by James Mace
In another part of the city, the senate was taking its own actions in an attempt to remove Nero from power. The consuls had taken it upon themselves to meet with the one man who kept the emperor upon the throne. Italicus knew he was taking a huge risk, especially since he was meeting with Tigellinus on the palace grounds. But he also understood that as consul, the responsibility was his. He also realized that, should he prove successful, the potential rewards surpassed even his substantial ambitions.
“What is it you wish, consul?” Tigellinus asked impatiently. “I am a busy man.”
“Yes, busy with trying to hold onto power within your own guard, while the emperor struggles equally with maintaining his now feeble grip upon the empire.”
“There was a time when such an insult would be met with the harshest of retributions,” Tigellinus growled, his teeth clenched.
“And such a time was not long ago,” the consul admitted. “But your time as acting like Sejanus reborn is over. I know about the power struggle that exists within the Praetorian Guard. Nymphidius has the support of most of the officers, as well as a large number of the guardsmen. He sees what is coming, and he is looking to his own survival, as you should be.”
“What is it you want?” the guards’ commander asked. He wished to plunge his blade into the impudent man’s throat, especially for insulting him in reference to the disgraced Sejanus.
“I know Nero is your friend,” Italicus said, consolingly. “He is mine, too. But I also know you see, like the rest of us, that this rebellion will not simply go away. It spread after the defeat of Vindex, rather than dissipated. Germania, Gaul, Hispania, North Africa have all rebelled. And I suspect Britannia will soon follow. The emperor’s proposition to sing to his enemies on the field of battle is nothing short of madness.”
“Would you have me betray him?” Tigellinus asked. “If you had said such words to me six months ago, I would have cut your throat and had your entire family tortured and put to death.”
“That I still breathe tells me you know I speak the truth,” the consul countered. “Rebellion breeds further unrest. The cities within the mutinous provinces have seen a drastic increase in crime and disorder, as has Rome herself. And if the senate does nothing, but simply lets the rebellion overtake us, it will rip the entire empire to shreds.”
“Then why doesn’t the senate act?” the praetorian asked, knowing the answer.
“They are afraid...of you,” Italicus emphasized. “You have seen many of their colleagues put to death, having delivered the final sword-stroke yourself on more than one occasion. They fear the rumors Nero intends, as a last resort, to put the entire senate to the sword or poison the lot of us at an elaborate banquet. His loss of the empire has broken him, and no one knows what he intends, not even you. Yet, how can the senate act with your blade resting on their throats?”
Tigellinus clutched his helmet beneath his arm, contemplating his response. He knew all that Italicus said was true, for he had had known for some time that Nero’s fall was imminent. The further the emperor slipped down into the abyss, the more Tigellinus had taken to drink and opiates, which had caused great strains upon his health. While he had, for many years, carried a forceful and energetic presence that defied his age, he now looked tired and haggard.
“He has no heir,” he said. “If we allow an emperor to be named from outside of the imperial family, it will set a dangerous precedent, far more ominous than the whole of the western empire being in a state of rebellion. And if the senate chooses Galba, who is old and childless, who then will follow him? Your shortsightedness could be very costly to Rome in the long term.”
“I am not saying the senate wishes for Nero’s death,” Italicus corrected. “That he does not have a successor may be the best chance he has at living. A negotiated settlement could involve him either adopting or siring a rightful heir, in whose name a regent can be appointed until such time as he is ready to assume power. What I am saying, is that this cannot continue any longer. The senate must be allowed to meet publicly, that we may decide the fate of both the emperor, as well as Rome. But, we cannot meet as long as the senate fears you.”
The corner of Tigellinus’ mouth turned up slightly. It caused him no small degree of satisfaction to know that he held such control over what were supposed to be the most powerful men in the world. His decision could arguably affect the whole of the empire.
“The senate,” he said, slowly, “need not fear me. Tonight, I will personally oversee the changing of the guard at the imperial palace. But while the outgoing guards will return to the barracks, there will not be an incoming guard to replace them. The senate can then deal with the emperor as it sees fit. And gods help us all, if they do not make the right decision.”
Nero slept soundly that night with his ‘Poppaea’ next to him. Both were completely unaware of the pall of uncertainty that hung over the imperial capital. The senate was set to deliberate his fate on the morrow while, unbeknownst to them, Prefect Nymphidius was guiding their actions. And as the moon rose to its apex, Nero’s last remaining friend, Tigellinus, set into motion the events that would change the imperial dynasty forever.
The centurion in command of the palace guard was growing impatient. He had paraded his guardsmen in the main courtyard and knew their replacements were overdue. As the outer gates opened, and he heard the hobnail sandals echoing on the paving stones, he briskly walked over to where a single shape could be seen in the shadows.
“About fucking time you lot showed up...bloody hell, Commander Tigellinus!” Even in the dark, the prefect’s crested helmet gave him away. “Apologies, sir. What are you doing here this night?”
“Are your men paraded and ready to depart for the barracks?” his commanding officer asked, as he stepped into the torchlight.
