We stood looking at one another. With all my being I wished that all that had happened in our years together could vanish and we could start again. But what I was really wishing for was that she be other than she was. And that was as impossible as for me to be someone other than I was.
The snow had a flavor different from plain water; freezing and thawing lent it a different taste. We held our goblets up and touched them, briefly.
Slowly—or was it quickly?—the room took on different properties. Slowly—or was it quickly?—I was floating somewhere, high above the colored floor marbles, which I could see clearly beneath me. My arms grew long, then shortened. An exaltation seized me, a burning in my soul. Suddenly I was in that huge bed—no, we were in it, tumbling against one another, falling into another world, a deep pit where we landed, clinging to one another. Was this what had lain hidden inside me, now released? Or just madness, a nightmare?
• • •
The drug took a long time to wear off. I found myself naked on the big bed, shivering because I was cold. Gradually I regained control of my limbs, my mind. Mother was curled up beside me, a smile on her face, also naked.
She reached out and touched my cheek. “Now you are mine,” she murmured. “Forever.”
I jumped up, repulsed. “Oh, gods!” I felt frantically for my clothes, grabbing them, pulling the tunic over my head, running away without my sandals or outer cloak. I fled as if the lord of the underworld was after me.
Once out of her apartments—luckily it was late; there was no one about, except the usual guards—I stopped to catch my breath. I felt sick. Defiled. I was afraid I would vomit on the fine polished tiles, imported from who knew where.
My mother had drugged me and seduced me. She had planned it all along. Did she want to turn me into Oedipus? Bind me to her in perversion? I shook with horror and disgust.
I couldn’t go back to the imperial apartments, could not go back to Acte in this state. I had to wash off the filth, the degradation. I had to be cleansed. There was only one place. Sublaqueum.
• • •
Fleeing through the night on a swift horse, with only one attendant, I reached the villa late the next night. I did not stop to rest, did not eat, and changed horses along the way. At last I stood before the largest of the three lakes, high on the mountain, the lakes I had created. There was a half-moon, rising late over the smooth-surfaced water, reflective as polished silver. I plunged in, relishing the chill, the astringent sting against my skin, that would purify me and make me whole again.
She had had the snow laced with the drug, prepared and waiting. Should I be thankful it was only a temporary effect, one that robbed me of myself but not of my life? The obscenity of it, the taint—could I ever be cleansed of it? I dove down into the dark depths of the water. Wash it away, wash it away, I prayed. But how to scrub the stain out of my mind?
At last, tired and spent, I climbed out of the lake. I did feel purified, made new. I stared back out over the water, still rippling from my movement through it. It held a mystery, but its power had restored me, expunged the evil.
XLVI
I returned to Rome, vowing never to reveal what had happened with Mother. For the first time, I could not be honest with Acte. I merely said, since she knew about the letter from Mother, that she had softened in her attitude and would stand aside from hindering us. I was likewise vague about why I had suddenly gone to Sublaqueum without her in such unannounced haste. I mumbled something about receiving urgent word that the dams were leaking. I could tell she did not believe me and knew there was another reason. But whatever she imagined it was, nothing could come close to the horror of the real reason. And that she must never know.
Mother had abruptly departed from the palace and retreated back to Antium. Now what would she do? What would be her next move? Having failed to ensnare me, having driven me away, would she now openly become my enemy? She still had resources, loyalties with the Praetorians and senators she had given lavish gifts and bribes to. Most members of her household were fiercely loyal and it was difficult for me to find any informer in their midst, so she had a protective shield around her.
Now Tigellinus’s words about her finding a new husband, about still being of childbearing age, came to haunt me. Might she do that—marry herself to someone who could plausibly stake a claim to the throne and challenge mine? Or . . . oh, the dark thought of it, too terrible, too abhorrent to contemplate . . . what if we had conceived a child from that drugged night? I would be living in an Oedipal nightmare, stepping directly into what had been only a myth. I could not even say “the gods would never be so cruel,” because they delighted in being just that cruel.
While I waited, half expecting this to come true, I was suspended in a strange world, almost as disorienting as the drug itself. But as time passed and nothing was heard, or even rumored, of this, my fears ebbed away.
In my meetings with Seneca and Burrus, they seemed suddenly alarmed about Mother, but for normal political reasons.
“There’s been a report that she is plotting again,” said Burrus. “This time to marry Rubellius Plautus.”
He had almost—not quite—as much of an imperial bloodline as I did! Descended from both Augustus’s sister, Octavia, and from Tiberius, he was only four years older than me, and twenty years younger than Mother! But Mother had proved she would take on all ages, from elderly Claudius to . . . no, I would not think of it!
“There are also credible reports that she is instigating him to a rebellion against you—once they are married.”
Was there no end to her provocations? Would there never be peace, as long as she walked the earth? “I will dismiss her German bodyguards and the military escorts she has been given as a courtesy and order her to vacate Antium and move to the home of the late lady Antonia.” Where I could keep better watch on her.
