Paulinus and militant Romans argued that if the Britons were starving, it was their own fault, for they sowed but did not reap their crops; they made war instead. But all these harsh reprisals would merely sow another crop—one of festering bitterness that would break out into rebellion again. I believed the way to terminate opposition was not to oppose and punish it but to smother it with a gentle hand.
“Terrible as it is, we are even in our losses,” I reminded Tigellinus. “They lost seventy thousand, we lost seventy thousand. Now that we have mourned them, we must learn to live together.”
“Bah,” he said. “The only thing a vicious dog understands is beating. Break its spirit so it doesn’t attack again.”
“People are not animals. They can plan ahead, and, unlike a dog, if they cannot get revenge, they can teach their children to do it after them.”
He shrugged. The tough horse trainer saw life only in the simplest direct terms. But I had decided that if Paulinus did not alter his course, I would recall him and replace him, hero or not. I wanted this to be the last rebellion in Britain. And I would gamble on my conviction of the way to prevent it, just as Paulinus had gambled on his battleground strategy. There was no point in winning a battle, as the saying goes, if we ultimately lost the war.
• • •
The people of Rome rejoiced at the news of our victory in far-off Britain and celebrations erupted all over the city. Graffiti appeared on buildings trumpeting our triumph, made all the more jubilant by the closeness of defeat. Wherever I went I was hailed as Imperator—Victorious Supreme Commander—and I would be lying if I said I did not relish it. So this was what it felt like to be a conquering general.
There would be no Triumph, though. There had not been one since Claudius’s all those years ago, and before that, none for some thirty years, when Germanicus had one. Although the saving of the province was vital, I did not think it seemly to claim a Triumph. Someday, perhaps, I would ride through the streets in the chariot of Augustus and look down at the spot where I had stood as a child watching Claudius pass, but it would be for a different place. And I must first have set foot in the land I was claiming.
• • •
October again, now the sixth anniversary of my accession. And it was time, time for me to inaugurate my program of bringing Greece to Rome. I announced, as a celebration of my accession, Greek games modeled on the Delphic and Olympic contests, to be named the Neronia and treated as a sacred occasion. This new festival would be a five-year occurrence in Rome from now on.
There was the usual grumbling from Burrus and Seneca, but for the most part people were enthusiastic, even the Senate. The festival would be divided into three parts—athletic, artistic, and equestrian. Athletic would feature racing, jumping, wrestling, and gymnastics. Artistic would include music, oratory, and poetry. Equestrian would of course have chariot racing, with two-, four-, and six-horse teams. Ex-consuls, drawn by lot, would preside; I would merely attend. Formal Greek dress was required for the audience. It was time to free ourselves from the restrictions of the toga. Loose, free-flowing tunics and cloaks would replace Roman garb, with its stripes and colors indicating rank and class. I myself would wear a linen tunic in sea blue, a far cry from imperial purple.
• • •
I had invited my old instructor Apollonius to join me for the athletic portion of the Neronia. I had not seen him in many years and was relieved when my invitation found him, and found him in good health. I was sitting with the senators and hailed him as he arrived, delighted to see his face again. He stood and looked at me; the years showed on him but he was by no means old.
“Little Marcus,” he said with a grin, “how you have changed!”
“And how you have not,” I said, showing him his seat. “Welcome.”
“You fooled me all those years ago, and I am not easily fooled,” he said, shaking his head. “My pupil the emperor.”
“I did not deceive you,” I said. “I was—I still am—earnest about athletics.”
“But your competing days are over,” he said.
“I am not sure of that,” I said. “It is difficult to watch something I love and not participate.”
“They have to be over,” he said. “No one can win against the emperor.”
“Then perhaps I will have to disguise myself.”
“There is no disguise that is not revealed,” he said. “No one will risk beating the emperor. So you are doomed to never truly know your worth on the field of competition.”
His words were cruel, and true. As they had always been. He truly had not changed. “Honest, as always,” I said. “But you must know, when little Marcus trained with you, he was not an emperor or anything beyond a little boy who had scant happiness except what you gave him. Remember that always—I do.”
“You were my best pupil,” he said. “As you said, I am honest and that is true. I was sorry when you had to leave, but I understood why.”
For those few minutes I was back there again, in those dark days when my only two lights—Crispus and Apollonius—left my life.
“Do you like being emperor?” he asked suddenly.
What a strange question, with such an obvious answer. “Yes. Of course I do.”
The gymnastics contest was beginning, and the Vestal Virgins took their designated places in the front row. In homage to the priestess of Demeter, who observed the Olympic Games, I had invited them to come.
“I think you are cruel,” whispered Apollonius. “To make these virgins sit and look at shining muscular male bodies for hours.”
“They are supposed to be above such longings,” I said.
“Perhaps you are still a bit naïve, Marcus,” he said, laughing.
• • •
The wrestling was especially exciting, with the two contestants evenly matched.
“It is going to be a dustless victory,” said Apollonius, meaning a bout in which no one was thrown and got sand on his body.
