I leapt up. “I have been saved! Can you not understand? I cannot count the cost of celebrating it in thanksgiving.”
But they knew the nature of my being saved. They had seen me dispatch Anicetus on his deadly mission, had seen the staged dagger drop, had written the letter to the Senate.
“Perhaps it is best not to remind people,” said Burrus. “Let it lie.”
“No. That would imply guilt, shame.” Which I was trying to exorcise. “Boldness is best.” I sat back down and stared at them.
“Very well,” said Seneca. “But perhaps, if you have no mind to spare expense, there should be two separate celebrations. The first could be called the Ludi Maximi, the Great Games for the Eternity of the Empire. You could preside at those, and watch the citizens of Rome performing, have the elephants . . . And then, following that, the celebration of the beard shaving. We can call it the Juvenalia, the Youth Games. Those can be private. By invitation only. After all, to see the emperor perform would be a special privilege, a highly coveted event. That way you can satisfy both segments of the population—the common people, and the elite who cherish and crave private events.” He slumped back against the bench, looking exhausted from his presentation. He still had a quick mind, to have conjured all this up so quickly.
“This plan has its merits,” I admitted. “But I will perform.” Something was coming back to me, swimming out of the past. “Remember, my friends, ‘There is no respect for hidden music.’” The cryptic words of the oracle, almost forgotten, suddenly were blazingly clear. I must not hide my art, my music. It was a mandate.
• • •
I immediately sought the guidance of my vocal coach, Appius, who had been teaching me songs for both the lyre and the cithara. I had progressed slowly but steadily, and the next step was to put voice and technique together. Mastering the instruments was a different matter, and my cithara training with Terpnus took place elsewhere.
Appius was a thin, intense, focused man, the sort who never forgot his papers or ran late. He expected perfection from me, too, which was what I wanted in a teacher. Although it is impossible not be swayed by the knowledge that one is dealing with the emperor (commander in chief of all legions, land and sea; supreme governor of all provinces; Augustus . . . and so on and on), Appius hid it well. He did not hesitate to reprimand me or give me an honest appraisal of my performance. I announced to him that I had taken the leap: I would perform in public.
“Where?” was all he said.
“At a private festival.” I explained it all to him. “And so I need to strengthen my voice,” I said. “I know there are regimens to do so, just as there are for running and wrestling.”
He drew a deep breath and for the longest time did not reply. “It is always best to work with what nature gives us,” he finally said. “You have a deep, husky bass voice, best suited for emotional drama, like Euripides. Unfortunately those are the most difficult musical pieces to master. But rewarding, if you can.”
Euripides! “What do you think I ought to practice for this performance? It’s my first—I don’t want to disgrace myself.”
“I am thinking something simple—perhaps just an ode set to the lyre? But at the same time, you could practice something more advanced.”
“Could I write my own songs? Set to my own poems?”
His long, bladelike face widened in a smile. “Certainly, if you want to tackle everything at once, expose yourself like that, so that you are judged on many levels.”
Yes. That was what I wanted. A clean, clear judgment where I could stand before men and know who I was, how good or bad my art was. “Fear and art cannot live together,” I said. “Now tell me what I must do to strengthen my voice.”
His instructions were to lie flat on my back and put lead weights on my chest, then speak loudly, to strengthen the muscles; to avoid apples, as they were harmful to the throat; to take a daily potion of chives in olive oil to soothe the throat.
“And have lots of sex, as that deepens the voice—at least, Aristotle said so.” He allowed himself a smile. “Now, that’s a pleasant regimen.”
But one less available to me now than ever before. What was I to do about Acte?
• • •
I must write to her, but the words, like cold honey, refused to flow. I sat at my desk late into the night, several oil lamps sputtering, illuminating the paper. I missed her keenly but at the same time found myself still reluctant to see her, as if I would keep her entirely in the past. The past, unchanging and preserved, sacred and cherished. To see her again would explode all that, bring her back into strange new territory between us. But I had to, or regret it forever.
My heart,
I call you that because that is what you have been and are. Six long months have passed since we parted, not knowing it would stretch so long.
Now what? Where to go from here? I chewed on the end of the pen, looking at the little yellow flame from one lamp as if I could read an answer there.
You know all that has happened in the interim, the great changes that have taken place.
No need to say more, especially on paper.
You belong here with me, and I implore you to return to me. As emperor I could send guards to bring you back, could line the streets with cheering people, have torches and arches all the way, but unless you come back on your own accord, because you want to, it would be meaningless. There are things an emperor cannot command, and your heart is one of them. I am equally helpless over my own, which longs for you. “Come to me now, then, free me from aching care.” You remember that promise to one another, from Sappho’s words.
How to sign it? Not “your emperor.” Not “Nero.” Not “your friend.” What, then? I rubbed my eyes. It was late, and I was very tired, in spirit and body. Yes, let her free me from aching care—if anyone could.
Lucius
She would know who it was, and know I meant that she had known me before these other names and titles. You know me truly, it meant.
