The Confessions of Young Nero

by Margaret George

  I sat alone at the long black polished marble table, my arms and face reflected in the surface, savoring my solitude. Outside, the wind was rising and dark clouds chased across the sky. Suddenly a flash of lightning ripped through the room, hitting the table, splitting it. I was thrown backward onto the floor, unharmed. But so shaken I could barely rise. The table was smoking, shards of it lying on either side of the crack.

  This was an omen, a warning from the gods. It had to be. But damn the omens. They did not frighten me.

  The storm passed swiftly. The sky cleared and the stars came out. I walked out to the lakes I had created from the dammed streams. In the darkness it was hard to see their extent, but I could just make out the ripples moving across their surfaces. I had envisioned their contours with Acte standing beside me. When I was truly young and believed I could bring about anything with no opposition. Now I knew better, but I also knew how to counter and overthrow opposition.

  Bright white against the sky, I saw the comet. It hung in the heavens, its tail twinkling.

  Do your worst. I do not fear you.

  • • •

  When I returned to Rome, I found that gossip about the lightning bolt at Sublaqueum had already spread. Since Sublaqueum was near Tibur, the familial estates of Rubellius Plautus—a descendant of both Tiberius and Octavia—people took it as a sign that the gods were pointing to him as the next emperor. Then, when a statue in Rome inexplicably fell and toppled in that direction as well, they took it as confirmation of the divine will. So the gods sent this message? I would prove how powerless they were, or rather, how preposterous the interpretation of their message was. Rubellius Plautus had been an irritant and a threat for years. Mother had even threatened to marry him at one point, and together to oust me from the throne—one of her many plots and schemes. Anyone else would have executed him right then, but instead I sent him to his vast estates in Asia where he would be far away. A fresh bit of unwelcome news I now received sealed his fate—rather than the so-called omens: he was attempting to convince my general Corbulo, currently serving in Syria and fighting the Parthians, to aid him in an uprising. I gave orders; they were carried out, and at last Plautus was no more.

  The Senate obligingly expelled him from their number and erased his name from their annals. That once august body was my obedient creature now.

  With the loss of Burrus, I would need a new Praetorian prefect. I decided to revert to the old system of having two, to act as checks on one another, and also to share the increasing demands of the office. I appointed Faenius Rufus, a man who had been trustworthy and resourceful in the demanding job of managing the city’s grain supply and distribution. For his partner, it would be Tigellinus.

  When I informed him, he grinned and said, “What would Claudius say, eh? My wheel has turned. And I am content to be the spokes of your wheel.”

  That was what I needed. Spokes that turned my wheel, not grit that kept it frozen. “Keep that promise,” I said.

  • • •

  I received a message from Octavia. She had signed the divorce papers and was agreeable to the terms. We had to appear before a set of lawyers with our statements, and then we could part. But she wanted to see me in person first.

  I had not seen her since our obligatory appearance together on the Rostra at New Year’s. As she came into the room, it struck me as inexplicable I could be married to a stranger. She was recognizable as someone known since childhood, but not as someone who had traveled beside me, like Seneca or Burrus.

  “Husband,” she said, walking toward me. “I address you thus for the last time.”

  “I hope you will continue to call me friend,” I said. I couldn’t say the word “wife” to her.

  “Of course,” she said. Then, with a sad glance, she added, “I wish it could have been otherwise. But we had little say in what had gone before us.”

  “It is my hope that our futures give us more choices.”

  “Yes,” she said. There was nothing left to say. “Good-bye. I will see you at the hearing.”

  • • •

  I stood before two solemn lawyers and a scribe and gave as the reason for the divorce that Octavia was barren and could give me no heir. The lawyers nodded and signed papers. Octavia stood with downcast eyes, enduring the embarrassment of my accusation. She would have been justified to cry, “All women are barren if their husbands keep them in celibacy.” But she wanted to be free of me as much as I wanted to be free of her. And so she kept silent.

  I gave her the estates of Burrus and she moved from the palace. I jubilantly wrote to Poppaea that all had gone as hoped, that we were free. But I reckoned without the people of Rome, who were Octavia’s vocal and aggressive partisans. A mob marched on the palace, demanding that I take her back. I was glad to have Tigellinus to make sure they did not breach the grounds and to disperse them.

  Afterward, it was Tigellinus who came to me and said, “The civil and polite divorce is not convincing to the people. They do not accept it. They are howling that you must take her back.”

  “Then let Octavia tell them she is not interested in coming back,” I said.

  “They won’t listen to her,” he said, clenching his wide jaw. “People decide what the truth is and stop their ears. It is up to us to open them again.”

  “How?” Seneca would have counseled Stoicism, Mother murder.

  “You will have to change the terms of the divorce and accuse her of adultery.”

  I laughed. “No one will believe that.”

  “Oh, yes, they will, when they hear the details.” He then went on to outline them; clearly he had been thinking. Anicetus would swear before the Consilium that she had seduced him, thereby trying to subvert the fleet and harness it for her treasonous designs. The law of Augustus would then demand that she be exiled to an island. “Out of sight, the people will soon forget her.”

