The Confessions of Young Nero

by Margaret George

  In October, the days were cool, but by the time we lay side by side under the wrinkled and twisted sheet, we were covered in sweat. Sweet sweat, the kind bestowed by the gods.

  She moved closer to me and laid her head on my chest, as she often did. She gave a great sigh.

  “What is it?” I ran my hand over her shining hair.

  She sat up, propping herself up on one elbow. “This is not enough,” she said sadly.

  “I didn’t please you?”

  “Yes, you did. Too much. That is why I say it is not enough.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I love our private times together. But oh! I wish I could be with you beyond the secrecy of this chamber.”

  “So do I. But we are bound by restrictions in every direction. This is our only safe place.”

  She lifted her chin, in that way I loved. It made her look like a noble warrior. “I have been thinking. And thinking. Because there must be a way around this. And last night, after you departed to see your friends, I thought, why not pose as a mistress of one of them? They can serve as a shield for us. I can pretend to be the mistress of Senecio, or Otho. They can see me openly, all the while acting as a disguise for us.”

  “I don’t like it.” It brought others into our secret world, and what if they formed a bond with each other?

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Yes, of course I do.” But they did not come with my restrictions, and that in itself might prove attractive.

  “Do you not trust them, then?”

  “Normally, yes. But you are not a normal temptation.”

  “I make my own choices. It does not matter to me whether they are tempted by me or not.” She took my face in her hands. “When will you believe that I love you, and nothing will change that?”

  But nothing had been certain or unchangeable in my life so far. Even my own mother had tried to kill me.

  “I believe you.” Now I would see. Perhaps my dreary history of betrayals would be rewritten.

  • • •

  My life by day would have passed muster even with Augustus. His patron god, Apollo, drove the chariot of the sun and was bathed in its rays, giving glory to what happened in the sunlight. But, as twilight came, I, like the crepuscular animals who became active then, felt a change come over me, an inward shift from things that must be done to things I wanted to do. Twilight was the time of my cithara lesson, an hour hushed and suitable for the poignant sweet notes of that instrument. I had mastered basic plucking from the front with my right hand and was now training to use my left fingers at the same time from behind, a challenging advance in skill and one that would put me far beyond amateurism. Twilight was the time the poets and artists gathered with me in the palace. With all the night before us, we could take our time discussing our compositions, reciting them, and then critiquing them. I urged everyone to speak freely and not hold back their true opinions. Sometimes we composed short poems or essays while we were there.

  By the time our gathering was over, true night had come. After that another sort of gathering took place—a drinking party and philosophical salon—with different guests. At this one, where bawdy talk and excessive wine consumption reigned, the poetry was not so delicate. By the time I was there, and had imbibed enough wine, I felt completely transported, having shucked the Nero of daytime and emerged as the Nero of night. No toga, no protocol, no duties. I was not even the leader of this group—it was Petronius, with his saturnine elegance and ennui. He was the master of sophisticated debauchery and sardonic remarks. Around him were the smart young set of aristocrats—Otho, Serenus, Senecio, and others I came to know only too well.

  One evening after we had finished arguing about the merits of Catullus’s attitude toward wine (was he serious in saying it was “the blood of Bacchus”?) and everyone was too drunk to remember what was decided, Serenus said, “And what about that old Seneca? How did you like being lectured in public in that ‘On Mercy’ essay?” He stretched out on the pillows on the floor—we had long since slipped off the couches—and laughed.

  “I thought it was comical,” said Senecio, his dark eyes narrowing. He always had a shifty look anyway. “He couldn’t have been serious.”

  “Oh, he was serious,” said Petronius. He leaned over and took a handful of grapes, which he dropped one by one into his mouth before continuing. I could hear each of them burst against his palate. “He means to rule, to be at least Aristotle to your Alexander. The great philosopher guiding the innocent young emperor.”

  Otho snorted. “Innocent?”

  They knew. They all knew. Probably everyone in Rome knew. Well, what of it? But I would answer the first question, not the last. “I didn’t like it. I don’t care to be scolded and lectured to.”

  Serenus rolled across three cushions and came to rest on his back. “Why do you obey them? You are the emperor, not them.”

  Them. All of them? Seneca, Burrus, and Mother? The Senate?

  Suddenly I remembered what Acte had said. “I don’t obey everyone. In fact, there is something I’d like you to oblige me with . . .” And I explained about Acte and asked if one of them would pretend to be her lover. “I want to give her gifts but I cannot do so without attracting . . . attention.” I did not need to specify whose attention. “I also cannot leave the palace with her. But if one of you would act the part of her paramour, you could be a cover for us.”

  They eagerly agreed and began to outbid one another for the honor. Only Petronius held back, saying, “She must be a treasure to have so captivated you, and I cannot trust myself around her.” Serenus won the contest to be my accomplice, and I clapped him on his broad shoulder and said, “You can begin right away!” Oh, the promise of being free of the restraints we were under.

