The Confessions of Young Nero
Page 40
Looking at her in the morning sunlight it was impossible to believe such beauty as hers must also perish. But not today. Oh, not today.
The north side flanking the entrance to the villa had the largest gardens, along with groves of plane trees and olive orchards; citron and oleander lined the paths. Many of the gardens were planted with beds of flowers to make chaplets and garlands: cyclamen, cornflower, hyacinth, iris, lily, violet, all dormant now. Then other beds provided green leaves to weave with the flowers: periwinkle, ivy, myrtle.
“And here is my favorite,” she said, pointing to a large bed of roses. “They take a great deal of care, but they are worth it,” she said. “I have three shades of red—very deep, bright like blood, and pale, almost a blush. You will have to wait to see them.” She clasped my hands and her face shone like a child’s. “Oh, there are so many things I will show you,” she said.
Farther from the villa were the necessary buildings—the barns, the granaries, the blacksmith, the winepress, the fishponds, and the stables. As we strolled past the stables, I asked, “So where are they? The five hundred asses you keep?”
She stopped and looked indignant. “There aren’t five hundred!” she said. “There are only two hundred.”
I burst into laughter. As if extravagance and vanity could be finite and controlled. “And when do you bathe in the milk?” I asked.
“Usually in the morning,” she said.
“I apologize for keeping you from your routine,” I said. “We must not interrupt the ministrations in the temple of beauty. May I watch?”
“If you like,” she said. “Or you could join me.”
“I think not,” I said.
“Otho does,” she said.
At once the mood changed, like a shadow passing over the sun. “He is known for his vanity and effeminacy,” I said. “So it does not surprise me.”
“You should try it,” she said, undaunted. “It is very good for the skin. You are out in the sun too much and it will age you.”
“I suppose you would like me to wear a comical sun hat like the pale Augustus did? No, thank you.”
Now she laughed, and the shadow passed, the sun’s warmth returned.
The day was bright and warm enough that we spent most of it outside, wandering the gravel paths and inspecting the buildings. The winepress still smelled of dank acid from the recent pressings. The vineyards themselves stretched out on the lower slopes of Vesuvius, climbing up the gentle rise.
“The soil is one of the best for grapevines,” she said. “You can see the whole mountain is covered with them.” Indeed, as far as the eye could see, rows of vines were clinging to the slopes. The top of the mountain was still sunlit, but where we stood it had already fled, and the evening shadows were creeping upward.
“I feel as if the mountain is keeping watch over us, protecting us. It is our guardian.”
The oncoming night beckoned us back inside, first to dinner and then to the black room.
• • •
When would Otho arrive? Not knowing made each day suspenseful, although it would have been impossible for him to arrive before at least five days had passed. So we used those days, understanding they were the last we would ever have of true privacy and the treasure of our secret.
I did watch her bathe in the asses’ milk, floating in the creamy white liquid, although I doubted it was responsible for her perfect skin. She laughed and splashed me and asked, “Where shall we stable my donkeys in Rome?”
“We will find a place,” I said. We would find a place for everything. We would want for nothing as long as we were together.
• • •
Otho came on the sixth day, dapper and smiling. He said, “So you were able to come,” as if it were an ordinary visit. I wondered how anyone could be so compromised as to pretend thus?
“Yes,” I said.
After a dinner in which much small talk was made—gossip about Piso, about the lion who had escaped from a pen at the amphitheater, about a senator who cheated at dice—we rose and went into one of the large reception rooms, where we could sit on comfortable cushioned couches. Otho was still chattering away when Poppaea rose and said, “I request a divorce.”
He looked struck, as if he had never considered it. “But why?” he asked, looking plaintively back and forth at us.
“Because I wish to marry Nero,” she said calmly.
“But can we not . . . continue as we are?” he asked.
I was astounded. How abject could a man be? But in his love for her, no humiliation was too great if it allowed him to retain her. Thus was the strength of her spell. “No,” I said. “I do not wish to share her.”
“But I am willing to,” he said. He reminded me of a wheedling merchant.
“It cannot be,” I insisted.
“Poppaea?” He appealed to her.
“It cannot be,” she repeated.
His eyes darted back and forth, taking our measure. “Very well, then,” he said. He looked at me. “She will not come cheap.” Now he was a wheedling merchant, rather than a wronged husband.
“I am not surprised,” I said. “I can give you an enviable life, but not in Rome.”
“What?” he cried. Then: “Where?”
“Portugal,” I said. “You can be governor of Portugal.”
“So far from Rome,” he said.
“Yes, very far from Rome.” That was the purpose.
“So far,” he repeated.
“It will have its compensations,” I said.
“It must be pretty to be emperor and have everything you desire, even another man’s wife,” he said. “To be able to grant any gift to any person.”
“No one has everything he desires, not even the emperor,” I said. But right now I could not think of anything I wanted that I did not have.
“Perhaps I’ll be emperor someday, and see how it feels.”
