The Confessions of Young Nero

by Margaret George

  “What is it?” Seneca asked. His clothes were rumpled and his hair uncombed, but that was good. It meant he had wasted no time but had flown to my summons for the task at hand. Anicetus told him all. Neither he nor Burrus seemed surprised about the plot. Perhaps it had seemed inevitable to them. Perhaps they had long expected it, or something like it.

  They sat listening and took a long time to answer. Then Seneca turned to Burrus and asked calmly, “Can you order the Praetorians to slay her?”

  He shook his head. “No. They are devoted to her and would never touch a hair on the head of the daughter of Germanicus.”

  Seneca said, “Then the task falls to you, Anicetus. You will have to follow through all the way, without flinching.”

  Anicetus nodded. “I take responsibility.” He stood up. “I’ll take a naval captain and a lieutenant who obey orders unquestioningly and scrupulously. You may count on me.”

  “This is the real first day of my reign,” I said. It was true. I had reigned under her shadow all along. “A gift given me by a former slave, a gift more costly than any other.”

  “Now true loyalties are revealed,” he said. “I take my leave. I must move quickly. In the meantime, you must think what to do if someone comes here with the same idea. Rouse the guards and slaves; be prepared. Do not be taken by surprise; fight back.” In an instant, he disappeared out into the night.

  Seneca, Burrus, and I looked at one another. “He is right,” said Seneca. “She will send someone—perhaps several someones. But if you are prepared, you can not only protect yourself, but provide an explanation for all the rest, and what will follow. Remember you must give an account of all this to the people of Rome.”

  “Yes, yes!” Now suddenly fear and confusion seized me, turning my legs to jelly. So many things to consider. Keep calm. Think. My life in danger. My reign over. My mother gone, by my hand. I am alone. Too stunning, too staggering, too overwhelming for me to comprehend. Only emotion filled me, dread and panic and the desperate need to survive.

  If she did send someone to assassinate me, what if that were proved, what if intercepted, she the guilty one? Where was my dagger, the one I had kept about me always for safety? It wasn’t here now—where had I left it? By my bedside. I hurried in to get it. I called for the guards.

  The hours kept passing. No sign of dawn yet. Were the hours somehow held captive, blocked, so they did not progress? Seneca and Burrus sat calmly, statues. Where was Anicetus? What had happened? He must have reached Lucrine by now.

  What if she was so well guarded he could not get through? What if even now he was lying dead?

  A loud knock on the door. A slave opened it.

  “A message from the Augusta!” announced a courier.

  “Admit him,” I said.

  A short man came into the room, glancing at Burrus and Seneca and bowing to me. “I, Lucius Agerinus, have a message from my mistress, Agrippina Augusta, for the emperor Nero. Joyful news! There has been an accident at sea but by divine mercy and the emperor’s own lucky star, the Augusta is unhurt. She wanted to reassure her son and tell him that although she knows he will be concerned, she is resting now and he should not attempt to visit her.”

  That meant she was gathering her forces! She meant to attack me. By daylight her troops, her slaves, would be here, surrounding me.

  “Do you have a written message?” I asked.

  “Indeed I do.” He reached into his sleeve to retrieve it, and at that moment I dropped my dagger so it looked as if it had fallen out of his garment.

  “Help! Help!” I cried. “Seize him! He was sent here to assassinate me!” Quickly the guards grabbed him, over his loud protests of innocence.

  I turned to Seneca and Burrus. “You saw it with your own eyes!” I said. “She sent an assassin to slay me!”

  They nodded gravely.

  Still the hours passed slowly. The yelling courier was whisked away and silence fell over the villa. The darkness began to fade outside. The night was almost over. I sat rigidly, almost unable to move, listening for footfalls that seemed never to come.

  • • •

  Anicetus returned and stood quietly before me. “It is done,” he said.

  Did I want to hear how? Could I bear it? If I did not ask, would I later wish I had? Could I stand it? “What happened?” I asked, in a whisper.