  I shook my head. Ingenious, but anyone that ruthless was frightening, even if he worked for me. “Exiled to an island—it seems extreme.”

  “Nothing less will free you of her.”

  Still I balked. He suggested changing the accusation to having an Egyptian flute player in her household as a lover. But no. People would think she was hardly to be blamed since I did not visit her as a husband. So we went back to Anicetus and the attached treason accusation. I sent for him.

  Sitting before me, he smiled widely. I would have welcomed the opportunity to spend the day with my old, and seldom seen, friend, had it not been for the business that had summoned him.

  We exchanged news about the fleet, the recruiting, the legions, and especially the Fourteenth, which had excelled in Britain. Then, gingerly, I made my request. He looked dumbfounded.

  “What? I have never seen her alone. I’ve seldom seen her, period.”

  “You are my only hope,” I said. “The only one whom I can rely upon utterly, and who did not fail me in my hour of greatest need.” By mutual tact, that hour was not specified, nor need it be. It could hardly be forgotten. “This is simple in comparison.”

  “It causes me to perjure myself,” he said. “And injure an innocent person.”

  “All these matters are merely legal formalities. They are not to be believed, but must be on record in order for it to be official. Besides, having you for a lover would be a benefit for Octavia’s reputation. Her next husband could assume she was experienced.” But he didn’t laugh. And I, knowing that in exile there would be no second husband, was ashamed of my attempt to whitewash it.

  He looked pained. He twisted a paper in his left hand, turning it over and over. “I don’t know . . .”

  “You can retire to Sardinia, to huge estates that I will grant you, and never have to endure Roman gossip.”

  “No longer be admiral?”

  “You have been a stellar admiral, but are there not other things you would like to do? Things y
ou have put aside while you were anchored—pardon me—in Misenum, hardly an exciting place.”

  “Yes . . .” he admitted. “I would like to have the leisure to enjoy a retirement when I am still young enough to appreciate it.”

  “Well, then . . .”

  • • •

  He did it. He stood before the Consilium and solemnly swore that he had been Octavia’s lover and that she had tried to persuade him to commit treason against me, to turn the fleet to her own purposes. He should have been in Athens, competing in an actors’ contest. He surely would have won the wreath. Who knew he had such talent?

  LXV

  Poppaea obtained her divorce with no delay, as there was no opposition from any quarter. Otho departed for Portugal, and all was tidy. He came to the Senate for his formal leave-taking, but I chose not to be present.

  Octavia had likewise departed for the island of Pandateria, after a particularly unpleasant interrogation by Tigellinus, in which unsavory accusations about the details of the adultery took place, culminating in her maid telling Tigellinus that the private parts of her mistress were cleaner than his mouth. He excused himself by claiming that it was necessary that such an interview be on record. I chided him for it, but he assured me that he had seen to it that in compensation she had comforts in her new setting. Special foods, dainties that would be brought from the mainland twice a week; the best couches and tables; an abundance of lamps and torches; books. Guards who were well educated and could discuss poetry or history equally.

  “They should stay away from history,” I said. “Pandateria has a gloomy past as far as women from the imperial family are concerned.” Augustus’s daughter, Julia the Elder, had been sent there, and her granddaughter Livilla as well; Tiberius had sent Agrippina the Elder there. I hoped the amenities that were provided for her would soften the contours of life in her new home. If only this had not been necessary. After the furor died down I would bring her back; Augustus had allowed Julia back. People had a short memory and soon the clamor for her would fade away. Then it would be safe for her to return.

  But, freed, I could now look forward to my marriage to Poppaea. I made arrangements to return to Pompeii and spend several weeks there with her. Tigellinus and Faenius Rufus would be in charge in Rome; I finished the business that needed my seal before departing. One item was to replace Paulinus in Britain with the consul Turpilianus; it was time to implement a policy of clemency there.

  “I have made it easy for you two,” I said. “All is quiet. Lesser problems that arise, you can deal with yourselves. Anything major, send news by the swiftest messengers.” But I hoped there would be no such disruptions.

  • • •

  Tracing my way back down toward Pompeii, I no longer felt the unease that had enveloped me heading into Rome. It was now spring; this time it was the lavish villas lining the road I noticed rather than the tombs. The piercing new green of the fields and leaves, the high-pitched birdcalls, the winking starry white of meadow wildflowers—all called me to my new life. Happiness, so long elusive, would be mine.

  Poppaea was waiting, hurrying down the broad entranceway toward me as I rode up. I leapt down and embraced her. “How did you know I was just arriving?”

  “I felt it,” she said. “I knew it would be today.”

  For a moment it seemed the sun circled dizzily around my head and I felt unsteady. I buried my face in her thick, glorious hair, with its faint musky scent. I took a strand of it and held it up to the sunlight, where its rich amber glowed red-gold-brown.

  “I shall write a poem to your hair,” I said. “True amber.” We turned and walked together on the wide path toward the colonnaded entrance, arms around one another. “Amber,” I said. “Did I tell you I heard from my agents sent to get amber from the Baltic? They have located a large source, so soon Rome will be floating in it.” I had been pleased at their success.

