“I don’t envision a wife at all. I’m only eleven years old, Mother. But if I did—I would want someone I could love to madness, someone who was myself, only better, someone I could never get enough of looking at.”
She gave a dismissive grunt. “You have been reading too much mythology.” She glared at Anicetus. “Greek rubbish. Jason and Medea, Orpheus and Eurydice. You see what happened to them! And what about Paris and Helen—the love you want destroyed all of Troy. We don’t want the same for Rome—do we?”
“I won’t marry her!”
“We shall see. It isn’t now. In a few years, you may feel differently. I am sending the packers to the villa tomorrow. You are moving to the palace. That is your home now.”
• • •
I should have been used to sudden changes; I had had so many of them in my life. But a person can choose two responses to this: he either develops no attachment to things around him, knowing he is bound to lose them, or he develops strong bonds with them and resists being separated. I was of the latter outlook.
I walked through Crispus’s villa, appreciating the wall paintings against their red background, the view from the shaded balcony, even the way the branches of the pine tree outside my window scratched the shutters on a windy night, holding them all dearer to me than ever before. The palace beckoned, frightening and echoing with a mixture of memories, mostly bad. I felt that I was crossing over into a chasm, and all that was lacking was Charon to ferry me.
At least my people were coming with me: Anicetus and Beryllus, Alexandra and Ecloge, my nurses since childhood, now attendants, and many others. The day came and all my prized possessions were loaded onto a cart that rumbled the short distance to the palace.
For most people, life changes slowly and imperceptibly from one day to the next; their life is on a continuum that reveals its turning points only in retrospect. But as I stepped across the threshold of the palace, not as a guest but as an inhabitant, I understood just how momentous the change was.
Instead of one room, I had a suite of them, with views of the Forum from one and of the garden from another. Instead of plain black and white mosaics, I had a floor of red and green marble. Instead of lampstands, I had gold sconces that held resin torches to illuminate the room. And the bed—rather than the narrow linen-covered one I had grown up with, a couch with ebony legs and pillows of swan’s down awaited me.
On the round citrus-wood table stood a silver ewer and tray. The walls were pale ocher and painted with garden and sea scenes in green and blue. On the far wall with southern lighting, three mosaics of pigeons, laurel, and roses looked almost real, their details meticulously rendered.
My beloved possessions looked like shabby cousins here: my miniature chariots, my well-worn copy of The Iliad, even my gold snake bracelet. They sat, forlornly, on a marble display stand. Standing all by itself, much larger than my old one, was a marvelous bronze model of a two-horse chariot; the horses were leaping and I could swear I saw the chariot wheels turning, so realistic was it.
“How do you l-like that?” Claudius was standing in the doorway, smiling. “It is my w-welcome to you.”
“It is beautiful, sir. It takes my breath away. Like the real chariots do.”
“I know you l-love the races,” he said. “If you l-like, I will buy you your own horses to r-race in the Circus.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.” Claudius limped over to me, his tunic swishing. He put his heavy hands on my shoulders. “I know th-this is not easy for you. But I will try to make it so, and tell you th-that I am p-proud to have you in my family.”
“I am most grateful.”
“Changes are wrenching, I know that. I h-have lived through too m-many of them. But we have to l-learn to step over them.”
He was right, of course. He had survived his changes, and I would survive mine.
• • •
My plain coarse wool and linen clothes were replaced by silk and wool so fine it floated. My boy’s toga, rough and dull, was replaced by a new one, clean white and with a true purple stripe at the hem, not the inexpensive substitute dye. My thick-soled shoes, used to running over stony ground, were replaced by soft kidskin. For the first time, large polished bronze mirrors were available in my room, so I could become aware of my appearance. The ordinary olive oil I had used on my skin was replaced by the prized golden liquid from Liburnia. I remembered the stories of mortals who had ascended to Mount Olympus, there to partake of nectar and ambrosia and become immortal, their earthly trappings replaced by celestial ones, and now I was acting this out in real life.
For Mother, it was only a restoration: she had been born into such status, and now she was merely picking up her discarded life. Daughter of a presumptive emperor, sister to another, now wife to another. I said as much one day as she reclined on one of the many day couches in my suite.
“And, next, mother to another.” She reached her arms out over her head, stretching like a cat. At that moment I thought how feline all her movements were and always had been.
Oh, was she about to announce a pregnancy? It should not have induced such a sickening feeling within me, but it did. I was used to having her all to myself, being her only child. She was a murderess, a cold and often frightening presence, but still I possessed her in a primal way, to be shared with no one else.
“That is blessed news, Mother,” I said politely. I possessed her and yet all our words were formal, the true essence always unspoken.
She stretched again and then sat up, hugging her knees. “I thought it would be. I am telling you first, before anyone else.” She smiled.
“And when is this to be?”
She sighed, got up from the couch, and sauntered over to the table where there was always fresh-pressed juice in its pitcher. She took forever pouring it out into a fine green glass, and then sipping it slowly.
“Very soon,” she said. “Perhaps next month.”
“But—” She was as slim as ever.
