by Allan Massie
It could not, unfortunately, last. What we call normal is all too often what we aspire to, rather than what we actually experience. In this instance, the lull was short. There was Piso to be considered. He had returned to Rome and was now under a species of restriction in his own house. It overlooked the Forum, and Plancina soon attracted unwelcome attention by the lavish dinner-parties she organised in an attempt to drum up support for her beleaguered husband.
His case was desperate, and appeared the more so to me as I received more information about his rash and indisciplined conduct. My mother urged me to prevent any trial taking place.
"Plancina is a good friend of mine," she said, "and I have talked with her at length. I am convinced that the accusations levelled at her and her husband are unfounded. It is impossible that they should have murdered Germanicus. Do you really imagine that if I believed otherwise I should hold any conversation with my grandson's murderer? But it is all the product of Agrippina's warped imagination. She is beside herself with grief, spite and disappointment."
"I can't stop a trial," I said. "It would give substance to the rumours that make me worse than their accomplice. The whole thing must be aired in court and I am sure they will be acquitted of the charge of murder."
"Nothing good will come of it," Livia said. "I know people better than you do. If a trial takes place, it will merely give people the opportunity to spread worse and more lurid rumours. For the plebeians find it impossible to distinguish between putting a man on trial and finding him guilty. You will regret this trial if you permit it."
She was right of course, but I could not prevent the trial. Livia's logic was merely abstract; she had withdrawn from the realities of political affairs, where contingency rules, and one has to act in response to pressures. To have prevented the trial would have been tantamount to declaring not only that Piso was guilty of the worst crimes with which he was charged, but that rumour was right, and he had acted at my behest. Otherwise - men would say - why should I choose to protect him?
Besides, I did not wish to do so. I had trusted Piso, and in one way or another, he had betrayed that trust. I had thought him competent and sagacious, and he had proved a fool.
When the Senate met charges were brought against him, first by Lucius Fulcinius Trio, then by two members of Germanicus' staff, Publius Vitellius and Quintus Vernaius. I was asked to take over the enquiry, but urged that it should be heard by the whole Senate. However, I outlined my view of the case.
"Gnaeus Piso," I said, "was trusted and admired by Augustus, and by me myself. With your approval, Conscript Fathers, I made him Germanicus' helper in his Eastern duties. Unfortunately, as the world knows, they did not see eye to eye, and unwelcome and unforeseen developments took place. Now it is your duty to decide, objectively and without malice, whether, having upset Germanicus by disobedience and quarrelling, he merely rejoiced at his death (about his rejoicing there is no dispute) or whether he did worse than that, and actually compassed his death.
"Now, if you decide the former, and conclude that Piso exceeded his position and then exulted at Germanicus' death — and at my sorrow, bear that in mind — then I shall renounce his friendship and close my doors against him. But I shall not use those powers which you have chosen to confer upon me merely to avenge private wrongs.
"If, on the other hand, you find proof of murder, a crime which would require vengeance whatever the victim's rank, it will be your duty to give satisfaction to the children of Germanicus and to us, his parents and family. There are also other matters which you must consider.
"First, did Piso incite his troops to mutiny and rebellion?
"Second, did he bribe them to support him?
"Third, did he make rash and illegal war to recover his province . . . ?
"But you must also ask yourselves whether these are lies spread and elaborated by those whose grief has dislodged their reason.
"In this context, I must say that the excessive vigour displayed by some who are eager to fasten a crime on Piso has given me cause for irritation. For to strip my son's body and expose it to the vulgar gaze, thus encouraging - even among foreigners - the report that he had been poisoned, served no good purpose, since this question is still undecided, and is indeed the object of your enquiry.
"I would remind you, Conscript Fathers, that sensationalism is the enemy of justice; and that justice is the fruit of reason, not emotion.
"I grieve for my son, Germanicus, and always shall, till death releases me in my turn. But I offer the accused every opportunity of producing evidence which may establish his innocence, or proof that Germanicus provoked and maltreated him, if that was the case. I go so far as to say that I hope he may be able to clear himself, since, for my part, the discovery that a Roman nobleman in whom I had put my trust should have proved so unworthy of my confidence would be yet another bitter draught to swallow.
"I implore you not to regard charges as proofs merely because you are conscious of my personal grief.
"Those whose relationship to Piso, or loyalty towards him have made them his defenders should help him without fear in his hour of need . . ."
Such was my speech, and I do not regret it. It would have been dishonourable to have spoken in any other way. Yet night fell, and I knew that I had failed. My measured words were condemned on every side. Those who believed that Germanicus had been the victim of Piso and Plancina angrily complained that I had invited the Senate to acquit him. Their adherents, on the other hand, accused me of having abandoned them. Livia said, "I never thought a son of mine could have been such a coward: to desert your friends in such an attempt to appease your inveterate enemies. It's worse than a crime, it's a blunder, and the consequences will hound you to the grave." Yet I could not have spoken otherwise, though it was pointless to offer that argument to my mother.