I leapt up and went to the edge of the ring to watch more closely. I stayed out of bounds, but it was almost as if I was in the ring myself.
“I am sure your looming over them distracted them,” said Apollonius later. “But I can see that you long to get back in there yourself.”
It was torture to just sit and watch. He knew me very well. I nodded. And contented myself from then on to watch the events from a distance. But I enjoyed being in the audience. I looked around. I was pleased; surrounded by crowds in Greek clothing, I could almost believe I was in Greece itself. Someday I would go there, but for now, this must do. And it gave me great satisfaction to know I had created the occasion, transplanted it intact from its native land.
The chariot races were a great success, and a team from Sicily won the prize for the four-horse race, the most popular one. The charioteer was exceptionally skilled and he handled the horses as if they were extensions of himself. It was a pleasure to award the crown to him.
There were fewer six-horse teams and they were slower, but they required more strength and dexterity to control them, so they made for good races. Being wider, they took up more space on the track, so the number competing at any one time was limited, hence more heats. The opposite applied to the two-horse races, the fastest of all.
The last contests were the artistic, slated for the final three days. I enjoyed the oratory contests; listening to a polished speaker is always a pleasure. Odd how all men can talk but few can speak in an entertaining or attention-getting manner. That is a gift few are born with; the rest have to train.
Next came the poetry contests. Several from my literary group competed, including Lucan, Seneca’s nephew. He had returned from Athens (on my “invitation”) and rejoined the group a few months back. I was impressed with him; his talent was much more imaginative than Seneca’s and his words soared where Seneca’s walked earnestly on the ground. He often wrote about nature (an
d particularly, of all things, snakes), so I was taken by surprise when he stood onstage in Pompey’s theater and announced that the title of his poem was “Laudes Neronis”—“In Praise of Nero.”
He made a handsome figure as he took a deep breath and began reciting his poem. His praise of me made me blush. I felt I shouldn’t be there listening.
You, when your duty is fulfilled
and finally you seek the stars, will be received in your chosen palace
of heaven, with the sky rejoicing. . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
every deity
will yield to you, to your decision nature will leave
which god you wish to be, where to set your kingdom of the universe.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
But already to me you are deity, and if I as bard receive you
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
you are enough to give me strength for Roman song.
Thunderous clapping and stomping filled the theater, and he was awarded the crown for poetry. His words were surely masterful, but they were an intoxicating beverage dangerous to consume—for an emperor. Yet they could be written only for an emperor.
The next day the musicians would compete, bringing the festival to a close. I was keen to see this, especially to take note of the expertise of other citharoedes. I knew, of course, the mastery of Terpnus but had little opportunity to hear other players. As they took their places, appropriately costumed, and tuned their instruments, I was as nervous as if I were competing. Why? Did I fear embarrassment for them, that they were poor players? Or did I fear they played better than I?
As the succession of players performed and then stepped off the stage, I kept gripping the arms of my chair, exhausted as every muscle stayed tensed. But now I had heard them all. They were good, but none as good as Terpnus, as it should be.
The judges huddled, then one of them took the stage to announce the winner. I would have chosen the man in the yellow robe who had sung of Antigone. But the judge looked around at the audience and cried, “We award the crown to the emperor Nero, who as a performer is superior to all these others, making it a mockery to award it to any lesser talent.”
All eyes turned to me. What was I to do? I did not want a prize I had not fairly earned, but to spurn it in these circumstances would be considered rude. I stood and said in a loud voice, “I accept the crown, but only to lay at the feet of the statue of Apollo before the house of the divine Augustus.” I ascended the stage and took the oak leaf wreath, holding it as if it were made of precious metal.
As we left the theater, Piso came over to me. “A fitting conclusion to the Neronia,” he said. I could not tell from his tone—he was, after all, an actor—whether he was sincere or not.
“A surprising conclusion,” was all I allowed.
“I hereby invite you and all our friends to Baiae for a week of relaxation and sport. Surely you have earned it, what with Britain and now this festival, and you need to celebrate the victory in both.”
Again—was he mocking?
“This is an official invitation,” he insisted. “I, Gaius Calpurnius Piso, invite Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus and his friends to come to my villa in Baiae—oh, say, next week?”
Baiae. Was I ever to set foot in it again? Would any other occasion prompt me to do so? Either I said yes now or I knew that it was no forever.
“Very well,” I said.
• • •
That evening, in my citharoede robe, I entered the gymnasium to be enrolled as an official member of the artist guild of citharoedes. Although I would not keep the crown, the award entitled me to join this fraternity, the first step on the road to being a professional performer. My hand trembled as I signed the paper that admitted me to this brotherhood of musicians, a recognition precious to me.
The next day I made my way, with a procession of witnesses, to the house of Augustus on the Palatine. His house also incorporated a shrine to Apollo, and outside stood a statue of the god dressed as a citharoede, which he was—the divine model of one. I addressed him reverently, thanked him for what skill he had bestowed on me, and dedicated the winner’s wreath to him. I laid it at his feet, knowing he alone had earned it for me.