• • •
The letter dispatched, I did not feel like a lead weight was off me, only that I now had two: the plate that Appius had prescribed, and the suspense of waiting to see Acte again. I had a pallet of goose down made, and a flat lead plate weighing as much as a mastiff. I would lie down and ask a chamber attendant to lower the plate onto my chest and then have him stand at different distances in the room while I recited lines of poetry or rhetoric. The goal was for me to make him hear me even when he was in an adjoining room. It was very taxing, but I could feel my strength building as the days passed.
“I will have a chest as hard as a cuirass by the time I have finished these exercises,” I told Appius. “So I won’t need one when I go into battle.”
“Were you planning to go into battle anytime soon?” He laughed.
“Never, I hope.”
“That is what people think,” he said. “That the emperor is not interested in military affairs.”
“I am interested, I just do not”—I had to stop and catch my breath; the plate had sucked it out of my lungs—“want to be a general myself.”
“Perhaps if you had been a general, even for a short time, people would not look askance at your singing.”
“Not you, too.” I had to breathe deeply again, push up against the weight. “That is for Seneca and Burrus to say, not my voice master.” Would I have to don cuirass and helmet and ride out among the troops? There were no battles to fight now, in any case. The empire was quiet.
“That was just my private thought, not advice,” he said. “The only useful advice I have to give concerns notes and breathing, not politics. I live as an ordinary man in Rome, not in the palace.”
“True.” As long as he admitted it.
But after the attendant had removed the plate and my aching chest could expand again, I brooded over his words. It was going to be necessa
ry, at some point—and probably soon—that I play at being a soldier. But first the games.
• • •
I went to the Senate to announce the two sets of games and the difference between them. I wore my most regal toga, soft and rich double-dyed Tyrian purple, and sat between the two consuls, T. Sextius Africanus and M. Ostorius Scapula, as was protocol. Let all be in order, for what I would announce was beyond the normal order.
I rose. “I have called this session to make a joyful announcement.” Two hundred faces looked at me expectantly but warily. “I invite you all to be my partners in celebrating two special sets of games. The first, the Ludi Maximi, the Great Games, will be to give thanks for the eternal empire of Rome, so recently preserved yet again from danger.”
Still they looked on, impassive, bracing for what was to come. It was the cost they dreaded, I thought. Well, they could be relieved of that worry, as I would pay for it all. “A series of plays devoted to the eternity of the empire will be performed, and all Rome will be invited to attend, free. We will also have gladiatorial shows, dance exhibitions, and ballets, held in multiple venues—my new amphitheater, Taurus’s older one, the theaters of Pompey and Marcellus, and the Circus Maximus. And”—I stepped down from the little platform and turned slowly to see everyone clearly, look at them one by one—“you, and your families, are all invited to perform, to be my partners in celebration. Yes! Men and women, boys and girls, old and young, from both the senators and the equestrians. You will be the entertainers, and I will provide your training at special schools. For those of you who are not up to the rigors of this, you may sing in a chorus instead.”
A particularly crusty senator named Thrasea Paetus, who had refused to vote for the official thanksgiving for my escape from Mother, stirred and raised his hand to speak. “Gladiatorial games? You want us to fight as gladiators?”
“There will be no killing!” I assured him. “But how many of you have secretly wanted to put on helmets and nets and fight? You have watched these contests for years—is there anyone so craven he has not wanted to try his hand at it—once?”
Of course no one would admit to being craven, so they just nodded. “I will provide the equipment and the training there, too. And I promise a certain person will ride his elephant and perform such a feat that your grandchildren will never believe.”
There was a low murmur, but all in all, they looked rather pleased and curious to hear what else might follow.
“As for the second set of games, they are private. I name them the Juvenalia, the Youth Games, to celebrate my first shaving. Unlike the first, open to everyone in Rome, beggars and generals alike, these are by invitation only and will be held in my private grounds and gardens across the Tiber. They, too, will rely on your performances, in both Greek and Latin, but they are theatrical only, no athletic exhibitions.”
I mounted the step again and took my place back between the two consuls. “This is a personal event but one I wish you to join me in. As you know, the first shaving of the beard is an occasion. I am sure each of you remembers the day you did that, and the celebration your family had. You are all my family”—perhaps I shouldn’t remind them of that, or why I had no family left—“yet at the same time I am also a dutiful son of the empire and will be dedicating the beard to Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill. And this is the first time you have had an emperor young enough to perform this ceremony while in office. It will also be five years since I became emperor. For five years you have trusted me to guide and protect you, and I pledge to continue to the utmost of my ability to serve the empire.”
They murmured among themselves, but no one seemed displeased.
“There will be free feasting in the Grove of the Caesars, tents and booths providing food and drink and luxuries such as cushions and carpets during the festival, and all paid by me.” Nearby, on the old naumachia of Augustus—where he had reenacted classic naval battles for entertainment—I would have boats where my closest friends and I could relax after the performances, while being slowly rowed around.
