The Confessions of Young Nero

by Margaret George

  Although the arena was large and my words would not carry to all, I cried, “It is I who am blessed, to have such people to rule!” I then drove around the periphery again, throwing out the tokens until the bag was empty. “All I ask is, wait until the games are over before claiming your prizes. For you will not want to miss the exhibitions.”

  There were wild-beast hunts—men versus animals. They were imported from all over the empire—leopards, ostriches, lions, and bears, as well as more common animals like deer and gazelles. Next were fights between animals—bulls against elephants, rhinoceroses against crocodiles, bears against lions.

  Then came the human fights, many gladiatorial contests, with all twelve types of gladiators represented. But, unlike in other contests, no one would die. There were a number of innovations, such as the dimachaerus, the two-sword man, and the laquearius, with a lasso, as well as the common mirmillo, retiarius, and Thracian-style fighters.

  Last was my favorite, a new presentation: reenactments of mythological scenes, complete with scenery and costumes. There was Hercules in his flaming shirt (he was wearing a fireproof vest underneath); and Orpheus and Eurydice with her poisonous snake (a harmless one).

  As I watched them, I suddenly thought how becoming a mythological character was the ultimate in freedom, at least for those moments. When Icarus put on his wings, did the actor himself disappear, if only for a brief instant? Did the actor truly become Hercules, leave himself behind? This was a step beyond where drunkenness could take one, where dreaming left off and turned to flesh. I envied them.

  • • •

  The celebrations over, Rome was quiet, anticipating winter. The weather had waited to turn cold until after the games (thank you again, Apollo). The trees lost their leaves, swirling vortexes of them flying overhead. Darker clouds chased one another quickly through the sky, the wind whistling.

  The meeting with Mother had disturbed me. I had consigned her to the past after the Britannicus episode, almost as if she had died along with him. But she was still very much of the present. My mother . . . But I had had a father, too, although I did not remember him. The adoption by Claudius had not erased the fact that I had a genuine father. I determined to visit his grave, ashamed that I had not done it earlier. Just because he did not exist for Mother did not mean he did not exist.

  The Domitian family tomb lay on the outskirts of the city, in gardens at the top of the Pincian Hill. It was a long ride out along the Via Flaminia, past the Ara Pacis and the Sundial, then past the mausoleum. Finally I was at the foot of the hill, planted thick with plane trees and cypress. It was a beautiful spot, even in this autumnal time of year.

  The tomb at the summit was constructed of white marble, with a balustrade guarding the outside, and there were markers for not only my father but my great-great-grandfather, Lucius, a consul; my great-grandfather, another Gnaeus, also consul, who had served with Antony but defected to Augustus; and my grandfather, Lucius. On his marker it recorded that, in addition to being consul, he had been a famous charioteer in his youth. I smiled when I read the list of his feats on the racetrack.

  Ah, I got it from you, I thought.

  Then there was my father’s marker and tomb. I stood before it, wishing I could remember him, anything about him, even the sound of one sentence he had spoken. But he was lost to me, except in imagination and an act of will.

  The wives were all there, too, their names marked and their ages.

  “I will decree that your birthday is honored,” I promised Father. “I will propose it, and the Senate will approve it. There is no question of that.”

  I owed this to him, and I would see it done.

  XLIV

  The sparkle off the water was so scintillating it made me shade my eyes. The Bay of Naples spread out before me, the day was clear and I could see all the way to Vesuvius. Naples, that Greek-inclined city, was spread out to the left of the mountain. Lake Lucrine, a shallow lake near it connected to the sea by a canal, was the historic site where Agrippa had trained the navy for the battle of Actium against Antony. Today the Roman fleet was based nearby. I was visiting Otho’s villa at Baiae. Unlike my secluded one at Sublaqueum—which I had indeed built—this villa was in a holiday resort. On all sides of the peninsula, villas of the wealthy crowded up against one another, Rome transported to the seashore. Even Seneca had a place here (although he complained about the noise and immoral goings-on, calling it “the inn of all vices”), where Julius Caesar’s father-in-law Calpurnius had set the standard for luxury more than a hundred years before. Otho came from an old aristocratic family and the villa had been theirs for a long time.

  What was there to do in Baiae? Indulge oneself, that was all. The hot springs gave us baths; the bay gave us sailing; the villas delighted us with views and feasts. After dark, lighted pleasure vessels plied the waters, music trailing in their wakes.

  I had brought Acte with me, for here I did not have to pretend she was with anyone else. Otho was preparing to marry and made much of this being his last season as a bachelor. That did not stop him from having a woman with him now.

  “I shall be that sad specimen, that butt of comedies, a husband,” he said, waving his goblet around.

  “Husbands are only the butt of comedies if they are cuckolded,” I said. “And surely you won’t be. Who is this woman who has snared the elusive Otho?”

  For although he was short, bowlegged, and bald, necessitating the wig, his wealth, wit, and lineage made him a desirable match. Oddly enough, he was vain about his looks, softening his beard with moistened bread crumbs and having his body hair plucked.

  His cynical expression melted away, replaced by a dreamy look. “Oh, she’s a goddess.”

