It was a sound I was never to forget, as sweet as any notes from a lyre, and more eternal.
• • •
Everything happened as Mother had planned. I was carried in a litter through the streets of Rome to the Praetorian barracks; as our journey progressed and the news spread, more and more people came out, and the crowds choked the streets. “Nero! Nero!” they cried. I reached out from the litter and clasped their hands as I passed. They threw flowers in. It was Fontinalia, the Festival of the Fountains, and every fountain in Rome was draped with garlands. The waters gurgled and sang as I passed, and did not begrudge me the flowers the people robbed them of.
The twelve thousand soldiers at the barracks formally proclaimed me emperor, and I announced the monetary gifts they would receive—the equivalent of twenty years’ salary for each man. Just so is the price of the emperorship.
I was then taken to the Curia in the Forum, where the senators were waiting, rows of solemn faces. It was late afternoon by then and the sun’s rays were slanting, bathing everything in gold. Also as Mother had planned, the swiftness of the events and the wholehearted endorsement of the Praetorians had squashed any possibility of the Senate nominating a candidate of their own. Standing before them, I read the speech Seneca had written; it was, of course, perfect and reverential, and it involved many promises of my future rule. As I finished, the senators proclaimed it was the speech of a god, and that it should be inscribed on a silver tablet and read every time a new consul took office. Just so is the transition from citizen to supreme ruler—my words (not even my own) were now divine.
They heaped many titles on me, but I refused the most unwarranted: Pater Patriae, Father of His Country. Let me earn it first, I told them.
• • •
Back in the palace, Claudius’s body had been removed. I was to move into the emperor’s quarters but only after the funeral. For now, I would remain in my old rooms. I sought them gladly. There had been enough change today. I watched the stars come out, one by one, ending this unique day. The sky grew darker until it was full night. The oil lamps were lighted again, making a full circle of time.
Mother stole in and stood beside me. Hand in hand, silently, we stood before the night sky, no words necessary, no words adequate. After a time she quietly left the room, depositing a scroll on my table. The door closed softly.
I slumped down on a stool near it. Should I even open it? Should I save it until this exhaustion passed? For I was beyond exhaustion. No, whatever was in it belonged to the memory of this day, made sacred by it. I unrolled the scroll and read, spelled out in order, the offices that I now held, the extent of my power.
Commander in Chief of the Army: absolute control of all legions throughout the world on land and sea. Twice a year they would all pledge allegiance to me. I had the power to declare war and conclude peace.
Supreme Governor of All Provinces: throughout the empire.
Tribune of the People: I could veto any measure the Senate enacted.
Pontifex Maximus: head priest of the Roman religion.
Augustus: the head of state; anything against me was lèse-majesté, treason.
Oh, to put such power in one person’s hands—mine. I was stunned, distrustful of myself. I rolled up the scroll. I must never forget this first feeling of trepidation, and make sure I never betrayed this trust.
There was a soft knock at the door. A guard stepped in. “Imperator, what is the watchword for tonight?”
“Optima Mater—the Best of Mothers.”
Thus the day ended, as even the most golden extraordinary days must, and I slept at last.
XXXII
The next day is a blur in my mind, as slowly, like a silk square drifting to earth, the unreality of the time preceding settled into the worldly time before me. There were a thousand practical matters to be attended to. Claudius’s state funeral. Congratulations and recognition from all quarters. The move into Claudius’s palace quarters. The acquisition of the imperial signet. The assumption of all my titles and prerogatives.
Unlike foreign realms, which have kings, Rome has no coronation ceremony. There is no special moment, no anointing, no diadem, no crown, no one gesture or object to demarcate the moment I passed from citizen to supreme ruler, which is why it all melds together in my memory. But I felt different; something infused me that had not been there before.
Others saw it, felt it. I sensed an awe, a hesitation in those I had always been carelessly casual with. Even Seneca was diffident, approaching me with a slight hesitation.
“Come now,” I said. “Please do not treat me differently. I am still the same person.”
He shook his head, almost pityingly. “No, my lord, you are not.” That was when I knew. No one could be honest or open with me ever again. I had entered an unknown country, where I would always be traveling alone.
• • •
There was only one person who did not understand this: Mother. When she looked at me she did not see the emperor but the same boy who would be—or should be—obedient to her. She had made me emperor not so I could be one, but so she could be empress behind my facade.
I had not assumed the office for a week when I came upon her ordering a statue—a statue of her crowning me!
“It is not for Rome,” she said, “but for the provinces. Don’t you like the design?”
It showed me, in military garb, standing to her right, while she leaned over and officiously bestowed a laurel crown on my head. She was taller than me in this depiction, altogether more stately, while I looked pouty and disaffected.
“No, I don’t,” I said. “And you have no business ordering such things, let alone installing them.”
“All right, then, I’ll have the artist make changes. What would you like?”
“That you scrap the whole thing,” I said.
“I agree, it’s wrong, I’m not taller than you. I’ll make sure it’s corrected.”
“There’ll be no statue!”
