The Confessions of Young Nero

by Margaret George

  There was a small mound on the other side of the road, surrounded by a low stone wall. I knew before I went there that that was where her ashes had been interred. I walked over and peered in. Just a patch of grass. Not even a bare spot to mark her presence. Creepers and grass had grown over her.

  “Mother, rest your shade,” I whispered. “I am here.” I put one of the out-of-season flowers I’d brought with me from Piso’s on her grave. “Your son is here.”

  • • •

  That night at Piso’s I declined the girls, although I did go to the baths: the baths, where supposedly all the poisons in our skins were leached out. The steamy fog that enveloped me, so that I could see only the vague outlines of others, seemed something emanating from a witch’s cauldron. The poison in my skin was gone, but what of the poison in my mind? Had the afternoon expunged it? I did not spend long there and, swathed in a towel, was making my way to the dressing room when I saw Lucan. I must say something to him, but, oh, my mind was not there that night. But this was the only time we might be alone to speak freely.

  “Lucan, your poetry is exquisite, but I blushed at the accolades you awarded me at the Neronia.”

  He pulled the towel down off his head, showing his dark wet hair standing up in spikes. “But it is true,” he said. “You are a deity to me.”

  I shook my head. After my afternoon, I felt the need to speak plain. “We are alone here; no audience, no requirement to be other than we are. We poets know of poetic license, but there is a limit we must not exceed.”

  He grinned. He had pretty, white teeth. “I stand by my words about your giving me inspiration for Roman song. You are an inspiration to me; that is truth. And I am humbled that you permit me to join your literary circle at the palace.”

  I laughed. “You are the best of them all, so it is no favor on my part.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “May I show you my verses sometime in private? I am going to write an epic of the civil war between Caesar and Pompey and would value your criticism.”

  “Gladly. And if you want access to the archives for research, I can arrange that.”

  “Oh, this is not a real history, but my imagination. My interpretation of what happened.”

  “Then you have grasped what it is to be a true artist,” I said. “There are so few of us.”

  • • •

  I lay on the sumptuous couch appointed for my bed—a curved head like a fern waiting to unfurl, bulbous ivory-inlaid legs ending in brass lion paws, a downy coverlet of white wool from the sheep of Baetica. The silk curtains puffed and billowed on the open windows, catching the pattern of light from the sea below. My room was right over the sea and I felt suspended in air. Restless, I got up and pushed the curtains aside.

  The moon, almost full, shone down on the bay, making slashes of silver, unlike the night Mother sailed upon it with no moon at all. The dark silhouette of Mount Vesuvius reared itself in the distance, and the far shore of the bay twinkled with torchlight from the villas and towns ringing it. The breeze carried with it a tang of sea creatures, and a promise of winter.

  I returned to bed. I was tense, wide-awake. So it seemed real when Mother stood before me, silent and frowning. There was no blood on her gown, which was an everyday one, strangely plain and austere. She did not speak; I did not speak. She made no gesture but to gaze at me, her expression almost blank. Then she leaned forward and handed me a small piece of paper; when I took it she withdrew, vanishing into the Stygian shadows at the far corner of the room. I looked at the paper, but it was too dark to read the writing. I would have to read it in the morning. Oddly untroubled, I let it drift to the floor. I heard its soft brushing sound as it settled on the marble. In the morning. I would read it in the morning.

  When I awoke, the sun was already coloring the horizon, dyeing the sky the shade of a new peach skin. Vesuvius was visible now, no longer a black outline. Luxuriating in the spell of dawn, I suddenly remembered the visitation of the night and scrambled to find the piece of paper where it had fallen beside the bed.

  But of course there was no paper. I felt all along the cool marble, looked everywhere it might have landed, but it was not there. It never had been. It was only a dream, and Mother had passed back over the Styx, having visited me in the only way she could. I never should have sought out her grave; I had called her forth. But now I knew I would never be free, never forgiven, always hounded and pursued, if not by the actual Furies, then by she herself.