  “When we reached the house we found it surrounded by curious crowds. They had been down on the shore and now had flocked to the villa itself. But they melted away when my armed column of sailors pushed them away. We surrounded the house, and then only I and the captain and lieutenant went inside. Are you sure you wish to hear more?”

  “Yes.” It was still a whisper.

  “We pushed the slaves out of the way and came to her bedroom door. There was one servant inside, and she fled upon seeing us. Agrippina turned to her and said, ‘Are you leaving me, too?’ Then she was alone, with only one dim light by her bedside. She saw us and said, ‘If you are visitors of goodwill, you can report that I am better. But if you are assassins’—and here she drew herself up—‘I know my son is not responsible. He would not order his mother’s death.’”

  I shuddered. But I needed to hear it all. “Go on.”

  “The captain hit her on the head, and the lieutenant drew his sword. Then she pointed to her belly and said, ‘Strike here! This is the womb that bore Nero!’ And he did. And she died.”

  She had meant it, what she’d confided to me long ago and I had dismissed, forgotten. She had said to the astrologer doing my chart, Let him kill me, so long as he rules! She had promised herself to the gods, a sacrifice. And thus it had come to pass. The gods do not forget a vow, even one made recklessly. They collect their dues. By her last words, she was acknowledging this.

  “And then?” I asked weakly.

  “We cremated her on her couch. Her ashes are already buried nearby.”

  Mother. Ashes already. And now I did collapse, just as mocking birdsong ushered out the long night of horror.

  L

  The sun was merciless; it came up as it did every day, flooding the world with light, clear, hard light. A world without Mother in it, threateningly empty. I sat unmoving for so long that at length one of the slaves dared to touch my shoulder and shake me.

  I moved with a shudder. What should I do? I had not thought beyond the night, beyond the boat. But now I must face the crowds, face Rome. The news was even now racing there, running faster than the fastest horse, the swiftest ship, with mysterious speeding wings that overtake all else.

  I stumbled back into my most private room, where the shutters were still drawn and the hateful light shut out. I was shaking all over as if I had a high fever. I flung off the green silk tunic, dread keepsake of the night, and put on a warmer robe. I removed the snake bracelet and laid it carefully in a jewel box. No need for its protection now. I had survived.

  • • •

  Under the urging of Burrus, later that morning the captains and officers of the Praetorians came to me, knelt, and congratulated me on my escape from the designs of Mother. Then word came that people were flooding to the temples to give thanks for my safety. But what of Rome? What of the Senate?

  Seneca and I composed a letter to be read to them, announcing the perfidy of the Augusta and the divine deliverance of the emperor from her plot. Upon learning that it had failed, she had committed suicide. Then he listed her former crimes, embellishing them to such a degree that she appeared worse than a demon. She had wanted to be coruler, to receive allegiance from the Praetorians, the Senate, and the people of Rome. Failing to achieve this, even with lavish bribes, she’d hated them all and contrived the deaths of twelve distinguished and innocent men and women. The scandals and follies of Claudius’s reign were laid at her feet, as they were undertaken under her direction.

  “How this will be received, we must wait and
see,” he warned me. He looked spent and beaten down. But, tellingly, he had not condemned my action or even hinted that it was wrong.

  • • •

  That first day over, night engulfed me again, plunging me into its dark depth. With the passing of hours, new terror gripped me, as images of the boat, her cries, and her bloody ending flooded my mind. I could see and hear it all. And her farewell—Strike here! This is the womb that bore Nero!—rang through my head. Was it true that an astrologer had predicted it? Or was that a personal mythology she had created to tell me? And to what purpose—to tell me in advance what I must do?

  The torturous suspense of the past few days over, other emotions now flooded in. Was this real? Had it really happened? Was Mother truly vanished, gone, a pile of ashes? Had she ceased to exist? The reality of death did not grip me because I had not seen her; I had only heard of it from others. But I could not have borne to see her unmoving and dead. At the same time something even within myself had died; our dark and strong bond had snapped and I was alone.