  Petronius stood up and held his goblet aloft. “I say, Nero has proved himself one of us. So shall we invite him to join us in our nocturnal ramblings?”

  The company all nodded, their faces only half-lit by the dim lights in the room, so I could not read their true expressions.

  “You see,” said Petronius in his deep, rumbling voice, “we play Saturnalia all year long.” He arched an eyebrow. “We disguise ourselves as slaves, vagabonds, and ruffians and roam the streets of Rome. And do more than roam. Are you willing?”

  This was truly to embrace the night. But a part of me craved it.

  “Yes,” I said.

  • • •

  The night crawls, as they called them, took place during the dark of the moon. Some twenty of us met at the Milvian Bridge on the Via Flaminia north of the Campus Martius, heavily disguised in cloaks, torn tunics, and wigs. We had torches and carried clubs, but no knives or swords.

  “The night is ours!” said Senecio, waving his club. “Onward, men!”

  The streets closer in to the city were narrow and there were usually only a few people still out. Most of them carried lanterns and were protected by a slave; they darted into an alley or doorway when they saw us coming. Only large parties did not shirk or flee; those we harassed and frightened, chasing them down the ill-lit streets, yelling and waving our torches. If a tavern was still open, we burst in, terrifying the patrons, and demanded free drinks. For me, who had always been so circumspect, seeing the expressions on the faces was the most rewarding part of my misbehavior. I often left a bag of money behind on a stool but was careful not to let my companions see. We also broke into closed shops and helped ourselves to their goods. Somehow the paltry wares, not anything we would normally want, seemed enticing if they were stolen. Again, I tried to surreptitiously leave behind money, not in any bag that could be linked to the palace.

  What I liked best were the times we split into smaller groups and, rather than rampaging, infiltrated taverns and sat drinking with the other patrons, spying on them and prompting them to reveal their opinions. Then I could ask questions about the new
emperor and what they thought of him.

  In one tavern, a group of five men were at my table, already quite drunk. They took eagerly to the question. The first man, as rotund as a pregnant cat, belched and scratched his stomach. “He’s all right. So far, at least. He’s generous at the games.”

  “I heard he gave away tokens and prizes for horses, gems, and wine at the Circus. Let him keep it up, I say,” said a man with a mass of bright red hair.

  “They say he likes to drive chariots. Maybe soon he’ll race at the Circus. Wouldn’t that be a sight? They also say he exercises out in the open, so if you want to see your emperor with nothing but a loincloth, hurry down to the Campus Martius.” A thin, dark-skinned man offered this. This was not strictly true, but I did not correct him.

  “I heard he likes to write poetry,” said another.

  “Is it any good?” said the red-haired man.

  “Who knows? If the emperor writes poetry, is there anyone to tell him it’s bad?” answered the fat man.

  So this random group judged me on what gifts I might provide them with. (Which is the way most people judge people in their lives.) They mentioned my interests. (At least they had noticed.) Then they touched on the tender question that would always plague me: how can an emperor ever be fairly judged if he competes in the arts? (They identified this quandary so quickly and succinctly.) The wisdom of the common people was not just a saying, then.

  • • •

  In the dark of the moon in autumn, the temperature was low enough for us to tolerate being swathed in our disguises—we had sweltered in summer.

  “We’ve proved our resolution,” said Otho. “Now we can carouse and waylay to our heart’s content in comfort.” He was wrapped in a ragged cloak and wore a mask. His bandy little legs stuck out below the hem.

  We were by the Fabricius Bridge, near the Theater of Marcellus and the Portico of Octavia. With no moonlight, only torches here and there illuminated the statues by great Greek sculptors in the niches between pillars in the portico. By day people strolled and rested here, but by night the niches provided a hiding place for robbers. The rounded edifice of the Theater of Marcellus likewise held statues—gods and goddesses and emperors. I suddenly wondered why all the statues of emperors were so small. We needed a colossus. Why should tiny Rhodes have one and Rome not? We should erect one large enough to displace the Rhodian one from the seven wonders of the world list.

  The theater was just letting out, and patrons were streaming from the various exits. They were met by their waiting slaves, holding torches and lanterns to see them safely home.

  A large group emerged and turned south, heading for the Aventine Hill.

  “Those are ours, boys!” said Serenus. We followed them. At first there were many people about, but the farther we got from the theater, the thinner the crowd, and we were conspicuously following the group. Sound died away and our footsteps rang out loudly. The group walked faster, and so did we.

  There were women in the group, and their men tried to hurry them on. Some broke into a trot and others started running. Petronius gave a whoop of delight and started to sprint, and so did the rest of us. We caught them easily, then they stood their ground and yelled, “Keep away! Keep away!” But Serenus and Senecio took that as a challenge and charged at them, knocking one old man over and trampling one of the women. Otho hit one man over the head and stout old Vitellius pummeled him with his fists. He went down in a heap. Suddenly a tall, strong man was attacking me, hitting me in the face with his fists, then smashing me over the head with a club. I smashed him back, sending him reeling. As he fell backward I recognized him—it was Julius Montanus, a new senator. I was horrified. I was even more horrified when he struggled to his feet, wiped his bleeding nose, and bowed. “Forgive me, Caesar. I did not recognize you.”