  As if in mockery, a messenger came to my door shortly thereafter.

  “A letter for you, Imperator,” he said, holding out a heavy envelope with a seal. It was real; much more substantial than the spectral one I had been looking for. The wax seal bore a signet stamp I did not recognize. I broke it open and read, so easily, the words written there in dark ink.

  My most gracious Emperor and friend,

  You made a request of me some time ago, which I promised to honor but have not yet done so. That was to see my home in Pompeii. It has come to my attention that you are nearby in Baiae and if you would find yourself amenable to traveling to my villa, I would welcome you with all joy.

  Poppaea Sabina

  One letter canceled out the other; dread and sorrow of the one was replaced with eager anticipation and excitement by the other.

  She had not mentioned Otho. Was he there? Did she issue the invitation for both of them? Whichever way she meant it, I would be surprised when I arrived. That much I knew for certain, knowing how she played with me, always obliquely.

  The messenger was waiting, standing stiffly beside the desk. I shot a look at him. “Tell your mistress the domina that the emperor accepts her invitation.” I would not wait to write out a formal answer; let it be done verbally. “I will arrive as soon as I may.” Let her wonder when that might be. He bowed smartly and took his departure.

  Yes, I would go to her. But on the way I would pay a visit to the Cumaean sibyl, hoping to learn something of the future. The detour would give me time to think.

  • • •

  The villa was stirring to life and Piso greeted me as I came into the atrium.

  “Ah, how fresh you look! A night off from the girls has been restorative!” he said with a wide grin.

  I had a desire to tell him that a night spent with ghosts was not restful. Instead I smiled and said, “I must take my leave today. Some business has come up in Rome, and I also wish to visit Cumae.”

  “Oh, can the business not wait?” He looked genuinely disappointed. “And as for Cumae, Petronius calls that region home and he could show you—”

  “No, I prefer to go alone. I would not cut his visit here short.” Trying to be companionable, I added, “His pleasures here are more compelling than a visit back to his hometown.”

  One by one the others emerged, joining us, and the slaves brought out pomegranate juice and bread, olives, and cheese, and the sleepy-eyed partyers munched slowly. Senecio, who had put on weight, rubbed his growing belly as if he were pleased with it.

  “Our guest of honor is leaving today,” Piso announced. Everyone made tsk-tsk noises.

  Senecio, his dark hair still uncombed, shook his head. “Too much indulgence, then? Back to Rome and the straight path of virtue?”

  “Yes,” I said. Why tell them otherwise?

  “But you will miss our dinner honoring the late lost Serenus,” cried Vitellius. “His absence leaves an empty place on our couches of debauchery.”

  “But out of respect, we will serve no mushrooms,” said Piso.

  Serenus had perished from eating a poison mushroom, but unlike Claudius’s, this one was natural, and his death accidental. Suddenly I thought of Locusta, thankful I no longer needed her services. But I heard that her special academy was flourishing. I should request a tour of her garden of lethal plants; I was curious to see it. She would undoubtedly be pleased to welcome me.
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  But no! Why should I chance reawakening the third Nero, who had been sleeping, dormant? Let him slumber on, undisturbed. Let him never rise again. Locusta must remain in my past.

  And in answering the summons of Poppaea, which of the Neros was being drawn there? She had caused me to lose Acte, who would always be the guardian of all that once was best in me. That Acte would always be a part of me, buried deep within, she who had known the first two Neros but fled from the third. The third one even I wanted to flee from.

  But enough. Enough of this. I go forward, not backward.

  Petronius, joining us, did not look the worse for wear, but perhaps, while maintaining his reputation for debauchery, he secretly paced himself, the better to create awe and admiration for superhuman endurance. He looked at me. “Next year, then, we will meet at your villa. And outdo ourselves. You will have to work hard to top what Piso has offered this time.”