“They are, sir. We’re just waiting for our damned replacements, so we can do the changing of the guard.”
“There won’t be any replacements,” Tigellinus said calmly. “March your men back to barracks. Everything will be explained tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” the centurion acknowledged. Like most of the officers within the praetorians, he knew the inevitable was coming. He just didn’t think his men would be the very last to guard the Julio-Claudian emperors.
“Imperial Palace Guard...attention!”
The shouted order of the centurion alerted one of the freedman servants who oversaw the night shift in the kitchens. He always enjoyed watching the changing of the palace guard, and he quickly ran up the short steps that led from the cellar and stood beneath one of the overhangs in the main courtyard. He was puzzled when he only saw the one century of guardsmen. Normally, the incoming and outgoing guards would face each other in parade formation, while the commanding centurions went through the ritual of relieving and accepting responsibility for safeguarding the imperial palace.
“Right face!” the centurion bellowed. His men were arranged into four ranks, and they now faced directly towards where the servant stood in the shadows. “Column left, quick time...march!”
There was no mistaking it; the praetorians were abandoning the palace. Suddenly fearful, the freedman fled towards one of the side doors, which led to one of the many servants’ passages that would take him to the emperor’s bedchamber. It was unnerving to have the palace feel so empty. The Praetorian Guard were like a permanent fixture within its walls, and their departure made the marble halls feel like a tomb.
The servant burst into Nero’s bedchamber where the castrated lad, Sporus, lay asleep next to him.
“Sire!” the freedman said loudly, breaking any sense of decorum. As the emperor’s eyes opened wide, the servant quickly shouted, “The guards are leaving the palace! They’ve abandoned you!”
Nero flew from his bed, quickly turning and shaking the sleeping young man.
“Poppaea!” he said frantically. “Come, Poppaea! Get dressed at once!”
The sound of the praetorian centurion calling cadence to his marching guard
smen could still be heard as Nero rushed down the long flight of stairs that led into the entrance hall of the palace. Along with Sporus, three of his most loyal freedmen accompanied him.
“Tigellinus!” he called, seeing the prefect slowly walking towards the outer gate which had been left open.
Tigellinus turned to face him, his expression one of both resignation and sorrow.
“What is happening?”
“The winds of change are upon us, Caesar,” the prefect said, having rehearsed his response to the emperor a hundred times over in his head beforehand. “In a few hours, the senate will convene to decide the fate of Rome. If you wish to continue to be a part of the empire’s future, you should meet with them there.”
“They mean to kill me!” Nero snapped, his expression full of disbelief. “Why else would you be marching away with my guard?”
Tigellinus did not answer, though his unchanged expression told Nero all he needed to know.
“Why?” he asked quietly, as tears welled up in his eyes. He then screamed, “Why? You were my friend, Tigellinus. I loved you!”
“It’s not enough,” the prefect said, with a sad shake of his head. “I am sorry.”
“Abandoned,” Nero said, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I am abandoned.”
He rushed back into the palace, hoping to find at least one of his friends who could aid him. There were always numerous guests staying at the imperial palace. Yet, when Nero burst into each room it was deserted.
“A gladiator!” he shouted, from atop one of the landings that looked down into the foyer. “I need a gladiator or anyone adept with a sword!” His pleas were met with unnerving silence as he held his hands out and looked around. He then cried, “Have I neither friend nor foe?”
He seemed oblivious to his freedmen, who still stood in the courtyard, their own sense of fear and uncertainty evident. Crying in anguish and stating he intended to throw himself into the Tiber, Nero fled the palace grounds, only to return less than an hour later. He found the freedmen sitting upon the steps. Sporus sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, silently weeping.
“There, there, dear Poppaea,” Nero said soothingly, placing a hand on the lad’s face. His own face was red, as were his eyes. He then asked his chief freedman, Phaon, “What can I do?”
“You cannot go before the senate.” A man named Epaphroditos spoke up. “They will cut you down on the chamber floor, like they did Julius Caesar.”
“What, then? I could always travel to Greece. The people love me there. Or perhaps Egypt. Tiberius Alexander is still loyal, I am certain of it.”
“If you flee the capital, the people will view you as a coward,” Phaon said at last. “My villa is but four miles from Rome. You will be safe there. We should wait for the senate to convene, and then decide on how we should face them.”
“Ah, dear Phaon,” Nero said. “You are ever the fountain of wisdom. Come, we need horses!”
The praetorians had left their horses within the imperial stables, so Nero and his small entourage had no issue with finding suitable mounts. The streets were crammed with the nighttime wheeled traffic, for by Roman law it was only at night that carts and wagons were permitted. Nero kept his cloak held close over his face, ever fearful that the senate had assassins lurking among the scores of merchants, restocking their stalls before the morning came. It took them over an hour to travel to Phaon’s villa, a short distance from the city.
It was now well after sunrise, and the small group was surprised to see an imperial courier waiting for them in the villa courtyard. What none of them knew was that the man had not been dispatched by the senate, but rather the praetorian prefect, Nymphidius. He had given the messenger a verbal dispatch to pass on to the emperor, while reassuring him that it came directly from the senate. None knew it was a lie perpetuated by the prefect himself.