“Oh my, now you seem as petulant as the statue itself. Perhaps it’s realistic after all.” She rose and stroked my cheek. “Let’s not quarrel. Forget the statue.”
• • •
But she didn’t forget it, I discovered later. She ordered it and had it shipped to Aphrodisias, where it was set up in the imperial cult temple. More ominously, using her authority as Augusta, she ordered new official gold and silver coins, coins that proclaimed all over the empire, in the code of coinage, that she was the true ruler. The obverse—the important side—showed our profiles facing one another, equal size, with her titles circling us, while my titles were relegated to the back. Furthermore, her titles were listed in the grammatical case of a ruler, whereas mine were in the case of a mere dedication. Subtle differences but all-important.
I flew into a rage when Tigellinus brought me one of them. The effrontery! I closed my fist over the offending coin and took several breaths to try to control myself. “Thank you,” I finally said. “You are a loyal supporter.”
He merely inclined his head. “I am only doing my job.”
“Who does she think she is?” I burst out, then laughed at how dumb that sounded. She was my mother, obviously.
“She thinks she is still empress,” said Tigellinus.
“What do other people think?”
Now he looked embarrassed. If it had not been unlikely for the burly reprobate, I would have sworn he blushed slightly. “That she controls you by an incestuous relationship.”
“Lies!” But were they entirely? What is real, what really happens or what happens only in our minds? Perhaps both?
“I would suggest that you stop traveling in the same litter, then.”
“What do you mean?” We very rarely did.
“They say it’s obvious what’s been going on when you emerge from the litter, because your clothes are all stained.”
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“How absolutely absurd!” I bellowed. “Why, when I have an entire palace and private quarters, would we resort to a litter in public?”
“Gossip is not logical, Caesar. Of course it is absurd. But colorful, you must admit.” He permitted himself a laugh. I joined him.
“No more litters, then. But they will just invent new settings, I am sure. And this coin does not help! No, it confirms the idea that she rules me!” Back to the coin.
“Then order the mint to stop producing them,” he said.
Yes. That was obvious.
• • •
I had the mint cease production of them and start making a new coin to replace them—a coin that had both our profiles, but not facing one another. Hers was behind mine, just an outline. My titles were changed to nominative and put on the obverse, while hers, now dedicatory, were banished to the back side. If she noticed, she never mentioned it. But of course she noticed.
Nothing deterred her. She wanted Senate meetings to be held on the Palatine, so she could eavesdrop from behind a thick curtain and listen to the deliberations secretly, since women were not allowed in the Curia itself. During Claudius’s reign she had received embassies and envoys with him, on a separate dais. In mine she once attempted, when ambassadors from Armenia came, to mount the dais and actually sit beside me.
I saw her marching down the aisle, making for the dais. Seneca, who was standing at my side, muttered, “No, no! Stop her. Get down from the dais, greet her, and lead her away.” I stood up and left the dais just in time, for she was almost to the foot of it. I halted her, took her hand, and said, “Welcome, Mother.” Then I steered her to a seat in the audience. I could tell by the rigidity of her body that she was furious. But she dared not resist.
She also tried to stock my quarters with military commemorations, busts of generals, ceremonial swords, war memoirs (including two copies of Caesar’s Gallic Wars), and the like. It was telling that the offensive Aphrodisias statue showed me dressed for war. I ordered them all out and replaced them with Greek statues of athletes. To counteract this, she presented me with a bust of Germanicus for my birthday, saying it was a treasured family heirloom.
Even though I evaded a military uniform, I had to wear a toga more than I ever had before, for a multitude of public appearances. For my first formal meeting with the Senate, in which I would outline my policies, I must be especially well attired. My hair must be tamed; it was curly and unruly and had a mind of its own. The stylish austere Augustan look, with stick-straight hair combed forward, was a challenge for me to meet. My barber fussed and fussed with it, plastering it down with water. When it was wet, it was a docile light brown and flat, but once it dried it was blond—and wavy—again.
Nonetheless, curly hair or no, I stood before the Senate to address them for the first time since they had confirmed me as emperor. The Curia was packed; there were technically about six hundred senators, but usually no more than one or two hundred met. This time, curiosity about the young emperor had brought them all out, and there was standing room only. I was aware of hundreds of eyes staring at me, trying to take my measure. Even from the shadows in the back, eyes gleamed.
I began by thanking them for all their benefactions and courtesies. I praised their history and gave their exalted status its due. I then told them what they already knew—that the empire was in good state, peaceful, prosperous, and a joy to administer.
“I am fortunate to have good advisers”—I nodded to Seneca and Burrus, sitting in the front row, and to the Consilium, the imperial council of twenty or thirty senators and other reliable men I had singled out—“and the examples of wise rulers I can follow. But most fortunate of all for you, I bring with me no feuds, civil wars, or family quarrels that hang over me. So everything is new with me, no carryovers from the past.”
I did want everything to begin anew. The past was sordid, a tissue of treacheries and lies, even if they had brought me to stand where I did today. But the faces looking back at me were carefully blank.