  He wasn’t joking. He was truly smitten. I was taken aback. “Who is this goddess?”

  “Her family is from Pompeii. That is how I met her, when I was visiting there. We will have to go over there—I want to show you the frescoes—”

  “You still haven’t told me her name. I know about Pompeii; I want to know more about this woman.”

  “Her name is Poppaea,” he said. “You may have heard of her mother—she was Poppaea also, reputed the most beautiful woman in Rome—but I tell you, her daughter eclipses her.”

  “Poppaea—Poppaea—” I was good with names, and I knew I had heard of her, but where?

  “She is the wife of Rufrius Crispinus,” said Acte.

  “Was the wife,” said Otho. “They are divorced.”

  “She must be a goddess, for you to be content to be second and not first.”

  “You know the saying: better to be someone’s last love than their first,” he said. “Besides, everyone is divorced. General Corbulo’s mother was married six times!” Dinner was announced, and the guests began to stream into the huge dining room. Before we took our places, slaves knelt before us and drenched our feet in costly perfume. Otho winked. “I say, extravagance should always be in the grand manner.” He then daintily tiptoed to his place at the dinner, perfume dripping from his feet.

  One of the other guests was Gaius Calpurnius Piso, who also had a villa in the area. He was distantly related to Julius Caesar’s wife’s family and had had an unfortunate run-in with Caligula. As astonishing as it may sound, Caligula wanted Piso’s wife, forced her to leave him, then accused Piso of adultery with her and banished him! For that alone I felt a kinship with him—torment at the hands of Caligula. But more than that, he performed dramatic roles onstage, sang, and wrote poetry. I was most anxious to talk to him. I had no trouble identifying him—he was very handsome, with the sort of looks that put others at ease rather than exciting envy.

  In one way I was the eager seeker after a more experienced person, but he instantly almost prostrated himself before me, and once again I was all too aware that even when I forgot I was emperor, everyone else remembered.

  “I have long wished to talk to you,”
I said after dinner. “I believe we have much in common.”

  He smiled, a winning, open smile. “And what might that be?”

  “I, too, am interested in the arts. I do not go so far as to claim to be an artist, but I am drawn to it. And to music and acting. Tell me—where do you perform?”

  “In private homes and on private stages,” he said. “There are many opportunities.”

  “Have you never thought of performing publicly?”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “No! I would not dare.”

  “Why not?”

  He looked at me pityingly, as if thinking, What a fool. Then he straightened his expression. “It would give great scandal. Someone of my station could not appear onstage.”

  “Why not?” I was persistent.

  “Because actors, singers, and dancers are of the lower classes.”

  “Yet we admire their talent and make many of them wealthy.”

  “That is true. But class is more than money. It is lineage and position.” He began to look uncomfortable.

  “Ah, but everyone’s family honor begins somewhere back in humble origins. That is, if we are not the result of Zeus’s roving eye, giving us divine lineage, and there are few of those about these days.”

  Now he did look uncomfortable. “Yes, yes, I see.” He was remembering that the emperor was said to have a fondness for the common people, or, as Piso would call them, the riffraff.

  “I would sponsor you to go on the public stage,” I said.

  “Perhaps, perhaps. Thank you for your generosity.” Then he sidled away. I almost laughed. He was too conscious of his station in life to be a true artist.

  • • •

  That night, as I lay on the bed in the echoingly large room, I heard the tinkling sound of music carrying across the water. A clean, fresh breeze came from the open balcony that overlooked the bay.

  Piso . . . Otho . . . Otho’s future wife . . . I tried to imagine what she must be like to have elicited such a response from him. Rufrius . . . Suddenly I remembered. I had seen her. I was only a boy, out with Crispus, that day he took me to the races. That woman who squeezed in beside me . . . married to the old Praetorian . . . O gods of Olympus, she belonged with them there! If she was mortal, she had sipped the ambrosia of the gods and become one of them. The woman who had enabled me to envision Helen of Troy. A woman . . . some years older than me . . . how old would she be now? I fell asleep trying to deduce that.

  • • •

  I visited the fleet at Misenum, the cape at the tip of the peninsula, with its inner and outer harbors. Anicetus had been commander of the fleet for some time now. Seeing him again was a great joy to me.

  “Dear friend,” I said. “I miss you at Rome horribly, but I know it is best you are here. I do not lose a moment’s sleep worrying about the fleet.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders, looked deep into my eyes. “I miss you, too. I think of you often, hoping that you are protected and safe.”

  “I am,” I said. “You need not worry.”

  In only a few moments, it was as if we had never been parted. He gave me a report on the fleet and some activities he had not put into writing. New trading links were being formed with India; he said we might consider moving some of the fleet to the Red Sea to be better positioned for the journeys there around the monsoon season. He also mentioned that the water level in the bay had changed a bit, and there had been small tremors in the area, but nothing to cause alarm.

  “Stay with us tonight. We will put on a show you’ll enjoy.”

  He was as good as his word. The sailors staged a mock sea battle on the bay, better than any I had ever seen in the confined spaces of flooded amphitheaters. Three ships fought and grappled with one another, then one dramatically sank, all hands aboard, sliding into the water so quickly people did not have a chance to jump.

