom, faces just as gloomy stared back as I stood in the middle of the room and pronounced the sad news that the young prince Britannicus had been taken from us. He had the falling sickness, the affliction of great men like Caesar. I was all alone now to carry the burden of the empire that I had planned to share with him. My hopes were now centered only on Rome, and they, the Senate and people of Rome, must make up for my loss by giving me greater support, as the only surviving member of my family, exalted now by destiny.

  I was daring the gods to strike me down by uttering such words, but it was a chance I had to take. Better the gods than other men.

  They all applauded me and swore to give me all I needed, to stint me nothing for the glory of Rome.

  On a day torn by winter storms and peals of thunder, Britannicus’s ashes were deposited in the Mausoleum of Augustus. The funeral procession was lashed with sleet and rain and was a dismal affair. I did not attend.

  The Senate was taken care of. The interment was over. But those were public events. Now came the difficult scrutiny of those close to me, the circle I relied on and who must acquit me if I were to stay in power. I particularly dreaded having to convince Seneca and Burrus of my innocence.

  The day after I had addressed the Senate, I called them both to me, to as private a room as I could find. (Nothing is truly private in the palace.) The greetings over, the refreshments offered and refused, all shields between us gone, I began. Admit no guilt was the maxim in legal cases and I must follow it here, not incriminate myself. It did not help that they were both staring at me with solemn faces, arms crossed.

  “This turn of events is tragic,” I said, “especially for my wife, who has now lost every member of her family.”

  Still they stared and said nothing.

  “Yet, we must go on. The emperor cannot be prevented from carrying on the business of the empire, or it will be a double loss.”

  “It will be difficult, bowed as you are by grief.” Burrus spoke in his rough voice. The soldier in him usually said everything plainly, without a nuance of irony, which made his words all the more stinging now that he employed uncharacteristic sarcasm.

  “We must carry on,” I said.

  “Indeed,” said Seneca. “That is the way of the world.”

  It was too good to be true. They, my mentors and moral guides, were looking the other way. “It is a custom to distribute gifts in the name of the deceased,” I said. “As Britannicus has no heirs, his estate descends to me. In his honor, I wish to present you with some of his valued property in Rome.”

  Burrus nodded, and Seneca, the moral philosopher, said, “Thank you.” Thus they allowed themselves to become beneficiaries and accessories of the crime. I had not convinced them, but I had bought them.

  • • •

  Later that year Seneca soothed his conscience by writing a long-winded essay addressed to me entitled “On Mercy.” In it he extolled my natural clemency and said I was a model of mercy that everyone could follow. What he meant was, You got away with it once, but don’t try it again.

  I honestly tried to concentrate on my political tasks, hoping that the demanding details of each project or problem would absorb me and help me forget the choppy seas I had just sailed over to safety. I embraced my Augustus side, even praying before his shrine. I knew now that he understood me because he, too, had had to make wrenching decisions and had killed a great many men before he could pose as the peacemaker. It is not good to have too many Caesars.

  When spring came, after those dark weeks of winter, it was time for me to participate in an old imperial ritual at Augustus’s house. Back in his reign, an eagle had dropped a chick holding a laurel sprig in its beak in Livia’s lap. She raised the chick and soon there were a flock of them. She planted the laurel sprig and a tree grew. After that, every new emperor took a sprig from it and planted his own tree. While he reigned, these laurel leaves were used in his ceremonial wreaths; and when that emperor died, his laurel tree withered.

  The winds were warm at last, the true breath of spring. All around us on the Palatine the grass was thickening, turning rich green. The branches of the fast-leafing trees swayed like young girls, supple and quivering. A company of magistrates stood waiting, including priests from the sodales Augustales, for this was a sacred rite. I could see the remains of the deceased emperors’ trees—Augustus’s was a blackened short stump, Tiberius’s likewise, Caligula’s taller and less decayed, and Claudius’s still had branches but the leaves on them were gone, and nothing was budding this spring, or ever would again. Behind them was the huge flourishing laurel from the original shoot. A priest solemnly cut a shoot from one of its lower branches with a silver knife and held it, waiting.

  Mother, as a direct descendant of Augustus, the only one residing in Rome aside from me, had to hand me the laurel twig and speak the formulaic words of the ritual. She and I had not met since the night of the banquet, but I could still read in her eyes her incredulity and fear at what I had done.

  Dressed in white robes, with pearls in her hair, she stepped forward and handed me the bushy twig, saying, “In the name of the god Augustus, I bid you take this cutting from the tree of his ancestral house, plant it, and flourish as emperor.”

