Tiberius

by Allan Massie

  I removed to Capri. Why that island? Because it pleased me. Simply that? Because I could settle on it as my abode without the agony of introspection and self-justification. Because of the colour of the sea.

  Sejanus approved my choice. He said: "You will be safe there. There is only one landing-stage."

  I told the Senate I should communicate by letter and that they should consider Sejanus my mouthpiece. But I was not rash enough to grant him the maius imperium, which I alone possessed. I would not put that temptation before him, nor make him such a mark for the envy of others. He threw back his head and laughed when I explained my reasons.

  "Is it any wonder," he said, "that I have served you so long and with such content?"

  "You old fox," he said later.

  I trusted Sejanus, but I no longer found any pleasure in his company. That was another reason for my departure from Rome. His presence no longer invigorated me. He was a middle-aged man, with a bald spot, running to fat, and dominated by ambition, a calculating man, without that blithe acceptance of being in which I had taken such delight. I embraced him on embarkation, and said to myself, "It's over. I no longer need Sejanus, except in a political sense." But there, thanks to my abdication, I needed him more than ever.

  Augustus had left me a villa which I immediately occupied. But I set myself to build a new villa, to my own taste, higher up the mountain.

  "Why have you come here?" Sigmund asked. "Is it rest you seek, master?"

  "No," I said, though I longed for rest, "beauty. In the end only beauty offers consolation. The only rest is to be found in the experience of beauty. I don't say 'contemplation', because that is passive. The experience of beauty must be active."

  The poor boy looked at me, and shook his head.

  I invited some old friends to accompany me: Marcus Cocceius Nerva, an ex-consul; Curtius Atticus, the distinguished knight; and my mathematical philosopher, Thrasyllus. I took also the Greek freedman Philip, and of course Sigmund. It was a small household, and such as I trusted would not weary me with importunate demands. There was no point in going to say goodbye to my mother; she no longer recognised anyone, but would sit and rail and weep for death. I prayed that she would soon be released, and in fact this happened within six months of my departure.

  Those first months were the happiest I had known since I left Rhodes. The sea air let me breathe more easily, and in the early morning, before the heat of the day caused me to surrender my terrace to the lizards, I felt ten years younger. Best of all was the awareness of freedom. Of course I was still bound to my official boxes. Not a day passed that did not require me to take twenty decisions concerning the welfare of the empire, or write twenty letters. But I was able to do so, calmly, without the agitation of spirit which had so disturbed me in Rome, without the pressing consciousness of a greedy and untrustworthy humanity, without the fear that I was doing nothing more than shore up a barrier against the corruption of the age; for, strange to say, all that oppressiveness and disquiet were lifted from me. Others sensed my unwonted contentment.

  "It is as if the world stops at the water's edge," Atticus said, "and yet I feel as if the world is waiting for some great sign, as if we had reached a stage of history pregnant with possibility."

  "That is as true now as at any time in the history of our people," I replied.

  In the late afternoon I would sometimes have myself rowed out into the bay. I kept my gaze on those rocks where Philip's uncle by marriage had encountered his Siren lover. But the rocks were deserted and there was no music in my ears. Nevertheless somewhere, I knew, the Sirens rested, nursing promises of bliss.

  One day a wind blew up, and the boat was unable to make its way round a headland. Instead we found ourselves forced back to land. An opening yawned before us, and our helmsman steered towards it. For a moment my bodyguard shifted his hand to his sword-hilt, but I smiled and told him there was no danger.

  "Where are we going?" I asked.

  "I am going to show Caesar one of the wonders of the island," said the helmsman, and guided the little boat under a shelf of rock and into a cave. All at once the world and daylight disappeared, and we found ourselves in a twilight that was intensely blue. The water lapped against the boat, and shimmered caerulean, shot with violet streaks. The walls glistened a deep azure, and the bubbles of the water sparkled darker than any sky or sea that yet remained blue, with little gleams of ruby red and emerald. The boat paused in the middle of the violet water that was as still as a summer lake. There was silence. An air of freedom from earthly concerns breathed over me. "This is peace."

  I sighed to leave the place of enchantment, but when we came back to the world of men, and I saw by the landing-stage bronzed boys, naked to the waist, their tunics kirtled, wade thigh-deep in the water to drag nets of fish to the shore, and heard their girls cry encouragement, and saw pride in their mothers' eyes, I gave myself up for a little to the illusion that life is good.

  Of course it is an illusion. At best, life has good moments. But the atmosphere of Capri nursed my pain and grief, as nothing had done since my marriage to Vipsania was severed by politics.

  One other afternoon, dismissing my attendants, I climbed the hill behind my villa. A narrow lane led to a little temple. The walls were covered with ivy and wild honeysuckle and, as I approached, an owl rose on silent wings from a broken column, and flew towards a grove of cypresses. The sun was still hot and, weary from my climb, I rested there, leaning my back against the temple walls and watching the lizards dart to and fro. Far below the sea murmured, and there was no wind. Finches twittered among the nearby pines, and the crackle of crickets was the only other sound to disturb the tranquillity. I think I fell asleep.