As I turned to go, I saw the sacred laurel grove of the Caesars on one side of the house. I made my way over to it. How long ago it had been that my sprig had been planted, handed ceremoniously to me by Mother. Mother. I shuddered. Mother, I am returning to the scene. To both scenes. This one, and Baiae.
I stood before the arbor. Claudius’s tree had now withered away, to join the stumps of the deceased others. But mine was healthy and bristled with sleek green leaves and was already twice my height. It flourished. I flourished.
LXI
Piso’s villa was astounding, as luxurious as any ruler’s. It perched on the edge of the Bay of Naples, with a further extension of the house on pillars so it overhung the cliff. I could stand on it and be directly above the waves. A stiff breeze ruffled the water, making whitecaps. In late October, the pleasure boats on the bay had mainly vanished; only working boats remained.
Piso strolled over to me, his robe floating around his long legs. “Is it not what I promised?” he said, indicating the bay, as if he owned it all. I nodded. “And there will be pleasures galore for my esteemed guests. The warm sulfur baths, of course—we will partake of them in my private bathhouse. It’s best in the early evening, when the torches are lit all around the periphery. And then the feasting, and then—the girls. Or boys, whichever you please.”
Wasn’t he married? And supposedly fond of his wife, Atria? Where was she? Or was she to indulge in the delights of a young soldier?
“Petronius will be master of ceremonies. He’s so good at this.”
“He has had a lot of practice,” I allowed.
Everyone was there—Petronius, Senecio, Vitellius, Lucan, many other friends of Piso’s. But not Otho, oddly missing. Nor Mother. Oh, never again Mother, except in the images that stole into my dreams. Would I feel her presence more strongly here? But she had never been in Piso’s house, and so far I had not encountered her shade.
“And then, for those of us who like theater, there will be recitals and performances—by ourselves, that is. During the day. Then at night, back to the baths and the girls.”
• • •
His “entertainments” lived up to their reputation. The daytime dramatic readings and performances by guests were a safe way of practicing without fear of ridicule; the sulfur baths were soothing and reeked—and not only because of the strong vapors—of the indolent east and our provinces there. Their very city names conjured up sensual escape—Damascus, Antioch, Palmyra. Scented oils, smoking incense censers, carpeted tents of pleasure, bejeweled lanterns, all the objects of fantasy. Someday, perhaps, I would visit them, these far-flung provinces. For now this Roman imitation must suffice.
As for the girls—after my long abstinence they, not the preceding dinners, were the feast. It is true—it had been a long time since I had permitted myself to venture into that realm. First it had been the desolation over Acte’s absence, then the strange teasing arousal of Poppaea that rendered anyone else tepid, then the fearful watch over the rebellion of Britain that killed all other senses. All combined to make a celibate ruler, probably the only one in history who was not sixty years old. Well, Piso cured that ailment. After such an extended denial anyone would have seemed desirable, but these girls—women—were in a realm of their own. (Where did Piso get them? I should have inquired.)
Not only were the women delectable in myriad ways—in their youth, in their glistening skin from dusky to pearly, in hair of shades from inky to silver, thick curly to shimmering curtain of straight strands—but they embraced sex as a pure gift of Venus, to be exuberantly celebrated,
enjoyed—and shared.
Yet the more I indulged, the higher I heaped this plate of human pleasures, the less sated I felt. Always there was something out of reach, just beyond, a fruit I could not seize, like Tantalus in the underworld, a completion ever receding beyond my grasp. And pale lost faces, Acte’s and Poppaea’s, even Boudicca’s, floated above them all.
• • •
I had to do it. I had to walk again the steps I dreaded. Telling my host that I needed to inspect my own villa for the day, I made my escape. His villa was some distance from my own, which I did not actually intend to visit. But it was closer to Mother’s, and to her grave.
I wore a heavy wool cloak against the chill winds of late autumn, pulling it up to warm and hide my head. A pair of silent slaves accompanied me, for protection. The waters of the bay were dull under the cloudy sky, and some of the villas lining the shore looked shuttered for the season. As I walked I felt each step a sort of meditation. A meditation on time, on the past and the future.
In the distance I could see the shore of Lake Lucrine, that small body of water barely separated from the bay. It was along here that Mother had been set down by the fishermen who had rescued her. Just here, on this pebbled shore, I imagined. Then she had walked to the villa, pushing through throngs of people in the darkness, who had all been alerted to the mishap.
But today in the daylight I could not picture them. I could see only the villa ahead, which I trudged toward. Just along this path she had come, and later Anicetus and his henchmen had marched, forcing their way through the crowd.
I stood before the villa. It was closed and had begun to look unkempt. Paint was peeling on the shutters, and vines were climbing up the walls. Not derelict yet, but tending that way. Should it ever be opened again? I could never use it. No amount of fresh paint or new furniture could erase its essence for me. So it should be sold; let some new person with no memories take possession of it.
Mother, I thought, you went in here but never came out. The enormity of seeing that closed door made it more real for me than it had been all this time. I grieved, but silently, grieved that it had been as it was, and by my decision. Yet I would not—could not—change it.