He would never even be consul, I thought, but said nothing. Besides, he was not of the imperial family, not even remotely. Such a man was not eligible to be emperor.
He turned to Poppaea, who had remained silent. “Is this your desire? Do you want this?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Why? So you can be empress? Have power? For surely you don’t love him. You don’t love anyone, not really. I was content knowing that. Will he be?”
I waited for her to contradict him.
Instead she said, “You slander and insult me. This proves you do not really know me, and so you are no longer worthy to be my husband. So here it ends.”
Otho stood up. He glared at me and I felt a sinking sense of loss, for our friendship that had spanned so many years, for his company that I had always enjoyed, for his loyalty and good-natured camaraderie. For a fleeting moment I almost wished it were possible for us to continue as we were, as he had offered. But no. It would be monstrous.
“Farewell,” he said. “May your rule continue in prosperity.”
With a dignity he had not shown heretofore, he straightened his back and left the room.
• • •
I lay quiet in the black room, in the deepest dark of night, black held within black. Sleep was impossible, knowing I had embarked on yet another perilous journey striking out into the unknown in my life. I loved Poppaea, sleeping beside me. But in what way? Was she a work of art I wanted to possess, like my priceless goblets of murra? Was she a reflection of myself, a wavering image I thought I recognized? Was she the shelter from ugliness I had sought all my life?
And what was it Otho had said? That she loved no one. If that was true, then I loved an object that was incapable of returning that love. He accused her of wanting power, which she would get by her proximity to me. That was undeniable. I was the source of fortune and reward for many people, and the closer they stood to me, the greater the bounty they might reap.
But such was the innate condition of being emperor.
If you cannot bear it, cannot live with the uncertainties, then you must relinquish your station.
No, never.
I was aware of Poppaea’s soft breathing beside me, could feel the warmth of her back, a peaceful presence, a reassurance.
I could bear it, could bear the uncertainties that awaited me, while this moment was blessed.
• • •
We had several more days in the villa, which we spent quietly, talking as lovers do who are hungry to know every little thing about one another. The most inconsequential preferences—does she like pistachios?—seem monumental and revelatory. The smallest incidences of childhood—she wandered away on the beach once and could not find her way home—take on the contours of a Homeric tale. It is as if we seek to capture all the aspects of the loved one, even the days before we knew her. We are jealous even of the past. The present and the future are not enough for us. We must have the whole.
We went into Pompeii one day but did not linger. The streets were crowded and busy and it seemed too much like Rome.
The last day I was there, the villa trembled slightly. We were standing in the large room that overlooked the sea when the floor shivered under our feet. There was a slight groaning from the walls but nothing else, and it passed. It had felt like the shiver one gets sometimes and the common people say, “Someone just walked over your grave.”
Poppaea steadied one of the vases. “We have these tremors every so often,” she said. “Lately they seem to be increasing. There was some structural damage in Pompeii at the last one. The upper story of one house collapsed, and a crack appeared in one of the side streets.”
“Was anyone injured?”
“No. Luckily no one was home when the house was damaged.”
Now I would worry about her safety here. “I have something to protect you,” I said. “Something that suits you as well as me.” I went to my room and took the snake bracelet. The old skin still gleamed unfaded inside the crystal. I held it out, put it on her arm. “Messalina killed your mother as a grown woman, and she tried to kill me as a child. But a snake—divine or not?—averted my fate. It slithered out from under my pillow just as her assassins were reaching for me.”
She stroked the dome of the crystal, puzzled.
“This is the shed skin of the snake. I have worn it for protection ever since.” I omitted the fact that my mother had ordered it. Thus do lovers hide their secrets from one another, even while vowing to be open and reveal all. “I want you to wear it, so no harm will befall you while we are apart.”
“But what of you? Now you are vulnerable. No, take it back.” She tried to pull it off, but I stopped her.
“I am more concerned for your safety than for mine.”
“But you are going back to Rome, the most dangerous place in the world.”
I smiled. “Hardly. It is not the swamp of Ethiopia, where my explorers down the Nile have run into a choking sea of weeds, ferocious mosquitoes, and biting flies. The dangers of Rome are softer ones.”
LXIV
The plan was that I would return to Rome and immediately move for the divorce from Octavia and present Poppaea’s request for hers from Otho. Poppaea would wait for me at the villa. As soon as it was done, we would marry and I would bring her to Rome as my empress. It seemed straightforward.
But the climate in Rome had changed in the time I had been away. As I approached the city along the Appian Way, with its sepulchers and tombs looming on either side, throwing shadows across my path, I sensed something was afoot. Once back in the palace, even the familiar floors and appointments could not banish the unease that pervaded the atmosphere.
As soon as I had bathed and resettled myself, I sent for both Burrus and Seneca. Seneca did not appear until late in the day.
I was shocked at his appearance—he seemed to have withered like a stalk struck by an untimely frost.