“And at the end of the festival, there will be an event even more singular than the elephant. That I can promise you, but I cannot divulge what it is yet. The mystery will be unveiled only on the final night.”
Now they stirred, their eyes alert. I had them now.
• • •
The days flew, the venues were prepared—new awnings for Taurus’s amphitheater, dredging of the naumachia—tokens with the prizes to be awarded were engraved, the elephant practiced his stunt, and the training schools were full. Many people attended them and seemed glad of the opportunity to indulge in a fantasy of another life—a fat old senator could be a gladiator, a young girl an animal tamer.
I had had no reply from Acte. Still I would wait, while earnestly composing the poetry and music I planned to perform shortly. I longed to be able to express the feelings that thronged my mind, but my words always fell short. Petronius had criticized one poet by saying, “His ideas surpass his execution of them.” Oh, I knew that agony, the agony of all artists who know what they wish to express but cannot quite, a taunting prize just beyond our reach—or capabilities.
Seneca and Burrus regularly called upon me to report the progress of the preparations and the cost of them, and what had been overheard in the streets about them. To their dismay, it was mainly favorable.
“People are excited,” Burrus admitted. “They are flattered that the emperor is lavishing such attention on them.”
“They are also curious, of course, to see what surprises there are. And hoping always that they can make off with a prize of some sort. They are greedy, you know,” said Seneca.
“No more than any other people,” I said. “We are all greedy, just for different things.” I looked particularly at Seneca, the shockingly rich Stoic. “Your older brother, Gallio—doesn’t he like poetry?” I asked.
Seneca thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe he does.”
“Ah, all of you Seneca brothers are so professorial,” I said. “I’d like him to introduce me at the Youth Games. Introduce my performance, that is. I hardly need a regular introduction.”
“Well, I can ask . . .” Seneca smiled wanly.
I laughed. “You should start wearing a theatrical mask,” I said. “Your face gives away too much of what you really think. But you mustn’t speak for others. Perhaps your brother would be honored. I have heard he has a gentle disposition.”
“Yes, he does. It is a pity his health is poor.”
“Another family trait,” I observed. “But you all keep striving, keep working, in spite of it. Please do ask him. I would like to get to know him better.”
• • •
The lead plates had done their work. My voice was much stronger, although I had not applied Aristotle’s remedy in addition. I was waiting for Acte for that. I finally had my poem ready and was composing the music to accompany it. I also had gathered a large group of Alexandrians I named Augustiani to clap rhythmically at performances, as was done in Egypt. They made three different types of sounds: the bees (a loud humming), the roof tiles (staccato sharp claps made with hollowed hands), and the bricks (heavy, loud noises made with flat hands) to signal what their judgment was on a performance. I would seat them out in the audience to clap at the appropriate times.
My poem was inspired by Euripides’ Bacchae, but it did not merely recite the plot. Instead I explored the theme, which was the struggle between the irrational forces of life and the rational mind, between freedom and control. It was the struggle going on within me, disguised here under the safe cover of a Greek myth. In the myth, the irrational destroyed the rational. But could there be no compromise? No way for those two forces to coexist within me? The daylight Nero, the Apollonian side who presided over the empire, and the Dionysian Nero who wished to explore the inchoate calling of creativity?
LIII
The day could n
ot have been fairer. It was a replica of the one five years before when I first stepped out at noon, to be acclaimed as emperor. But, oh, the difference in me. I was sixteen then, now I was twenty-one. Then I could hardly believe myself an emperor; now it seemed impossible to be anything else.
I watched from a special balcony over the stage of the Theater of Pompey to see plays being enacted just below me, plays so realistic that the comedy The Fire by Afranius actually had a fire onstage, and the actors got to keep the furniture they rescued from the burning building. In the Theater of Marcellus, realistic mythological ballets were performed, in which the Minotaur was conceived onstage as he was in the story, and Icarus flew on wires, which unfortunately broke and spattered the audience with blood when he landed, although he survived, unlike the real Icarus. There were special dance exhibitions performed by Greeks, and when they were over I conferred Roman citizenship on all the dancers. At the same time, more entertainments went on in the Circus Maximus.
In my new amphitheater, I watched from the royal box as senators and members of the class just below it, the equestrians, battled in gladiator costumes with wooden swords and tridents, and “animal tamers” fought with trained “wild” beasts, and as every event ended I stood and threw out the engraved tokens to the crowd, this time for more extravagant gifts than ever before: a thousand birds, parcels of food, vouchers for grain, clothes, silver, gems, pearls, paintings, slaves, transport animals, trained wild beasts, even ships, apartment blocks, and farms.
At last, in the Theater of Marcellus, the promised surprise finale: an equestrian rode his trained elephant down a tightrope stretched from the highest tier of seats to the floor below. The rope sagged and swayed, but the majestic beast kept his balance, his enormous flat feet much more nimble than seemingly possible. It was a triumph of entertainment that brought the days of the Ludi Maximi to an unforgettable close. The cheers of the audience rang in my ears for days. I had done it—provided spectacle beyond anyone’s expectations or experience.