  I took it, my eyes holding hers for a moment too long. Neither of us would look away, neither of us drop them in deference. Then I turned to the spot where the priest was waiting, with his sacred vessel to water the new-planted shoot, while I would use a silver spade to dig a little hole for it. It went into the ground and I spoke directly to Augustus, again with a formula.

  “Great god and father Augustus, look on this planting with favor. Raise it up to be a great crowned tree, and let me wear its laurel with honor for the empire.”

  The little thing looked so small and vulnerable, with such a precarious hold on life. The gods would have to protect it. They had done so for me thus far.

  • • •

  The next duty before me was to visit the Praetorian camp in the northeast corner of Rome. Burrus, their commander, urged me to do so.

  “They
need to see you again,” he said. “You have not visited them since the day they proclaimed you emperor in October.” He held up his hands. “I know you gave them a hefty subsidy, but there is no substitute for visiting them in person.”

  If he expected an argument from me, he was disappointed. Upon their loyalty my safety and continued rule depended, and I knew it. They were my greatest security and also my greatest danger, if they turned against me.

  The gruff commander and I rode out on a glorious spring day, skirting the Circus Maximus and its crowds, around the Caelian Hill where my new produce market was already under construction, then across the base of the Oppian Hill, a refreshing green spot on a gentle rise. Already the air was healthier here and I thought what a fine location this would be for a villa. Next we passed the border of the Gardens of Maecenas, magnificent grounds that were imperial property. By this time the word was out that I was riding through the city, and throngs came out and cheered. A sea of faces, of so many races and countries—for Rome is the center of all things—smiled at me, more warming than any sun could be to me.

  “Nero! Nero!” they cried.

  “I love you, my people!” I called back, and it was true. I loved them because they first loved me, and without reserve, something I had never experienced. Oh, the love of a crowd is a heady, intoxicating, overwhelming thing, and I drank it in, I swam in it.

  On rising ground outside the city, we approached the high walls of the massive square fortress and the doors were opened and trumpets sounded the arrival of the emperor and their commander. We rode into the wide thoroughfare inside and were welcomed by the next in command. I was led past the rows of barracks on each side, to the tribunal with its shrine for the standards of the empire, and its adjacent shrine to Mars. The troops—thousands of them in their gleaming military dress of leather and brass—gathered at the foot of the tribunal to hear me speak.

  I said little besides the obvious: that I was proud to be their commander in chief, grateful for their loyalty and support, and devoted to the safety of the empire, as they were. I would never endanger it or sacrifice its security, and I relied on them to guarantee my promises. I admired them and trusted them.

  The sea of faces that looked at me here were different from the crowds on the road. These were men in the prime of life, healthy and strong, no weakness among them. They were recruited mainly from the home territories, not the provinces—Roman to the core.

  My ancestors had led such men on the battlefield but I was thankful I did not have to. I did not question the fact that the empire rested on the backs of soldiers and would collapse without them, but I did not want that life for myself. There must be another way to be a great man, to become legendary, without being a military leader. After all, my ancestor Aeneas did not die fighting in the Trojan conflagration but fled to found a new city, Rome itself. My empire now had a hundred million subjects and I wanted to do glorious deeds for them, but not in combat.

  • • •

  The empire and its provinces were quiet. Except for the twelve cohorts in the Praetorian camp, most of the twenty-five legions and three hundred thousand soldiers were stationed on the borders of the empire, to protect against outsiders rather than insiders. From the provinces goods poured in, most important of all the grain from Africa, especially Egypt. When Egypt fell to Rome eighty years before, our grain supply was guaranteed. We needed seven million bushels a year and Egypt could supply a quarter of that. We had long since lost the capability of feeding our huge urban population from local supply. Now there was free or subsidized grain for the poor, about a fifth of the city population. It is distributed near the Circus Maximus. Being able to facilitate the grain supply is vital to an emperor and woe to one who cannot. Riots and attacks would start, and who knew where they might end? I had to make sure that never happened.

  Well aware of my administrative duties, I met with my chief councilors on a regular basis. They were, of course, Burrus and Seneca, but they did not carry all the responsibilities. I had the Consilium, with its selected senators and other trusted advisers I consulted on legal and judicial matters, as there were many such I must judge. I preferred to have all arguments written out and delivered to me privately, rather than argued in public as was done in Claudius’s reign. Then I would study them and render judgments likewise in writing. This system prevented oratorical flourishes from swaying the decision.

  The Consilium also addressed general business, such as public order, forgery, and sponsorship of gladiatorial games in the provinces.