  I was lying sleepless in bed when eerie wails rang out from the direction of Mother’s villa, shrieking ghosts. The Furies! I leapt up and looked outside, seeing only darkness. But they were there, pursuing me, swooping in to torment and punish me, to drive me to madness. I could feel them. Then dying sounds of military trumpets echoed in the hills. The dead cried out. Seeking vengeance? I must remove from this haunted place. I could endure it no longer.

  • • •

  Unsure of my reception in Rome, I did not go there. Instead I moved a few miles to Naples. On the way I had to pass Lake Lucrine, where Mother had lodged, and where presumably her ashes rested nearby. I resolutely looked the other way, out onto the sparkling waters of the bay, willing myself not to tremble. Just behind Lucrine lay Lake Avernus, with a portal where one could enter the underworld. But no, never! Mother would be waiting there, probably just on the near shore, not having yet progressed very far into the dark realm. And farther beyond that, the site of Cumae, where the famous sibyl gave prophecies, the last thing I wanted now. Once off the peninsula, we headed east to Naples, passing the sulfur-smoking Phlegraean Fields, a vast gray ashy expanse of gaseous vents and foul fumes. Truly this entire landscape was supernatural. I shuddered as I passed.

  Naples, however, was resolutely human, warm-blooded and alive. It embraced me and soothed me, shouting, Welcome! Welcome! in a way that no other place ever had. Instantly I felt I had come home, to a home I had never known before but had paradoxically always known. And no wonder: it was founded by Greeks and was an island of Greekness in the heart of Italy. Every stone of it spoke to me, every lilting voice sounded perfect, speaking words precisely as they should be spoken. Music and poetry were celebrated here, onstage and even in the streets. I had come into my own land at last, washed onto a strange shore only to find myself at my own homecoming.

  While submerging myself in the wonder of Naples, Rome never vanished as I waited anxiously to hear what my fate was to be there. And I did not dare to send for Acte. I was still in a state that was hardly normal; I could not explain to myself all that had happened, and it would be impossible to explain it to her. Oddly enough, it was not difficult to include Seneca, Burrus, and Anicetus in the secret, but they worked for me and their fate was tied to mine. They could know the worst about me, but I could not let Acte know the same. That third Nero—she must never meet him. He had been born as a result of Mother’s drug and now he had grown, flourished. Perhaps he would wither away and disappear now that Mother was gone, but until then, I could not see her. I could neither lie to her nor be honest with her. And so she waited to hear from me and day after day I could not write to her.

  • • •

  Rome made her choice; she chose to believe my story and welcome me home. Seneca could mope about the servility of it, and he spoke true, but was eager enough to return home. So, five months after the Festival of Minerva, I rode back to Rome to be feted like a Triumphing general. Waiting at the city gates were assemblies of the citizens, the senators in gala dress with their wives and children, their cries of welcome ringing in the warm air. Along the streets tiers of seats had been set up to hold the crowds, throwing showers of petals on me as I made my way to the Capitoline and paid my vows to Jupiter.

  There was more. Citizens proposed that there should be thanksgivings at every shrine for my deliverance. There should be annual games in honor of the discovery of the plot at the Festival of Minerva. There should be a gold statue of me and another of Minerva in the Senate. Mother’s birthday on November sixth should be put on the roll of ill-omened days.

  When the Senate read out these honors, only one man—Thrasea Paetus—walked out rather than vote for them. The rest applauded and now I knew true deliverance. And the third Nero grew stronger.