  A boy was standing before me, his golden limbs moulded like the finest carving. Flowers were twined in his dark hair, and his brow was smooth as one untroubled by dreams, or one whose dreams are only of delight. I found I could not speak.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked.

  When I made no reply, he touched my lips with a wand he carried, and repeated his question.

  "Men do not usually dare to make such an enquiry of me," I said.

  He smiled.

  "Oh men," he said: "Mortal men."

  "Are you not mortal then that you speak of men and death so lightly?"

  "No, why should you think that?"

  He smiled again.

  "What are you seeking?" he said. "Oblivion."

  "You cannot enjoy that in your life." "Peace, then. And the experience of beauty." "You are not moderate in your requests." "Who are you," I said, "that you speak so confidently, despite your youth?"

  "I am a youth only because I choose to appear to you as such, because I choose not to age. I am the genius of this place, and I am here because you summoned me."

  "Did I do that?"

  "Certainly."

  "And can you grant me what I seek?"

  "Only if you are prepared to pay the price."

  "Is there a price?" I asked. "But of course there must be a price. Well, beautiful boy, tell me what it is . . ."

  "It is a price that few would pay, and which most would think themselves dishonoured by paying. But, since I know that your misery is great, I shall make you an offer."

  His mouth, which was shaped like a bow, curved in mockery, in which, nevertheless, I discerned a sympathy such as I have never known and which I yearned for deeply.

  "This beautiful island," he said, "is yours for consolation. Isn't that enough, without extracting my price from me, and submitting to it?"

  "Tell me what it is," I said.

  "Very well, you may enjoy such beauty, peace and oblivion as is within your means, if you consent to let your name be branded with infamy down the ages of time . . ."

  "Such beauty, peace and oblivion as is within my means? How much is that?"

  "Not as much as you would wish, more than you would achieve without my aid." "And my name infamous?"

  "You will be denounced
as a monster, a murderer, a brute and satyr, a deified beast. . ." "And if I say no?"

  "Then you will never see me again. I shall depart, and leave you to your nightmares, your fears, and memories . . ."

  He smiled, a radiant smile, mischievous as the God of Love . . . "Good," he said, "you accept my bargain . . ." "I have not said so . . ." "Words are not needed . . ."

  The owl cried. The bird of Minerva, it is said, flies only by night; and then I saw that the moon was up, a thin young moon like a golden horn. I was alone, and knew the cold of solitude.

  So I made a bargain which would disgrace me in the eyes of my ancestors, and will make my descendants — if any long survive me - blush to recall my name. And I have done so for a promise that may never be redeemed, in which I do not truly believe, for I cannot grant the existence of a power that will still my memory. Finally, the circumstances of my bargain perplex me; it is possible that I saw the boy only in a dream. Yet who would be so bold as to deny that what we experience in a dream may not be true reality? There are philosophers who argue that we dream this life. It is certainly at moments as vivid as a dream.

  I might escape the past; I could not escape the present. Every courier brought me news of depravities and conspiracies in Rome. Agrippina, forgetting her plea and my promise, had launched herself in new tirades of slander against me; she reiterated the old lie that I had been privy to Germanicus' murder. Sejanus reported that her agents were active in the army. "I fear what they are plotting," he said. "Allow me, pray, to take the necessary preventive measures." But I declined.

  Then he crossed to the island to confront me with his evidence.

  "I dared not entrust this to any courier," he said to me, "for in the current atmosphere of suspicion and treachery, I did not know anyone on whom I could absolutely depend. The fact is, Tiberius, that that woman and her son have so corrupted the legions that rigorous investigation is going to be necessary before we know who is trustworthy. And I must tell you that even such investigation may prove unreliable, for one has to trust the investigators, who may be unworthy of our confidence. Do you understand the morass through which I wade?"

  "You say, her son. Which of her sons?"

  "Nero."

  "Nero, I would be sorry to believe him guilty. He is a boy on whom I have lavished kindness."

  "Nevertheless, he has been heard to say that it was time the old man was dead. I give you his exact words."

  "They don't seem so very dreadful. I have often thought that myself."

  "Caesar," he said, "you don't understand."

  He threw himself back in his chair, and clapped his hands, and despatched a slave to fetch wine. He had long been accustomed to use such freedom in my presence, and I had delighted in it. Now, for the first time, it seemed presumptuous; yet I knew the depth of his loyalty towards me. He waited in silence for the wine, drank a cup of it, and wiped his lips. Sweat glistened on his brow.

  "You must listen," he said. "I know you don't want to, but you must, or we are both dead men, and Rome is in turmoil. You are Augustus' heir, you have often told me so and, whatever you think of him secretly, you have always granted him one great achievement: he brought the civil wars to an end. Do you want them to break out again?"

  Then he marshalled his facts or information. It was not just a matter of loose or seditious talk, though that was bad enough. But Agrippina had been holding dinner-parties attended by senators whom she supposed to be disaffected and, worse than that, she and Nero had been concocting plans to slip away from Rome and join the legions in Germany, where Germanicus' memory was still especially revered. Then it would be, Sejanus said, like Caesar crossing the Rubicon into Italy. With the German legions behind them, they could march on the capital and dictate terms.