“Forgive my lateness, Caesar, but I had to come up from my country villa,” he wheezed. “Rome has grown too noisy for me, and since you were not here . . .” He spread his hands.
“Yes, yes. Please sit.” It could not be soon enough; he was tottering.
“My lungs have worsened, as you can see,” he said. “But when the body declines, sometimes the missing fire goes to the mind. This has happened to me. I have done a great deal of writing in my quiet country home.”
“I am pleased to hear that. I know that is your first love.” In his face I saw, fleetingly, all the times we had passed together. I remembered the picnic by the side of the Tiber, all those years before, when he had stepped into the vacant place left by the father I had never known.
“Indeed, and I wish to discuss that with you,” he said. “The truth is, I am weary and wish to retire. I have served in court for many years, and I feel I have spent long enough in the traces.”
“Do you consider yourself a mule?” I said, laughing, hoping to lighten the mood. But he did not smile.
“In some ways, Caesar,” he said.
“Can you not call me just Nero? Of all people you have the right. Or even Lucius, if you want to go further back.”
“Very well—Nero. It has been hard to continue in these traces as I sensed I was becoming more and more irrelevant. You paid little heed to anything I advised; I was only ornamental, like one of the brass fittings on the harness of a mule.”
“So you felt even less than the mule itself?” I tried to laugh again.
“I am afraid that is accurate. So, Cae—Nero, I beg leave to retire, truly retire, to my estate and come no longer to the palace.”
I had not expected this, had not prepared for it. It was true I no longer followed all his advice, but his presence was somehow soothing, protective, and beneficent. “I see,” I said. That old feeling of being betrayed, abandoned, crept up and tried to seize me. I beat it back. “Although I can command armies and fleets, I cannot command your heart. So I release you, but with sadness.”
“Thank you,” he said, rising. He stretched out his feeble arms and embraced me. I clasped him, feeling what was left of his body inside the layers of enveloping robes.
“But not yet,” I said. “I still want to talk to you about my divorce. I am determined to divorce Octavia and will petition for it immediately.”
He shuffled back to his chair, his face sagging. Release was not yet, then. He had to earn it. “We have already discussed that, why it would be inadvisable. She is the daughter of the last emperor, she inspires loyalty, and furthermore if you divorced her she might remarry someone with a lineage that could challenge your rule.”
But none of that was important now. Poppaea would be my wife, and that was all that mattered to me.
“I don’t care,” I said.
He sighed. “That is why I can’t continue serving you. It is pointless for me to remain when I cannot offer you any advice you heed.”
“Give me advice I can use,” I said. “Advice about how to manage the opposition I may encounter. Advice about what to do with Octavia once we are divorced. In the name of Zeus, give some practical advice about how to manage what I want, rather than finger shaking about what might befall.”
“You want an executioner, not a philosopher,” he said. “Someone like that Tigellinus, utterly without scruple and ready to obey your every command. Or Anicetus, your old tutor. He certainly didn’t hesitate to literally execute your command.”
How dare he remind me of that? It was not to be spoken of. “I need someone who can think, not just perform.”
“Very well, here is something to think about. You are embarking on this course at a dangerous time. A comet a
ppeared while you were away, and you know what a comet presages.”
A change of regime. A new emperor. “Have many people seen it? It wasn’t visible where I was.”
“People in Rome have seen it,” he said. “It has a very bright tail and is visible even in the daylight.”
I shivered. But if my reign was in danger, would not the sibyl have mentioned it? Instead she talked of flames and fire. But could she have meant the tail of the comet?
I took a deep breath. At that moment I seized my future and steered away from the safe shallow shore. Come what may, I would not alter my course. “I will proceed anyway,” I said. “And where is Burrus?”
“Dying,” he said. “He has a throat ailment that has progressed to the point he can no longer eat. He lies in the Praetorian commander’s quarters at the camp.”
• • •
Seneca gone. Burrus gone. I sent physicians, restorative broth, and medicines to him, and asked to come see him, but he refused, via a note. Since he could no longer talk, and was so weak, he wished me to remember him as the robust man he had once been, not this diminished person. I had to respect that.
I drafted a legal letter to Octavia telling her I wanted a divorce, had it witnessed and copied, and then left Rome. The law required only such a letter to establish a divorce. I would have to return her dowry, but that was a pittance compared to the treasury I had. Augustus had instituted strict marriage and divorce laws if a wife had committed adultery—she must be divorced, surrender half her dowry, and be exiled to an island. But we would not have to resort to that. If questioned, I would claim she was barren, which she certainly was. That should suffice.
• • •
I sought the escape of Sublaqueum, my mountain villa retreat. In the years since I had built it, I had furnished it with every luxury and many works of art. But as I walked into it, what was there now melted away and the rooms seemed bare, as they were when I first built them, and Acte was by my side. When I was very young. Where was that young emperor? Apollonius had said I was still the boy in my thinking, but that was only in a very few areas that I guarded and treasured, my private passions and youthful yearnings that did not fade.