  • • •

  There were, of course, a few repercussions and mumblings. Oddly enough, it was Seneca who was condemned for his part in composing my explanation, rather than me for any part I had played in the action that he defended. The philosopher had soiled his robes, they felt. And there were silent, anonymous displays. A statue of Mother wore a veil (draped upon it until the statue could be removed from public view), and someone hung a placard around her neck reading, “I am veiled, but you should be the one to hide your shame.” An infant was abandoned in the Forum with a tag on its neck declaring, “I do not want to raise you lest you grow up to slay your mother.” Graffiti comparing me to Orestes and Alcmeon, matricides, appeared on walls. But no one dared to say anything to my face, and I did not ferret out the instigators of these attacks. Best to let it rest. To look the other way. To pretend.

  LI

  LOCUSTA

  Well, that was amateurish. I was appalled when I heard the details about the death of Agrippina. The rumors that were circulating were a mess of contradictions—it was a boat accident, an attempted assassination, treason, a suicide. Now, really. It was so obvious—to me, anyway—that Nero had taken matters into his own hands and bungled it badly. And the official cover story was equally amateurish. I suppose that man Seneca came up with it. Typical of a philosopher—complete nonsense.

  Why had he not come to me? I could have managed it for him. Did he not trust me any longer? I have not seen him in a long time, although he has supported my academy and requested reports of my garden and trainees. But he has never accepted any of my invitations to come and see for himself. I am very proud of what I have built here—I even have rare plants from Arabia!—and have nothing to hide. Besides, I would like to see him again. I always liked him. I want to see for myself what he has become.

  LII

  NERO

  Actors. I was surrounded by actors. They wore masks as impenetrable as the ones in the theater, but these were of flesh. They smiled and greeted me cheerfully and respectfully, but what did it mean? Could I trust them? Did they really believe Mother was a dire threat that I had been providentially saved from?

  No more of this, Nero. No more of this. Madness lurks here. I had to get myself in hand. The days were tolerable, but the nights . . . Mother’s ghost came to me in dreams, pursuing, shrieking. No more of this, Nero. Since she corrupted my sleep as she had corrupted my body, I must stay awake and work. Work at my desk when everyone was sleeping, when there were no sounds but the crickets and owls outside. The light banished the dreams and gave me blessed peace.

  I found, in that private space, a salvation as I laboriously began to collect my thoughts and sketch out my epic poem on the Trojan War, which had long been simmering in my mind. Art. Art was a portal that I could pass through, leaving ugliness behind. Describing ancient horrors was somehow an antidote to present ones.

  By waiting (or was it hiding?) in Naples until September, I had spared myself the furnace heat of a Roman summer, and now the days were pleasant, the skies clear and the winds cool and refreshing. I must show myself to the people again, must launch the true beginning of my rei
gn. It was time for the first shaving of my beard (which was not bronze, disappointingly), a ritual of great importance in the life of a Roman man. In my case, it would be the first time they had an emperor who was young enough to celebrate it.

  “And what do you have in mind?” inquired Seneca. No deferential “Caesar.” Beside him on a bench in my workroom, Burrus looked on me with furrowed brow.

  If they expected me to be vague, they were disappointed. I had had much time to think about it in the inky hours of night. “A great exhibition, open to all. Using all the theaters and the Circus. Everyone will perform—senators and knights alike, and their wives. And I will perform, too. There will be trained elephants, and elaborate refreshments in the Grove of the Caesars . . .”

  Burrus sat up straighter, if that were possible. “You will perform?”

  “Yes. I have been training, and I think I am ready.” And Mother is gone, Mother who was ashamed of my art. Now I am free.

  “With all due respect, that would not be seemly,” said Seneca. “It would destroy respect for the office of emperor. The emperor sponsors, the emperor observes, but the emperor does not participate.”

  “I intend not only to host the event but to appear onstage,” I said.

  “Never!” said Burrus. “This cannot be.”

  “I will not be alone. Everyone else will be performing, competing. Let Romans be free to show that side of themselves. That can be my gift to them.”

  Seneca smiled condescendingly. “I think they would prefer the lavish gifts you have showered on them in the past—money, gems, and horses.”

  “They shall have both.”

  Seneca and Burrus looked at one another, wearily. “The expenditure—”