The trial was conducted during foul weather. The tramontana blew cold, gusting round the Senate House and making the canopies of stalls and litters flap furiously. The weather did not deter the mob. They also blew like an angry tempest, jostling senators and threatening them with violence if they did not vote to their satisfaction. They swarmed round the litter that carried the wretched Piso to his daily ordeal, screaming out that he might escape the Senate, but never them; they would string him up if he was acquitted. Some of them seized his statue and began to haul it to the Gemonian Steps, but I sent in the guards to arrest them. I was determined that the city should not be given over to the violence of the mob.
Rumours abounded. The most dangerous was the suggestion, put out by some of Piso's supporters and eagerly believed by my enemies, that he would produce a letter from me which would justify all his actions. No such letter existed. Yet I was disturbed by the rumours, not only because they were so widely believed, but also because I feared that a letter might indeed have been forged. I therefore ordered Sejanus to interrogate Piso and search his house.
Sejanus threw himself back in the chair and stretched his arms above his head. He laughed. I have seen lions, in the arena which I detest, move like Sejanus, with the same grace and menace. He laughed again.
"Poor Piso," he said, "poor bugger, he knows it's all up with him."
"But the document, the letter."
"There is no letter. You know there isn't."
"And none has been forged?"
"My men turned the place upside down. Piso was indignant. He told me, 'You know perfectly well there's nothing to be found'. The fact is, in his strange way, he has thought of forging a document, of course he has, but something held him back."
"Honour?"
"Perhaps. Fear more likely. He still hopes you will halt the prosecution. He still maintains he never went beyond what he understood your intentions to be. Not till the last moment, when he invaded Syria. He knows he did wrong there. He knows they have got him on that count."
"Sejanus," I hesitated, embarrassed as I had never been with him before, "when you saw Piso before he took up his appointment, how far did y
ou go?"
He smiled, yawned, stretched himself again.
"It's a bit late to ask that," he said. "Tiberius," he continued. "There's nothing for you to get tense about. All you have to do is let the law take its course."
"Let the law take its course?" Livia snapped her fan shut. "Are you mad? When you start sacrificing your friends to your enemies, I believe you to have taken leave of your senses. Don't you understand, child, that woman is implacable? When she attacks Piso, that's only the first step. You are her real target. Besides, it's absurd to think Plancina could be guilty of murder. I've known her since she was a little girl."
There was no evidence of murder, nothing but spiteful rumours. Some were ridiculous. It was suggested that Piso had first tried to poison Germanicus on an occasion when they had been neighbours at dinner. Even some of Germanicus' friends found it too fantastic to suppose that he should have attempted this in front of witnesses which included Germanicus himself and his slaves. Piso scoffed at the charge and offered his own slaves for torture, demanding too that the waiters at that dinner-party should be put to the question. But the defence faltered everywhere else. Evidence that Piso had bribed troops, subverted discipline and invaded the province was overwhelming. Realising this, Plancina, who had sworn that she would share his fate, now desperate only to save herself, resolved to conduct a separate defence. That evening it was necessary to double the number of guards who escorted him home.
Towards nightfall I was informed that Piso's secretary was seeking an audience. I declined to see him. There was nothing I could do, and I had no wish to compromise my own position by entertaining such an emissary in conversation. I therefore returned the message that I was confident Piso would act in a manner worthy of his ancestors.
I do not know how Piso received my message. At some point during the night he abandoned hope. He gave a note to one of his slaves and, announcing that he was ready for sleep, dismissed Plancina and his attendants from his chamber. He was found in the morning with his throat cut. A bloody sword lay on the floor beside his body.
The news was brought to me in the cold morning. Black clouds scudded across the sky. I watched a procession of worshippers, heads covered, move towards the Temple of Mars the Avenger. Jackdaws were flung in wild flight by the winds. The slave fell on the ground before me, extending a hand which clutched a sealed document.
Piso had written:
Conspiracy and hatred have ruined me. There is no place left for innocence and honesty. I call the gods to witness, Caesar, that I have always been loyal to you, and dutiful to the Augusta. I beg you both to protect my children. Marcus accompanied me to Syria, but had first advised me against doing so; his brother Gnaeus has never left Rome. I pray that they who are innocent should not share in my misfortune. By my forty-five years of loyalty, by our joint consulship, by the memory of our friendship, I, whom your father the divine Augustus honoured, and whom you befriended, implore you to spare my unfortunate son. It is the last thing I shall ask of anyone.
I passed the letter to Sejanus.
"He doesn't once mention Plancina," I said. "Well, all friendship is but a memory now, but we shall see that his son does not suffer . . ."
To please my mother, I argued Plancina's case before the Senate.
Piso was rash, but he was murdered by public opinion as surely as if the mob had lynched him as they threatened to do. On the day of his funeral Agrippina gave a dinner-party. I declined an invitation to attend.