She doubled over laughing. “Oh, your face!” She turned and came over to me, taking it in her slender, cool hands. “Oh, the expression! It is worth a million sesterces.” She kept laughing. Finally she said, “It is the emperor who will gain a son, not I.” Then she dropped her hands. “Claudius has agreed to adopt you. You will become his son. You will take a new name. You will, by doing this, be the next emperor.”
“But—” First my home and freedom were stripped from me; now my very name and family?
“Why do you think I married him? So I could be empress? No, it was so you could be emperor.”
“But—”
“Stop muttering ‘but’ like an imbecile! Of course, if an imbecile could not be emperor, then Claudius would not be one. But you are no imbecile, no, you are smart—too smart, sometimes, for your own good. So smile, Lucius. Smile. Your fate is coming for you.”
“My fate—” I had thought to fashion my own, not receive it from her.
“Both our fates,” she said. “After you were born, I consulted a Chaldean astrologer. He looked at your chart and said you were destined to become emperor, but that you would kill me. I said, ‘Let him kill me, as long as he rules.’ That is true. Had I wanted to avoid our twin destinies, I could have killed you as a baby. It is easy to kill a baby; you just smother it and it looks natural. Babies die all the time. So I held you in my arms and knew I could do it, but I did not. And here we stand, here we are.”
“It will not come to pass.”
“What part? The emperor part or my death?”
“Your death. I could never, I will never, kill you. I am no murderer.”
“Like me? You do not know yet. Murderers do not plan to be murderers; it just happens.”
“It won’t to me. And the emperor part may not happen, either. There is Britannicus.”
“We will take care of that.” She held up
her hands. “And not by murder. It won’t be necessary. The age difference will be enough. You will soon be declared an adult. You are only two years away from it.”
“Three years,” I said, correcting her.
“I can make it two. Claudius will listen, and permit the ceremony earlier.”
“You have thought of everything.”
“Of course.”
She was formidable; to outsmart her would be difficult. But I had no doubt that sometime in the future, I might have to.
She kissed me good-bye, leaving me reeling.
Adopted. By Claudius. A prophecy that I would be emperor, kept secret by her all this time. I lay down, afraid if I did not, I would fall to the floor.
XX
The adoption ceremony was set for the end of the month of February, following the ancient nine-day Parentalia holiday that honored dead ancestors with wreaths of flowers. Mother made sure that the busts of my father, Germanicus, Augustus, and Antony were all festooned with flowers that had been grown under glass in the palace gardens. She arranged them lovingly, smiling.
For me it was different. I felt I was deserting these ancestors, especially my father, although I had never known him. I could not hum as she did. I noticed that she gave the best wreath to Germanicus and the scantiest one to my father. When she had left the room, I put my hand on my father’s bust and whispered, “Forgive me, Father.”
Most of the adoption ceremony was done by lawyers and magistrates and followed a set ritual. They did not require my presence and that made it a little more bearable.
The documents had been witnessed by the required seven witnesses and were inscribed on fine parchment, now rolled and awaiting the emperor’s seal. It sat on a high marble stand in the reception hall of the palace, where the Senate, imperial administrators, and Praetorian prefects now waited.
Mother and I were to enter at one end, while Claudius and his children were to enter at the other, meeting just before the table. She took my hand and guided me out, as Claudius limped toward us. He swayed more than usual that morning.
We stopped. The table with its rolled scroll sat waiting.
Claudius reached over and took it. “This day you all w-witness that I have acquired a new son.” He unrolled the parchment and read the terms of the adoption.
It was very quiet in the room. Then he got to the heart of the document.
“Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, son of Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus, from t-today henceforth you are Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus and the s-son of Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus.” He put it down and hobbled over to me, embracing me.
“Nero, my son,” he said. “But you have always been, in a s-sense.”
Nero. I was Nero. Lucius was gone, evaporated.
The hall exploded with noise. People cooed and cheered and congratulated us. Nero, Nero, I kept hearing. The new name rang out—or perhaps I just heard it floating above all the noise. Claudius sealed the document and handed it to me. “It is yours, my s-son.” Mother embraced me. Octavia approached and said softly, “Welcome, brother.” Britannicus just stared, then blurted out, “You won’t get ‘Britannicus’ away from me. It’s already mine!”
Claudius overheard him and said, “There is only one Britannicus and th-that’s you, my dear.”
Mother smiled as if she agreed.
Now the eating and drinking began, but I pushed the proffered trays away. I was too mobbed by people pressing up to speak to me to eat, anyway. “Nero, Nero,” they were all saying. What they were thinking but not saying was, Our next emperor.
Mother brought a worried-looking middle-aged man over to me. He bowed low—something I must accustom myself to from now on.
“This is Lucius Annaeus Seneca,” said Mother. “An old friend from my earlier days in Rome. He is a brilliant philosopher and rhetorician, and he will be your new tutor.”
“It is my honor,” he said. He had a deep, rumbling voice. I would also have to get used to everyone considering it an honor, no matter what it was.
“I look forward to learning from you,” I said. Let the ritual exchange be correct.