  “I have plans for remodeling it.” In fact until that moment I had not thought of it. But now that I knew I could reclaim Baiae for myself (the ghost would always be there, but I would not flinch), I could think of improvements to the imperial villa high on its hill. “I will put in large fishponds and oyster beds so that we can feast heartily,” I said. “They can reach all the way down the hillside to the sea.”

  “You will have such an excess you can sell them,” said Vitellius. “If the imperial treasury needs a boost.” He laughed, rubbing his plump cheeks.

  “It never refuses a donation,” I admitted.

  I took my leave, making extravagant compliments to my host. I would send him a shipment of wine in thanks—another claim on the imperial treasury. The emperor was expected to be generous.

  • • •

  Riding north, I headed for the Phlegraean Fields, an eerie gray expanse of smoking vents, acrid sulfur vapors, and volcanic dust. On my right was the dull blue of the autumn bay; straight ahead lay the fields, the Lake of Avernus, and Cumae. A miasma of the underworld clung to the area; Virgil had sited the entrance to Hades at Lake Avernus, and people believed that lethal vapors from its depths kept birds from flying over it. Here Aeneas and Odysseus had entered to encounter their dead.

  As I rode past it, its bright blue circular beauty seemed to belie its lethal reputation. But such is often the case in life; they say some poisons taste sweet, and snakes lurk under the most fragrant flowers.

  Now on into the fields themselves. The powdery gray dust was easily stirred up by the horses’ hooves—mine in front, my guards’ behind—and soon the sun was hazy, obscured in the ash cloud. The foul fumes of the smoking vents, mixed with the swirling ash, made us choke and hold our breath. By the time we emerged, our clothes stank and we were light-headed from the breath-holding.

  Up to this point, the sights around me had been so arresting and demanding that I had not been able to think about Poppaea and what would happen, but now I could. I seldom was so uncertain, not only of what someone else would do but of what I would. Perhaps I should not think about it. Whatever I predicted would likely be in vain.

  Beyond the stench of the fields, on a high rock overlooking the area, we stopped to eat. Piso had provided picnic fare and we spread out the food and ate slowly, enjoying the late-autumn warmth of the sun on the rock. Ahead lay the cave of the sibyl, where Aeneas had taken refuge. The ancient sibyl’s prophecies had been inscribed in several books, kept in Rome—now in Augustus’s shrine to Apollo on the Palatine. They were consulted when the state was threatened or decisions had to be made about policy. But the sibyl also gave individual readings, like the famous oracle at Delphi.

  It was a short distance now to the hewn rock cave where the sibyl sat. We rode on, the sea visible on our left. Umbrella pines spread their flat branches overhead, making round shadows on the ground around us. A stiff breeze swayed the branches, making the shadows shiver.

  We reached the top of the hill, with its steps winding down to the entrance of the cave, and left our horses there. The place seemed deserted. As I descended the steep stairs, the wind tried to push me back against the rock, and the force of it made the crevices sing. Finally I reached the flat bottom, where the entrance beckoned.

  A long walkway, cut through the rock but still open to the sky, led to an actual doorway. On each side the rocks, green-hued with moss and creepers, funneled my vision toward that dark cave ahead. There was not a sound from within.

  It had been years since I’d visited the oracle at Antium and received the then mysterious saying There is no respect for hidden music. But now the meaning of that had become clear. I needed further guidance; I had followed the first. I should have been nervous but felt oddly serene. I was emperor and needed every bit of information about myself and what awaited me that I could obtain. My fate was not solely mine but affected millions of other people. It was my duty to know it.

  Nearby, birds were twittering in the bushes, but that all ceased at the door of the true passageway. I stood on its threshold, seeing a series of archways lit from slits on each side, each archway a replica of the other, looking smaller and smaller as they receded down the long passageway, like boxes fitted inside one another, each framing the next.

  The portals were a series of trapezoids, unlike any doorways I had ever seen. The eerie light illuminating them, tracing their outline, made them glow in the surrounding darkness. The passageway was very long, at least three hundred feet, and as I passed through each portal, the vista of those yet before me seemed infinite.