How many nights I have gazed at the majesty of the skies, and thought of Piso during his last hours on earth, deserted, empty of hope, finally absolute for death. There have been many times I have envied him.
5
There was a moment of joy: Drusus' wife Livilla gave birth to twins. I had hoped this would draw them together. It failed to do so. I accused Drusus of neglecting his wife.
"I thought I'd given her enough to occupy her, Father," he replied. "Anyway, it's easy for you to give such advice. You don't have to put up with her bad temper."
"Perhaps, but it is not seemly that I should hear constant reports of your quarrels."
"Who brings them to you? Sejanus, I suppose. You put too much trust in that man. Indeed, it grieves me, Father, that you seem to rely more on him than on me, your own son."
He had no reason to think that, and I told him so. But this awareness of ill-feeling between Drusus and Sejanus was a new cause of distress.
There was soon another, though it brought Drusus and myself together. His mother, my poor Vipsania, was dying. I had never thought of her dying before me. Though we had only once seen each other since our divorce, she had been a warm presence in the background of my life, like a place where you have been happy. Drusus and I travelled in wet weather to Velletri, where she had been living in a villa inherited from her father; she had been long separated from her husband, Gallus.
Vipsania took her leave of Drusus first. Then he told me to go in. I had not in the end been certain that she would wish to see me.
I would not at first have recognised her, for disease had eaten her away, the flesh had fallen from her face, and her eyes spoke of the pain she suffered. She stretched out her hand. I took it in mine, kissed it and fell to my knees by the bedside. We remained like that for a long time. There was a peculiar musty smell in the room, and the air was close and heavy.
"Don't try to speak," I said. "It's enough that we are together again."
She disengaged her hand and stroked my brow . . .
Did it happen like that? Or does my memory deceive me? Sometimes these few minutes with Vipsania have the clarity of a dream, the kind from which one awakens with a calm assurance of having been granted a vision of a more profound reality than that in which daily life is spent. There is a re-ordering of experience, as if a veil has been lifted. And yet her chamber was already a gateway to the tomb. Drusus felt none of this. He wept to lose his mother, while I remained dry-eyed. Yet my loss of what I had long ago lost was sharper: I was given a glimpse of what had been denied me. When I leaned over and kissed her cheek, from which life was already fleeing, I sealed our acknowledgment, with which we had lived for thirty years, that love and tenderness are hopeless against the fact of power. I turned out of her chamber and set my face to a funeral as bald as a winter mountain-face.
"It's odd to think," Drusus said, "that my mother was the half-sister of that hell-cat Agrippina."
"I hadn't realised you dislike Agrippina so."
"Dislike her? Surely you understand, father? She's determined to destroy us both."
"I no longer know what I understand."
"What's more, she will bring up her children as our enemies."
Drusus pushed the wine towards me. We both drank.
"It seems to me," he said, "that our family is overstocked with impossible women."
"Your mother was never impossible."
"No," he agreed, and called for more wine.
"But my wife is," he said, "and Agrippina, and my grandmother, and as I recall, my stepmother Julia. What have we done to deserve them?"
A little later he fell asleep. This was how we mourned Vipsania: in drunkenness and self-pity. But it wasn't only Vipsania we mourned, I thought. Our sadness had deeper roots than mortality. Death, after all, can come as a friend; death brings welcome relief from pain, as in the case of Vipsania, perhaps from dishonour, as with Piso; perhaps from the tyranny of the eternal ‘I’.
"Would you like more wine, my lord?"
I looked up. One of Drusus' slaves was leaning over me. He was called Lygdus, a eunuch from Syria, a gift, I recalled, from Piso. He smiled, nervous but eager to please. The scent of attar of roses floated towards me. He placed a pale brown, thin-fingered hand on the flask. I felt a surge of cruelty, which disgusted and excited me. These creatures, I thought, are completely in our power. But then, who isn't in mine? Am I not the master of the world? Isn't that what they say? A master who despises men, fears assassination (but why, when I long for d
eath to release me from my responsibilities?) and shuns company. The boy waited. I looked at him; he dropped his gaze. Apprehension expelled the desire to please. He waited.
I had had reports on this Lygdus of course. Such things have become necessary. He was said to be familiar with his master, a cherished favourite. There is always someone like that in the household of any man of virtue. It is our way of sweetening our arrangement of things, which by its nature offends notions of humanity. And men are rarely indifferent to eunuchs; they either despise them or desire them, sometimes both. A eunuch occupies a peculiar status in our imagination; he is a sort of object on which we can lavish irresponsible tenderness or employ to satisfy our innate cruelty.
"Are you fond of your master?"
I spoke in Greek, to put him at his ease. He replied in the same language, haltingly.
"My lord is very good to me."
His fingers plucked the fringe of his short tunic.
"Is he often in this condition?"
"Oh no, my lord, this is exceptional. He is distressed on account of his mother's death. Shall I fetch you more wine, my lord?"