• • •
I must leave this worry behind. My baths and gymnasium were just finished, and with great fanfare I was to declare them open and dedicate them. They had been years in the building, but now they rose, magnificent and shining, over the Campus Martius. The baths put temples to shame in grandeur, and the artworks surrounding the perimeters of the exercise yard made a visit there for that reason alone worthwhile. I invited the entire Senate to the opening and gifted each man with an aryballos juglet of finest olive oil, to be used in athletic exercises as they did in Greece.
“For I wish everyone to feel that he has been personally invited to the baths by me. They are yours!” I passed my arm over the senators. Behind them was a vast crowd of other Romans. “And for all of you!” The plebians cheered so loudly my ears rang.
But somewhere on my way from the Palatine to the Campus I had decided to put an end to Mother. When I started the short trip I had had no idea of it; when I arrived it was a resolution. How it had come to me in complete conviction en route I do not know. But it had. I could no longer live with the provisional nature of my emperorship, under the cloud of a woman who had clearly lost her mind and could have the power to destroy me. So I barely heard the cheers, and the faces looking back at me, smiling, were like faded ghosts to my great purpose.
• • •
That night, alone in my withdrawing room, I pondered it. No longer did I have the nervous feeling that something was about to happen, might happen, could conceivably happen. Now all uncertainty was swept away, and the sword of Damocles that had been hanging over me all my life would be sheathed.
But how and when to do it? It was true, the list of her crimes would certainly convict her in a court—all her secret murders, revealed, alone would damn her—but that was not the way. It must be swift, sure, and secret. And, ideally, painless. I had no wish for her to suffer. That let out assassination—it relied on too many other people, as Mother herself had recognized when she did away with Claudius. No poison—too obvious, and she would be guarding against it. An
accident? Now there were possibilities. Something falling on her? Too uncertain. A fire? Too horrible. A fall? Again, too uncertain. Drowning? My recent swim at Sublaqueum came to mind. Water was soothing, embracing. They said drowning was the least painful death. But deaths in swimming pools were too obvious, and she did not swim in the ocean.
But if she were out on the ocean . . . Something was coming to me . . . a picture in my mind . . . I had seen something recently . . . the collapsing boat in the staged sea battle at Misenum!
Yes . . . an accident at sea, far from land. It happened all the time. Seafaring was dangerous; a large portion of ships sailing from anywhere went down. Recently a shipment of Greek bronzes and marbles, secured by my agents and bound for Rome, had foundered off the coast of the Peloponnese and the treasures were lost. Such losses were routine.
After the tragic accident, I could mourn for her and erect a temple in her memory. And before that, we could be reconciled. I could send her on her way with happy feelings on both sides. I could assure that her last day on earth was a joyous one—how many people have that blessing? Most deaths are preceded by wretched days leading up to them.
It had to be. It was the best I could manage, under the circumstances.
• • •
Now that I had decided, I was anxious to move ahead, before I could falter. I sent for Anicetus. For he was vital to my plan.
Secluded in my most private room, he and I looked at one another across the little table where the oil lamp burned, its flame flickering. In the uneven light, sometimes his eyes were illuminated, sometimes not. But I knew him well enough to read his expression even in the uneven light. No hint of condemnation showed on it. Quite the opposite.
“It has to be,” he said. “As you know. And I agree entirely with your selection of method. I can have the ship ready in time for next spring’s Festival of Minerva at Baiae. You have attended that before, have you not? It’s very popular, and if you are there with a contingent of friends, what more natural than that you invite her to join you?”
At this point nothing was natural between Mother and me. But I had time. Time to affect a reconciliation. Time to make a grand gesture of appeasement.
“Build the ship to be beautiful. Spare no expense on ornamentation,” I ordered him.
“But if it is just to go to the bottom of the sea—”
“It is to be a gift. An extravagant gift. And thus it must look the part. She must be eager to board it, be proud to sail in it to her villa.”
“I see. I will have it done.” He nodded smartly.
I was overcome. I rose and embraced him. My oldest, firmest friend. My right hand.
From somewhere came the fragment of a poetic line I had heard once, from someone in my writers’ group who knew Hebrew writings. If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. Anicetus was my right hand, and in his knowledge of boats and the sea lay the cunning.
XLVII
Bad weather descended on Rome as the year turned. Saturnalia came and went; so did my twenty-first birthday. There were celebrations, but I paid them little heed. At New Year’s I wore a white and gold robe and accepted the renewal of all the legions’ allegiance throughout the empire, standing before the troops of the Praetorians. On January third I stood at the Forum Rostra with Octavia by my side to accept vows for the welfare of our divine essence, our genius. We did not look at one another but stared straight out, looking toward the Temple of the Divine Julius and the Augustus Triumphal triple arch beside it, sparkling with a layer of frost.
The sea was still choppy, too dangerous to sail. Usually the Festival of Minerva marked the beginning of the safe sailing season. Oh, would it ever come? I remembered that Agrippa had taken Antony completely by surprise—and ultimately to defeat—by crossing over into Greece when it was deemed too early. He landed and that was that. On such gambles are empires built.