  “The boat was specially constructed to fall apart,” he said. “But it looked real, didn’t it?”

  It certainly had. I shook my head. “What ingenuity.”

  The combatants were swimming back toward shore. Of course, they were all trained and knew what to expect.

  “Don’t worry, no one drowned,” he said. “You appreciate illusion and reality, yes?”

  XLV

  Months passed, and I quietly moved forward my plan to have Acte declared of royal descent. I consulted with a specialist in the lineages of the royal houses of that part of the world. There were many small realms there—or had been, before Rome swallowed them up—and among so many, she must surely be connected to one. At length he drew up an impressive-looking chart, tracing her back to Attalus I of Pergamum. I presented it to a group of senators, asking them to ratify it. They did. Happiness was within my grasp now. Acte was not so sure and cautioned me not to expect so much.

  “There are still many hurdles ahead,” she said. “No imperial decree can change people’s hearts and I would do nothing to harm your position. You are very popular now, but it does not take much to change people’s minds. People are fickle. They almost look for faults and are gleeful when they find one.”

  My love for her had grown, not diminished. “They can look and look and they’ll find no fault in you.”

  “I don’t care if they find fault with me, but if they find fault with you because of me, that is what I fear.”

  “Nonsense!” I sounded more sure of that than I felt.

  • • •

  After her attempts to dislodge Acte failed (threats, and even having some people beaten), Mother disappeared from the palace. I was told that she was at the villa at Antium; I certainly did not miss her. It was a soothing relief to have her gone. For her to be nowhere in sight. Or even out of sight, but lurking nearby.

  So imagine my wariness when a letter was delivered to my quarters—from her. I opened the familiar seal with trepidation.

  My dearest son,

  In my time of retreat at the villa, I have come to understand my mistake, and I beg your forgiveness. I was wrong to oppose your love for Claudia Acte. It is hard for a mother to admit to herself that she has been displaced in the life and heart of her child, but such is the course of nature and it is futile to rail against it. Please accept my deepest apology. I am returning to Rome and when I am there I will have something to present to you.

  Your loving Mother

  I was stunned. But immediately the saying Beware of the Greeks bearing gifts flitted through my mind. A gift from Mother, even though she wasn’t Greek, was never something of unequivocal good.

  • • •

  True to her word, as soon as she returned to Rome I received an invitation to come to her apartments. I made sure I did not wear a toga.

  She greeted me effusively, warmly. She stood on tiptoe to kiss my cheek and did not mention the tunic. She ushered me into the first room and showed me some new bronzes she had just obtained from Corinth. “These are all yours,” she said. “But, come, see the rest.”

  She led me back into the deepest part of the apartments, the most private. At the very end was a room darkened with draperies, hung with expensive tapestries. It took a while for my eyes to adjust. When they did, before me was an enormous flat wide bed that looked as big as Lake Lucrine. Heaped upon it were pillows with silken covers, furs, and scarves. To each side were huge lampstands shaped like trees.

  “This is what they have in the east,” she said. “I have made much study of it.”

  What was this all about? I just stared at it.

  “It is for you and Acte. She is from Lycia; this will make her feel at home.”

  “What?”

  “You can bring her here—have absolute privacy—and I have stocked it with every luxury—”

  “Are you mad?” I cried. “What has possessed you? Why would we come here?”

  “I am trying to show you that I am in fa
vor of your—your—”

  “You can’t even think of the word, can you? You don’t even know what to call her! And the thought that I’d bring her here, under your roof—” I turned on my heel and marched out, down the long hallway, back out into the light. She had gone mad!

  She ran after me, her fine little slippers making slap-slap noises on the marble. She grabbed at my arm, but I flung her off like an annoying insect crawling on me.

  I reached the outer receiving room. She was still on my heels, clutching for me. Behind me she gasped, “Please, do not run away. Please stay. I am sorry if I offended you. I—I—do not know how to please you. I was trying. I was wrong.”

  With a great sigh I stopped and turned around slowly. There she was, abject and almost cringing. “Yes, you have offended me. Deeply. And I think you may have lost your mind, frankly.”

  She bowed her head. “Please. Let us end our estrangement. I cannot bear it. I will do anything.”

  “Anything, apparently, but behave in a normal fashion.”

  “I admit it. I have been wrong. I will admit anything if you will just smile and say you forgive me and that we are close again.”

  I felt like an animal in the tightening coils of a snake. “I must go!” I said.

  “Please, at least drink something with me in amity. Do not sever us from one another. It must not end like this.” She went over to a tray laden with drinking cups and wine bottles. She started to pour something, and I laughed.

  “No, Mother, I must decline to drink anything you offer. You can understand why.”

  “But to seal our peace with one another, we must partake of something. I know.” She clapped for a slave, and when she entered, Mother said, “Bring me a bowl of the snow.”

  In a few moments she brought a bowl with packed snow. “Kept in our icehouse. All the way from the mountains of Gaul.” She scooped two portions out and put them in two goblets. “Surely you can trust snow,” she said. She held her goblet over the flame of a lamp and soon the snow melted. I did likewise.