“This cannot be a dispatch from the senate already!” Phaon protested.
“I’m afraid it is,” the courier replied. “The senate convened around midnight, and they have reached their verdict.”
“And what sentence has the senate passed upon me?” Nero asked. “Shameful as it is that I have been put on trial and condemned in absentia.”
The messenger swallowed and struggled to say the words that he had been ordered to relay. He was fearful of repercussions from Nero, despite the fact that no one within the emperor’s group was armed. However, it was an overwhelming burden for a humble imperial servant to have to tell his emperor he was condemned.
“The senate,” he said, “has named you a...an enemy of the people of Rome.”
Nero’s face turned white, though privately he could not say he was surprised.
“And what do they propose to do with their emperor?” Epaphroditos asked incredulously.
The courier found his resolve to continue, for the emperor remained silent. “You have been sentenced to death,” he said quickly. “I have been told by the praetorian prefect, Commander Nymphidius, that an armed force is being dispatched to bring you to the Forum.”
“And then?” Nero asked, his voice surprisingly calm.
“You are to be bludgeoned to death in full view of the people of Rome.” Not wishing to bear witness to how Nero would take such devastating news, the courier saluted—out of force of habit—and quickly mounted his horse.
“Thus does the greatest dynasty the world has ever seen come to an end,” Nero said quietly. “It ends like it began, with treasonous butchers from the senate striking like cowards.”
His reference was to the murder of Julius Caesar. And while Caesar was technically never emperor, it was his slaying by the senate which set the stage for the eventual fall of the republic and the rise of the empire.
“I am the last of that prestigious line,” Nero continued. “Not even the greatest poets could have penned such a tragedy as this.”
He despondently walked into the entrance hall of Phaon’s villa before slumping against one of the walls. His freedmen were full of vexation and fear. Sporus sat across from him quietly weeping. It was not for the emperor that he cried, but rather out of abject fear over what would now happen to him. As the castrated plaything of a deposed mad emperor, what use did Rome have for him?
“There, there, sweat Poppaea,” Nero said consolingly. A fearful and sudden realization came to him, and he shook his head quickly. “No, you are not she. You are a phantom, a phantom sent by the gods to mock me for killing her. Oh, yes, I killed her!”
With fresh cries, this time brought on by the sorrow of remorse, he called for a pen and parchment. He sat at his freedman’s desk, and in his own hand wrote a pleading letter to the senate. As he finished he stopped and let out a sigh. He then shook his head, knowing that any such entreaties were both futile and unbecoming of the last emperor of the Julio-Claudians. As he stood, he saw his secretary, Epaphroditos, standing in the doorway.
“I require a sharpened knife,” Nero said. “And I shall need your help, dear friend.” He looked up for a moment and took a deep breath. As he sighed, he said quietly, “Qualis artifex pereo...what an artist dies in me.”
In fact, the senate had yet to declare Nero an enemy of the imperial state and was, at that moment, deliberating his fate. Consul Italicus was now desperate to save face with his peers and was fearful for his own life. A number of senators had lost friends to his conspiracies and informants of treason, whether real or fictitious.
“Noble senators,” he said, as he stood on the senate floor, his hand raised. “A crisis unlike any seen in generations has befallen us. Not since before the rise of the Julio-Claudians has the dynastic rule of Rome been threatened. Indeed, one must look back to the dark days of the republic, to see the last time our noble fathers slew each other over control of the state.”
“The emperor has fallen ever deeper in madness.” Suetonius Paulinus spoke up. “And in his despair has fled the capital. And yet, despite his numerous crimes against members of this august body, as well as Rome herself,
I cannot find it in me to condemn him just yet. All of us have served the dynasty founded by Emperor Augustus Caesar, and it is that lineage we are loyal to.”
“What would you propose, then?” Senator Nerva asked. “If we do not act with some form of resolve, then we risk our own legions marching on Rome. Is that what we want, to have Roman soldiers sacking their own capital?”
While Paulinus agreed with Nerva’s assessment, for reasons even he could not explain, he still felt at least some pangs of what had once been loyalty to Emperor Nero. He remembered the young man who had come to the throne at far too young an age, and yet he had shown such promise. Paulinus had thought well of him, even considering him a friend when Nero first sent him to Britannia.
“I do not think anyone in this assembly wishes to see the house of the divine Augustus fall so ignominiously,” he said, carefully selecting his words. “But I agree, we must take action if we are to save Rome from chaos and ruin. The emperor has fled in terror, this is true. But he is a mere four miles from the city. He must be brought before the senate and compelled to see reason. If we can negotiate a peace with the rebellious governors, we can save Rome as well as the imperial dynasty. I recommend Nero continue to serve as emperor, but only so he might produce an heir. Those legates who march their legions towards our gates are our colleagues and peers. They hold just as much love for the Julio-Claudians as the rest of us. Nero may not be fit to rule, but he can still produce sons for the empire. For may the gods help us, should we suffer a usurper upon the throne!”