  Did the man have no sense? “It were better you did not admit that you did,” I said.

  “But—but—” He floundered.

  “Go home, all of you,” I said. I meant us as well as them.

  • • •

  He had given me such bruises and a black eye that I had to stay in my apartments for several days. The thrill of pretending to be a robber or thug had worn off and I could see how pointless and dangerous it was. The only purpose of it was for me to assume another identity, at least briefly, but it was a foolish identity to take. No, I must be myself from now on, always myself, even if the real me displeased or shocked people. I wished I could still sneak out under cover and hear what the people were saying and thinking, but now it was impossible.

  The incident was not over. I received word that Senator Montanus had committed suicide because of his shame at having attacked the emperor. Oh, why had he revealed that he knew me? And why, even after he had, did he not realize I did not hold it against him? Should I have specifically said, I forgive you?

  As if this had not been enough, once the word was out that the emperor prowled the streets in disguise, gangs of pseudo-Neros took to the streets, causing genuine havoc, even murdering people. I had to put all this down, and sadly see that avenue of escape from my daytime self closed off.

  If that avenue closed, I would find another. I told Acte that we were going to inspect the site where I would build a new villa, about fifty miles east of Rome, in the mountains just below the river Anio. We would go openly together, but once there we would have privacy. “I intend to create a world of my own there,” I said.

  XLI

  We stood on the rough terrain of the Apenninus Mountains, looking at the rushing Anio before us. A brisk breeze rustled through the pines and carried with it the scent of resin. Up here everything seemed cleaner and clearer. Yes, this was the place where I would construct my villa.

  Acte stood beside me. She reached out and smoothed my wind-mussed hair. “Already you sound more rested,” she said.

  I was. The bruises on my face had faded and I could be seen in public again. “Come, let’s explore.” I took her hand and together we clambered over the rocks and uneven ground. Below us a lush valley opened up, green and cool.

  “The villa should cling to the cliffs of the valley, seeming suspended,” I said, seeing it in my mind. “And . . .” All that water rushing by seemed a waste. “We will dam the river and make three small pleasure lakes out of it. Then situate the villa below them. We can name it Sublaqueum—Under the Lakes.”

  My architects, scrambling along behind us, caught up. “Yes, Caesar,” they said. “You have the eye of an architect.”

  “Is this possible to build?” I asked.

  Severus, the older one, hedged. “We can try.”

  Celer, the younger, said, “Yes, we can.”

  “How soon?” I asked.

  “First the damming. That must wait until early spring. Then the lakes must fill—although that should not take long,” said Severus. “During the winter we can draw up plans. What size building did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t want one building. I want several smaller ones, all linked by walks and canals.”

  Celer raised his eyebrows. “The other villas nearby, like Claudius’s, have conventional layouts.”

  “I don’t care what Claudius built. In fact, whatever he built, I want the opposite!”

  Severus nodded. “With the uneven terrain, a series of smaller buildings would be better. You see, we are right—you do have the eye of an architect!”

  “He has the eye of an artist,” said Acte.

  • • •

  That night we lay in a tentlike structure, hastily erected for our visit. Our bed was pine boughs overspread with rich eastern textiles. Covered lanterns hung from the tent poles and sat on the ground. Our food was a picnic—wine, bread, dried fruit, cheese. We ate on our bed, leaning on our elbows, as if we were at a proper banquet. Every time we moved, the heady fresh scent of the pine branches beneath was released. Outside, the wind whistled,
and we could hear the rush and tumble of the Anio waters.

  “You are a genius to have thought of this,” she said.

  “Not a genius,” I said. “But my choice was lucky. The site is even better than I had imagined. With the new lakes, we can have a seaside villa high in the mountains—an engineering marvel.”

  She lay back, putting her arms behind her, looking up. “This reminds me of my homeland. Lycia is mountainous, much like this.”

  Her homeland. It was so easy for me to forget that she had once been a slave, as she was so refined, elegant, and well educated. “Does it pain you to remember?” I asked. “Do you want to go back?”

  “No,” she said. “I am free and could return anytime I liked. But once I was there, that would be painful.”

  “I could go with you!” Before she could protest, I said, “I want to travel. There is so much in the world I want to see.”

  She smiled. “You are kind, but I do not care to go back.”

  “Tell me of your life there.” I knew nothing of it, nothing of how she had lived before she came to Rome.

  “I can tell you only of the first twelve years, and that means you will hear only what a child remembers. My family were of the aristocracy there, but those were the very ones enslaved, punished by the Romans for protesting Claudius’s suppression of the Lycian League and annexation into a Roman province. My father fought against the agents sent to implement this; he was executed.”

  I took her hand and held it. “And your mother? Your brothers and sisters?”