  For administrative help I had several appointments. Aristocrats did not deign to take what they deemed subservient positions and so these were filled by capable freedmen, mainly Greeks. My secretary for Greek letters was my former tutor Beryllus, and I had another for Latin letters. Only governors of provinces were allowed to write me directly, and my secretaries dealt with those letters, a weighty responsibility. Below them was the minister of notes. Notes were lesser communications than letters, usually appeals from Greek communities. I had appointed Doryphorus, a handsome and ingratiating man from Kos, to handle this duty. My minister of accounts and revenues was Phaon, another Greek freedman who was extremely capable as well as resourceful. Since the post required him to manage the empire’s accounts and the disposition of its revenues, he had better be. I had Epaphroditus, another freedman, as my secretary for petitions. As you can imagine, there were a lot of them.

  Meetings with my secretaries were relaxed and pleasant affairs, with joking and camaraderie; meetings with the Consilium, no such atmosphere.

  These meetings, along with consultations, took a great deal of time, but I did not want to stint them. However, I rewarded myself by going back to my cithara lessons and by studying poetry and writing verse myself afterward. Gradually I gathered a group of young and promising poets and writers around me, inviting them to the palace for gatherings where we would read one another’s compositions, recite, and drink the finest wine.

  I seldom saw Octavia, and then only at formal occasions. She did her best never to look at me, for when she did, her eyes were full of hate. Not that she minded my seeing that, but others would. Acte had left her quarters entirely and so I no longer heard what was being fomented there, although there were reports that Mother was still fawning on Octavia.

  Acte, being free to live wherever she chose, had moved to another wing of the palace and, under cover of other interests and demands, had drifted away from Octavia. She did it gradually so as not to attract attention. Our liaison was still secret, but it could not go on this way much longer.

  Why did it matter if it were known? Did not emperors have mistresses and lovers galore? The reason had to do with us, not with custom. She was too precious to me to expose to gossip and cruel comments. I had always had a proclivity for privacy and secrecy, believing it protected whatever I loved or valued. And I loved and valued her more deeply than any person I had ever known. In some ways, being with her gave me the same joy art did, a freedom and endless horizon, bounded only by my own limitations, a place where I could be myself and more than myself.

  XL

  My baths were rising on the Campus Martius, and the gymnasium next to it. They were situated near Agrippa’s but would be much more modern. I had hired builders and designers to carry out my idea of a bath as grand as a palace.

  “Why should it not be?” I had asked. “Soaring vaults, fine mosaics, a symmetry in the halls. And in the name of Zeus, truly hot water!” So often the waters that were artificially heated, as opposed to those in natural springs, were not hot enough. The designers obeyed me so well that my baths became notorious for their high temperature!

  The covered gymnasium next to the baths also had a long, rectangular, open-air yard for exercising, surrounded by colonnades and benches. There would be a library attached to it, and niches would hold artworks. The body and the mind, working together—the gymnasium would honor that ideal. I hop
ed in this way to introduce Greek custom to the Romans. Perhaps its being next to the baths would lure them in.

  On the other side of the baths the wooden amphitheater was being constructed. It was to be larger than the stone one Statilius Taurus had erected and better made, to hold more people and give better views of the exhibitions. Mine was wooden so it could be quickly built. An enormous larch tree, about to be cut into timber for it, was now on display, drawing crowds to see the largest tree ever exhibited in Rome. In my dislike of brutal gladiatorial games I had forbidden anyone to be killed. (Is it not a fine thing to be emperor and outlaw that which displeases?) Instead there would be exhibitions of skill. I hoped the audience would not find them boring without the bloodshed. But people must be trained to acquire new tastes.

  The first anniversary of my accession came around and was duly celebrated with processions and festivities. I hoped the amphitheater would be ready by the following year and I could present a spectacle for the people. For now we must be content with the more restrained demonstrations.

  “What was good enough for Augustus should be good enough for Nero,” said Acte, teasing me with a fan from the streets with “Nero the Great” painted on it, along with a sketch of me in a chariot. “Why the need for excess?”

  I took it from her and examined it. “A genuine tribute,” I said. “I did not pay anyone to do this, I promise.”

  “Indeed, it is the sort of compliment you cannot buy. But about the excess—”

  “Excess makes a statement.”

  “Yes, a very loud and vulgar one.”

  “It depends on what sort of excess it is.” I grabbed her and kissed her. “This sort of excess I haven’t heard you complain about.” I took her hand and pulled her toward the bedroom.

  It was noontime but time did not matter. (Is it not a fine thing to be emperor and have the clock at your command?) Daytime lovemaking had its own charms; namely, that I could see her so well, could look into her eyes and drown in them. I could see the sheen of the lotion she smoothed on her skin, could see the little scar across her cheek that she had had since a childhood accident. An imperfection that made her perfect. The eyes dominated daytime lovemaking, whereas touch and taste were masters of lovemaking in the dark. It was a palette of pleasure, day or night, no matter which senses were in play.