I had to grit my teeth and pay courtesy calls to Mother, now settled (by my orders) in her paternal grandmother’s home on the Pincian Hill. The sudden move there, and the loss of her prestigious guards, signaled to all Rome that her power was waning, and her erstwhile supporters and sycophants peeled away like skin from an overripe fruit.
When I went, I took along an escort of staff officers and did not linger. But I gradually increased the time I spent there, and modified my demeanor to be warmer, all to build up to the invitation to Baiae. She must think that I had softened, forgiven her for the heinous act she had visited on me—or better yet, forgotten it, the drug having erased it from my mind. But no, it was burned there for eternity.
At last, after several of these visits, I accepted her usual offer to sit with her and talk and dismissed my accompanying officers. I sank down onto a padded couch and even put my feet up on a footstool. She did not offer refreshments lest they be declined. She took a seat near—but not too near. She sat demurely, her hands folded in her lap. She was modestly dressed in a gown of pale blue, the color of the sky at daybreak. It flattered her complexion and her rich brown hair. I found it hard to look at her.
We spoke of nothing—the weather, that perennially safe subject; gardens, another safe subject; upcoming holidays. Here was my opening. Perfect.
“Mother,” I said, leaning forward in what I hoped simulated friendly ease, “I long for the end of winter and am looking forward to celebrating the Festival of Minerva at Baiae. It promises to be particularly festive this year. Oh, it will be so good to cast winter aside at last!”
She made a sour face. “Too much noise and merrymakers at Baiae then. I gave up on that holiday long ago.”
Not the response I needed. “You do not plan to go, then? A pity. I was hoping I would see you there.” The promise of a reunion was thus dangled.
Her whole expression changed. “I do have my villa there—on the shore of Lake Lucrine. I could have it readied, if you thought . . .”
“That’s a piece from where mine is but not inconvenient,” I mused. “Your area is quieter, and you would be spared much of the noise and crowds.”
“True, true . . .” She was thinking.
“I will give a lavish banquet for all my friends the night before the ceremonies for Minerva,” I said. “If you were there you would be the guest of honor.” Take the bait, I thought. Take it!
But she shook her head. “Perhaps it is best if I am not present,” she said. “I do not wish to interfere. I know I am hardly beloved by many of your friends.” She shook her head meekly. “I do not want to spoil your banquet.”
“Spoil it? Oh, no. You would be the crowning of it.” I got up, crossed over to her. “You would be welcomed. Our estrangement causes people unease.”
“I don’t care about other people—it causes me sorrow and grief.”
“Then, Mother, say you will come.” I forced myself to take her hands and draw her to her feet. “For me.”
• • •
Her cooperation now secured, I must broach the subject of the gift boat. But not too early. It must be bestowed nearer the time, as our guarded behavior thawed and it would not seem out of place for me to proffer such a gift.
I told Acte that I was planning to return to Baiae for the festival. To my surprise she did not want to go, and for many of the same reasons as Mother. Too many crowds, too much noise. And she felt out of place with my friends. I would be too taken up with them, there would be interminable banquets and entertainments, and she would see little of me. And she was skeptical of my “reunion” with Mother, although I assured her I had decided it was best to appear at peace in public.
But since the happening that had sundered my ability to be truthful with her, the separation kept growing. If I could not tell her about what had happened in the palace, I could certainly not tell her what I had resolved to do at Baiae. I felt now that I was three people, not two. I had grown accustomed to there being two Neros—the Augustan one o
f public duties and Roman virtue, and the Apollonian one of music, art, and poetry. But three? I was afraid I would break apart like the boat Anicetus was constructing. Acte loved the first two Neros but would not love the third, dark one that was emerging. I was not sure I loved him, either, but I had no choice but to claim him as part of myself, whereas she could walk away.
“Acte, please come,” I urged her. “I really wish you to be with me this time.”
She just smiled. “I’d rather not. It’s just another festival, another banquet. I’ll be waiting when you return, and you can tell me all the details. And then I will have you all to myself.”
All three Neros; you will have all three to yourself, I thought. The third will come of age while we are apart.
Oh, Acte.
• • •
My refuge with her gone, I escaped more and more into music and poetry. They were a bright, clean, shining world that welcomed me and strengthened the best in me, and where I wished I could stay forever.
XLVIII
As the earth warmed and winter receded, I now wished there was a way to retard its inexorable, deadly creep toward spring. Every day closer to the festival increased the dread in my heart. By the time the ides of March arrived, I was scarcely sleeping.
I had made a quick trip to Misenum and conferred with Anicetus, who assured me the ship was receiving the finishing touches and that a corps of trusted sailors were being trained in “the naval exercise,” as he called it. “Put your mind at ease,” he said. “It is all as you ordered.”
My mind at ease. Nothing was more impossible. But I thanked him and asked only where it would be docked and when I might present it to her.
“Her villa is on the shores of Lake Lucrine, isn’t it? Yours is at Baiae, and farther down, close to Misenum, are other villas. I think you should have the banquet at someone’s villa there. I can have the ship docked there, you can present it to her upon arrival, and after the banquet she can be conveyed back to Lake Lucrine aboard it.”