  Finally I came to the last of them and was in a dark, rounded, natural cave. The light was dim; there was no slit window to the outside. A faint scent of both incense and a subtle wet rot filled the cave.

  It was silent. Was anyone there? My eyes grew accustomed to the dimness and I could see a little alcove hidden behind a half wall.

  “Is anyone here?” I asked.

  Suddenly a figure rose from behind the wall, seeming to grow to outlandish size as she stood. She was draped in black, veiled, and beyond that, wearing a mask.

  Her rising stirred the mossy smell.

  She did not speak.

  “Are you the sibyl?” I asked her directly.

  Still no answer.

  “Have I come all this way for nothing?” I persisted.

  There was a soft chuckle, or perhaps a muffled gurgle. I could not tell which.

  “I deserve an answer,” I said.

  Another soft laugh, then, “You will get what you deserve, Emperor.”

  How did she know I was the emperor? But before I could be awed, I reminded myself that my portrait was on coins that everyone saw. “Tell me what that is, then,” I said.

  “You are fortunate. Not everyone gets what he or she deserves, but you will.” Her voice was cracked, as if she seldom used it.

  “And what is that?” I asked. Now I would know.

  She stood taller. She towered over me; was she even human? “Fire will be your undoing,” she finally said.

  “Explain further,” I said, knowing that usually the enigmatic statements were not explained.

  The mask tilted as her head moved. “Flames will consume your dreams and your dreams are yourself.”

  “Which dreams?”

  She laughed, an otherworldly, high laugh. “If you do not know, how can I tell you?”

  “If you do not know, how can you prophesy?”

  “No more questions, no more answers.” She turned her back on me and sank back down behind the wall, out of sight.

  I waited. Perhaps she would speak again. But no. Finally I turned and retraced my steps through the series of trapezoids. Flames. Fire. I passed through the first portal. Undoing. Loss of my dreams. Through the second. What I deserve. Through the third. My dreams are myself. Through the fourth. As I trudged through the portals I kept repeating the phrases, until at last I reached real daylight and returned to the real world.

/>   Like the flames she described, her words burned into me, but I did not know what to make of them or how to guard against them. Shaken, I mounted my horse and left that place.

  LXII

  The sun was nearly setting by the time we left Cumae and headed toward Pompeii, back past Lake Avernus, darkening now, and along the shore toward the east. Vesuvius was fading, turning purple against the sky. Now pinkish clouds shot out around the sunset—daggers of flame?

  I must put it out of my mind. As time passed, the meaning would be clear. I could recognize real fire when I saw it. But “fire” and “flames” could also be used as metaphors, and perhaps that was what she meant. Oracles were by tradition deliberately misleading and tricky.

  We passed Naples, then approached Herculaneum in the shadow of Vesuvius. It was full dark before we reached Poppaea’s villa, not actually in Pompeii but west of it, closer to the foot of Vesuvius. The villa lay in the heart of extensive gardens, their trees visible now only as dark forms on either side of the walkway, the leaves rustling. Torches lighted the wide paved path, showing a tall, colonnaded entrance before us. Guards stepped out, emerging from the sides of the pillars.

  But they did not question me. Like the sibyl, they recognized me.

  “Enter, Caesar,” they said.

  I walked into a large reception room, lit only by a candelabrum in a corner. The high ceiling was lost in shadow and as dark as a starless night. All along the side stood ghostly statues, guarding the room. One of them moved and came toward me, its filmy drapery stirring.

  She was pale as the dawn and too beautiful and perfect to be alive. I reached out to touch her shoulder, expecting it to be cold and smooth, confirming that it was marble. After the sibyl, everything today could be otherworldly.

  But it was warm.

  “Poppaea,” I said, half expecting her to answer, No, I am Aphrodite . . . no, I am a dream . . . no, I do not exist.