“I renounce proceedings that have been questionable. I will not judge cases secretly. I will not allow bribery and favoritism. I will keep personal and state business separate. I will oversee the legions and make sure all is in order. And, most important, the Senate will retain its ancient functions.”
At the last pronouncement, the senators leapt to their feet and cheered.
Back in my office—part of the imperial apartments—I relaxed, toga thrown over a stool, feet up. “How did I do?” I asked Seneca.
“Very well, I think,” he said. “They seemed to believe you.”
“I was speaking the truth,” I said. “Why shouldn’t they?”
“With all due respect, they have heard promises from many emperors, and may be forgiven for waiting to see if the words come true.”
I shrugged. Let them see. They would come true.
• • •
And what I’d said about the empire was correct. We were in a period of peace. With Claudius’s conquest of Britain, our territory stretched twelve hundred miles long, from Britain to Mauretania, and twenty-five hundred miles wide, from Spain to Cappadocia. There were thirty-three provinces, all obedient and sending tribute or goods to Rome. From Alexandria came the big grain vessels that supplied our bread; from Cyprus, copper; from Greece, artworks; from Spain, horses, just as a sample. The armies, having no battles to fight, busied themselves transforming their territory into Romanized areas—building roads, bridges, and aqueducts, forums and temples.
“It is running so well even you can’t destroy it,” said Mother. She said it offhandedly, making it sound lighthearted, a joke.
For some reason, this insult—the sort she routinely threw out—was too much.
“Never speak to me this way again,” I said. “I am the emperor.”
She just stared at me. “And you must never forget who made you so.”
“I think, Mother, it is time you forgot it. It is done, and how it was done is past.”
“What is done can be undone. You must never forget that.”
It was a bluff on her part. It had to be. For what could she do to undo what had been done?
• • •
For official functions, Octavia appeared with me. She kept her old quarters, declining to move into the vacated imperial ones.
“I am settled here,” she said. “And you know, I am so fond of my new mosaics.”
She smiled timidly. I pretended to believe her, knowing all the while that she simply did not want to live near me. The marriage was a pretense, but an amiable one. Such marriages survive only on polite evasions and courtesies.
XXXIII
Saturnalia, and my birthday. As I have already noted, Mother celebrated by presenting me with the Germanicus bust. I celebrated by having a private banquet with guests limited only to those I really wanted. That was my gift to myself. The only obligatory guests, lest otherwise it give scandal, were Octavia and Britannicus. For the rest, I would have only jolly companions and amusement. I had been confined and isolated too long. Now I would have friends, at long last.
There was a man I had wanted to know better, Gaius Petronius Arbiter, a smooth, dark character ten years my senior. There was Annaeus Serenus, the fire brigade man. There was Claudius Senecio, a man Seneca had said was “steeped in luxury and vice.” That alone made me curious, and besides, he had a winning smile. There was Marcus Otho, the little man I had seen at Claudius’s banquet, suspected of wearing a wig. Tonight, at Saturnalia, everyone would be wearing wigs, or worse. I myself put on the garments of a charioteer—the Greens, of course.
There were others that I won’t recount here; more of them later. Out in the streets, slaves were dressed as masters, masters as slaves or athletes or actors or dancers. Respectability was thrown aside, rules suspended, everyone in theory equal. License in all things prevailed. It was my favorite holida
y, and I would celebrate it for the first time as emperor by doing as I pleased in the guest list.
Octavia hugged the wall, as if she wanted to melt into it and disappear. She was costumed as a Vestal. How appropriate, I thought. Beside her was the lovely woman model for the autumn mosaic. I went over to them, welcoming them.
“My dear, you look lovely,” I said, complimenting Octavia. “But not transgressive enough. Tonight all decorum is thrown to the wind.” I turned to her companion, the person I really wanted to talk to. She was magnificent in a Greek gown, her head crowned with wild ivy. Before I could ask, she said, “Sappho. Tonight I am Sappho.”
“Now, that is transgressive,” I said. I then reeled off one of my favorite quotes from Sappho: “‘For the Graces prefer those who are wearing flowers, and turn away from those uncrowned.’” I reached out and touched her ivy crown. “We must wait for the season.”
She countered with “‘You, be my friend’” from “Glittering-Minded deathless Aphrodite” in perfect Greek. But then, of course, she was Greek.
Should I answer? The lines just before it were “Come to me now, then, free me from aching care, and win me all my heart longs to win.” No, that was too provocative. And had she silently meant them for me, knowing I would be familiar with them? Octavia was staring at us, so I just nodded and moved on.
Petronius was lounging on a couch, entertaining those around him. He was dressed as a shepherd, with a crook shaped like Priapus and his outsized phallus. “I say, those who claim purity are hypocrites. What is it that the Hebrew prophet says? ‘Our righteousness is as filthy rags’?”
“When did you start reading the Hebrew prophets?” asked Otho. Indeed he did have on a wig, an orange one tonight.
“Petronius reads everything,” said Serenus, caressing the lewd carved head of the staff. “The better to know all the dirty parts.”