  “I hope not literally,” she said.

  “Oh, I plan to have the gladiators’ nets and shields decorated with it,” I said. “Among other things. And because it is the color of your hair, I cannot have enough of it.”

  The villa’s front room, familiar but where I yet felt a guest, was bright now with the spring sun. It gave it a different feel, open and warm. I turned to her. “Where will we marry? Not the black room—although that would be the most symbolic.”

  She laughed. “I thought in the inner garden,” she said. “The real flowers are lovely now, and the painted ones never change.”

  • • •

  We stood together in the warmth of the enclosure, the sun touching our heads, a gentle breeze stirring the lilies blooming along the wall. She wore the traditional saffron wedding veil, with a wreath of flowers sacred to Juno and Venus she had gathered at sunrise that morning—roses, narcissus, and hyacinth—twined through her braided hair. Several of her Pompeian relatives were invited as witnesses, and they stood quietly watching as we faced the priest of Jupiter, holding hands to show consent and chanting the ancient marriage vow Quando tu Gaius, ego Gaia—Whenever and wherever you are Gaius, then I am Gaia—and I gave her the wedding ring, made from gold of Lydia and stamped with our two hands clasping. Now the priest turned to the wedding altar we had set up against one wall and made an offering to Jupiter, a honey cake. He then broke it and gave us each a piece to eat. With that last ritual completed, we were married.

  She had no mother to dress her, no father to give her the traditional wedding dinner, no wedding procession from her father’s house to mine. Instead she led me, and the guests, into hers, where the dinner waited. She mingled with her relatives, thanking them for coming and promising to visit them in their homes. I could not take my eyes from her as she gracefully insinuated herself between the guests. She seemed to hang in the gathering twilight like a luminous opal.

  Night had come, and now the guests would escort us to the bedroom in a version of the traditional wedding procession from house to house. They trooped behind us, carrying the flaming hawthorn wedding torch. I stopped before the bedroom entrance and slowly pushed open the door, staring in. It had been completely redone; the old bed was gone. All was new. I took her in my arms and lifted her up, stepping over the threshold.

  Behind us the guests crowded in, and one of them kindled the wedding fire on the hearth with the torch, although in the warm weather we did not need more heat. We both looked toward the bed, heaped with silk and pillows. Then back at the guests.

  “Good night, all,” I said firmly, pointing toward the door.

  When the last of them shambled out, I could hardly wait to close it behind him. Then I turned to Poppaea. “It is done,” I said. “You belong to me. Forever.”

  “We belong to one another. Forever,” she corrected.

  • • •

  We passed the next few days in delight, savoring our new life. We had no family, but we would make our own. We would have children. We would avoid the horrors of our original families. We would never desert or disappoint our children, but give them a heritage they could be proud of.

  “What would you like?” she asked drowsily one night, after one of these conversations, lying in bed while the warm, pine-scented air stole through the open window. “A boy or a girl?”

  “Why do I have to choose? Cannot I have both?”

  “Not this time,” she said. “It is not twins.”

  “What do you mean?” I sat up.

  She giggled and covered her mouth. “I am trying to tell you that I am pregnant.” Before I could rush and say anything, she said, “I have known for a while, but I did not want to tell you until you proved you wanted to marry me without any such coercion.”

  “But—I should have been told!”

  “Sometimes it is wiser to wait awhile, to make sure there are no mishaps.” Now she sat up. “And your divorce from Octavia was complicated. I did not want to add to that.”

 
“But I would have had longer to be happy.” I sighed.

  “This is my true wedding present to you, better than any carving or silver.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. It is priceless.” I was to be a father. A son or a daughter. If a son, then an heir. If a daughter, then with Poppaea’s beauty. I said so, taking her face in my hands.

  “I want us to have a long life together,” she said. “Many sons and daughters. But at the same time I have long prayed that I would die before I lost my beauty, and that is not compatible with the first wish.”

  “You will never lose your beauty,” I said. “I promise. I will always see you as beautiful.”

  “Yes,” she said, “but others will see me with clear eyes and not share your vision.”

  “We don’t care about those others,” I said. “Let them see what they see. Oh, I am too happy to think of anything but us together, and our child.”

  LXVI

  ACTE

  I prayed that he would not marry that woman. I beseeched Ceres, the goddess I honor, begging her to prevent this. I sought out her shrine and made my offering, as generous as I could afford, and dedicated a plaque in my name. I did not care who saw it or reported it. I only cared that it do its work.

  She would ruin him. I knew what sort of person she was—vain, greedy, amoral, using her looks to propel her into power. She had had her eye on him all along, and the shameless act on the boat meant that she meant to have him.

  In spite of his seeming sophistication, he was still an innocent about people. He thought betrayal only came wearing a sign, only came with poison or dagger. But that he was the anvil on which all men tried to hammer out their desires he seemed unaware.

  His attempts at secrecy with me were clumsy, but the fact that he wanted to keep secrets was the damning thing. So I had to leave him. But I will never truly leave him. He is with me every day, in my mind, and I keep the clumsy emerald eyeglass he gave me as a tangible tie to him, feeling that it somehow still binds us together.