  "We are as close to civil war as that."

  I hesitated.

  "Your agents," I said. "You know how I distrust espionage, for agents have a habit of telling their masters what they think will please them."

  "True, but I have two agents whose evidence is, I think you will agree, incontrovertible."

  "If that is so, then . . . who are they?"

  "The first is Drusus."

  "Drusus? Why should he inform against his mother and brother?"

  Sejanus smiled, like a great cat playing with a mouse.

  "Oh he has several reasons. One, he is jealous, because Nero is the elder. Two, he hates his brother and is disgusted by his addiction to vice. Our Drusus is a nasty little prig, you know. Three, he is ambitious. He hopes, with Nero out of the way, that he himself may be your successor."

  "I would rather be succeeded by a pig than by Drusus. It seems to me that his evidence is suspect, Sejanus, for it is founded on animosity and chimes too well with what he thinks are his own interests."

  "That's as may be. And it might be suspect, if it was not corroborated." "By whom?"

  "By his sister-in-law, Livia Julia, little Nero's wife. Her husband does not love her of course, but they are apparently on friendly terms. I should say perhaps they are on friendly terms by my instructions, relayed through my dear Julia Livilla, the girl's mother. She early realised that little Livvy was disgusted by her husband's preference for men, and regarded it as an insult to her own charms. And what girl wouldn't? But she has the sense, and the self-control, not to show her feelings, and little Nero is a blabbermouth, with no more idea of security than a pigeon. She knows about his dealings with the German armies and whatever she knows she tells her mother, who passes it on to me. So, you see, Caesar, it's not just a matter of paid informers this time. And don't forget that, though we dropped the poisoning charge laid against Agrippina's friend Claudia Pulchra, I have always said that was a mistake. You can't know what a relief it is to me to have you here, on this island, but even here, you may not be completely safe."

  "Why should I care about safety when I long for death?"

  "You have been asking that question for twenty years. The answer is still the same. Because you care for Rome."

  "A stinking hole."

  "Granted, you think that. But an idea. You don't want to go down in History as the man in whose hands the empire broke. And empires are frangible. Think of how Alexander's dissolved within a few years of his death. You don't want historians to write that Tiberius, through a supine idleness and a feeble irresolution which overtook him in old age and corrupted his judgment of men and affairs, allowed the empire bequeathed by Augustus to be destroyed in civil war and internecine feuds.

  Better to strike now to avert disaster. It is sometimes necessary to be brutal in order to do good . . ."

  But I hesitated. I heard the waves lap on the rocks, and saw the moon lie on the waters. My judgment had been called in question; but I remembered how young Nero had embraced me after my son's death and told me he wished I could weep for my own sake. His emotion had embarrassed me but I could not believe that a boy capable of such sympathy was also capable of plotting my death.

  "Let us eat first," I said.

  Sejanus settled himself on his couch, and broke off a crab's claw.

  "Of course," he said, "young Nero is a consummate hypocrite."

  In the end I compromised. I compromised because I could not bring myself either to believe the reports Sejanus had brought me, or to dismiss them. So I sent him back to Rome with a letter to the Senate in which I complained in careful phrases and opaque terms of the seditious implications of Agrippina's animosity towards me; if a lady of her status, I observed, was permitted to speak with the licence she was reported habitually to allow herself, then others, lacking her intimate connection to me, would feel themselves at liberty to express insubordinate and disobedient thoughts. All authority would soon be called in question and, without authority, the Republic would be endangered. Insults directed at my person were no matter to me, for I had long accustomed myself to endure them. Half a century of public life had inured me to mere personal abuse. But I had been entrusted with responsibilities by the Senate, and I could not ac
quit myself properly of the duties thus laid upon me if my authority was so freely questioned. As for Nero, I contented myself with drawing the Senate's attention to the political consequences of his licentious self-indulgence.

  We are honoured only as we behave honourably, and the decency of public life depends on the decency of the private conduct of those whom the Senate has entrusted with authority, and of those around them, including members of their own family. I have in the past endeavoured in private conversation to persuade this young man, for whom I have much affection, to conduct himself in a more seemly manner. I arranged that he marry my dear grand-daughter, hoping, as I did so, that her charms and virtues would succeed where my earlier pleas had failed. Now, to my sorrow, I learn that the experience of marriage has not persuaded him to turn away from the practice of vices, which, if indulged in the public gaze, cannot fail to bring the young man himself into contempt, and which will, in its turn, be transferred to other members of my family, even perhaps to me myself, and also, by extension, to you, Conscript Fathers, and thus to the whole structure of legitimate authority. Therefore, I address this letter to you, in the hope that my public reproof, supported as I trust it will be by your unanimous expression of your very natural and proper abhorrence, will succeed where my private urgings have failed, and so persuade this young man, who possesses so many talents, and in whom I discern - setting aside this particular matter — so much natural virtue — to amend his way of life, discard the vices which corrupt his character and tarnish his reputation, and so live in a manner more worthy of his status as a Roman nobleman and the great-grandson of the Divine Augustus.