Before he could say anything further, I turned away. I did not want to discuss lessons now. I had just become someone else, and that was all I could manage to think about.
Mother clasped his hand and held it for a long time before following me. “You needn’t trail me, Mother. I can make my own way.”
A stocky man with choppy blond hair appeared at her side before I could get away. “Congratulations, Nero,” he said, with the clipped accent of southern Gaul. “We all salute you.”
Now Mother had another introduction to make. “My son, this is Sextus Afranius Burrus, another old friend of mine.”
He merely nodded. He was not, apparently, the sort to make toadying talk.
Many senators came up to greet me, but a trumpet sounded and Claudius held up his hands.
“Es-esteemed guests, I wish to m-make another announcement. To honor this day, I am issuing a new g-gold coin, with the bust of Nero and ‘Princeps Juventutis.’” He held up a drawing of it. “It w-will be ready by the summer.”
My profile on a gold coin. The title “Young Prince.” A Caesar.
Nero, Nero, Nero, they were all calling me.
• • •
I collapsed back in my room as soon as I could decently get away. Fortunately Claudius, unable to stand for long, left the hall early, releasing the rest of us to scatter. I rushed across the wide expanses of the palace, feeling like a hunted animal. Let no one accost me or stop me until I reached the safe privacy of my rooms.
I flung myself on the couch and caught my breath. The curtains around the windows were still. The ewer stood in its usual place, doubtless filled with the same juice. The mosaics had not changed—as if they could.
I held out my hands. They had not changed, any more than the mosaics had. My arms—they were the same. Yet I had become someone else—not on the inside, but on the outside. I had become someone else through the power of a piece of parchment and one man’s pronouncement. I felt no different. I felt entirely different.
“Worn out?” Mother’s voice came from the doorway. She had opened it and come in without permission. A flitting thought: now that I was a Caesar, did she have the right to do that? “You must get used to it.” She glided over to me and sat down on the couch, crowding me. She caressed my forehead, pushing my hair back. “But I admit, it was a demanding day. Almost like the day you were born. That day was demanding for me, and your rebirth as Nero was demanding for you. So I forgive you for running away at the end.” She leaned down and kissed my cheek. Then she kissed me again. “You are a handsome boy, and soon to be a handsome man,” she said. “I never told you before, because people who are told that too early become vain. But it is true.”
“Or is it suddenly true because I am now a Caesar?”
She got up. “Don’t be cynical.”
“I must have got it from you. I have learned from the master.”
“Rest up. There will be a family dinner later to celebrate.”
“There always is. A family dinner, I mean. Now, Mother, I really do need to rest.”
Thus I dismissed her. And lay in the darkening room, exultant and confused.
• • •
I had been to “family dinners” before, but then I had been relegated to the children’s table while the nine important grown-up people dined from the couches. Now I was the important one, the one being honored. I was to dress in my lightest, finest clothes, make sure my wavy hair was flattened into an austere Augustan coif, wear the gold ring Claudius had given me, and bring my own linen napkin.
The family apartments within the palace were a labyrinth of rooms, with lower ceilings and a more intimate feeling. In the dining room the three couches were drawn up in the usual horseshoe shape,
while the children’s table was set off to one side. When I arrived, Claudius and Mother were already reclining on the left-hand couch, with Claudius at the upper end in the host’s place. The first place on the adjoining middle couch, to his left, was the place for the guest of honor, and he waved me to it. As I climbed up onto the couch—I was tall enough now that I did not need a stool—I had to grab the slippery covering to keep from sliding back. Finally I slid into my place.
“T-tricky, eh?” Claudius said. “You will get used to it.”
I was embarrassed that my first formal dining experience was so obvious. I felt my face growing red. All I could do was nod.
The other spots were filled by senators and, at the lowest-ranked place, the top of the right-hand couch, the tutor Mother had introduced me to earlier. Now I noticed that the plates were all of gold and that the napkins varied: Claudius’s was Tyrian purple, and the senators’ had the broad senatorial stripe. The goblets were priceless murra, a translucent stone. If one crashed to the ground . . . ! I would have to make sure it wasn’t I who dropped one.
At the children’s table Britannicus and Octavia sat demurely, but every so often Britannicus glared at me. I studied Octavia, taking advantage of her modest downcast eyes. She was not unattractive in features, but there was no animating spirit in them. Suddenly I had a thought—I was now Claudius’s son, and she was my sister, so it would be illegal to marry her. A wave of delight spread over me. I did not have to marry her!
Claudius took the floor, as it were, saying, “I w-welcome you all to our table, where we are ce-celebrating the addition of Nero to our family.”
Everyone dutifully raised the murrhine glasses, filled with the best Setine wine, and murmured, “We salute you!”
They then began chattering with one another and I used the opportunity to study them to sort out their names and looks. I would not learn of their politics as it was the height of bad manners to discuss politics at dinners—or perhaps it was just practical protection against spies. Seneca, the tutor, at the low end of the couch, was a rumpled sort, the type who would never look put together no matter how long he spent at it.