by Allan Massie
That afternoon the third contest was between a swarthy Anatolian mountaineer, armed with net and spear, and a flaxen-haired German boy with short sword and shield. If the German had been schooled by the gladiator-master, terror or desperation had deprived him of all memory of his training. He launched a succession of wild attacks on his opponent who evaded them with ease, in return offering only light jabs with his spear at the discomfited boy, whose arms were soon pink with his own blood. After each of his clumsy assaults had been avoided he paused for a moment, his chest heaving and his legs, which still retained the soft fleshiness of youth in contrast to the Anatolian's sinewy hardness, quivering. Then he pushed back a lock of hair which had fallen over his left eye, and charged again. This went on for some minutes, and it was obvious that the two were reprehensibly ill-matched. The Anatolian was playing with his opponent, following the instructions given to gladiators by their cynical trainers "to let the crowd see them sweat". Then one of the boy's wild swings caught the Anatolian on the shoulder. He was hit only with the flat of the sword, and not cut, but the power of the blow sent him hurtling to the sand. His spear and his net flew from his grasp. He crouched on all fours gazing at the boy, who, perhaps horrified by his achievement, perhaps merely surprised, stood still, incapable of action. The Anatolian shook his head from side to side. The crowd howled for his death. The boy did not move. Then he lowered his sword and pushed its point into the sand, and his opponent scrabbled like a crab, but keeping his gaze fixed on the boy, towards his spear and net. He retrieved them and got to his feet. Still the boy did not move. And now the Anatolian, as if stirred by the disgrace of his fall, began to tease him. He whisked his net about the boy, making him jump and look foolish. With deft swirls of the net he pursued the German round the ring. Once the boy's nerve cracked and he turned his back on his opponent and tried to flee. But there was no refuge from the swirling net. Its mesh swung in the air before him, and he turned again. The crowd shrieked. The boy rubbed his forearm across his brow to wipe away the sweat, and left a streak of blood there. He looked up. It seemed to me he was looking straight at me, imploring mercy, but I doubt if he saw anything but a mist of fear and danger. Summoning up what was left of his courage, he hurled himself on his opponent, with a wild cry and upraised sword. There was no one there. The Anatolian skipped aside, and thrusting out his foot, sent the boy tumbling to the sand. In a trice he was enveloped in the net, and the spear pressed against his throat. The contest was over.
Next to me Gaius Caligula jumped out of his seat, screaming, "Kill him, kill him…"
The crowd roared approval.
I looked along the row. Agrippina remained impassive, as if what was happening in the arena had no meaning for her. Nero's lips trembled; he shared the boy's terror and yet could not prevent himself from responding to the cruelty of the spectacle. Claudius jabbed Drusus in the ribs and showered excited spittle on him as he jabbered his enthusiasm, stuttering, I suppose, even worse than usual. Drusus himself assumed the air of a triumphant general; so might his father have looked on that dreadful day when he permitted the repentant mutineers to expiate their own crimes by the judicial murder of those who had led them into rebellion.
And I looked down on the bloody sand, and saw the boy's limbs relax as if he consented to death, while his eyes were still dilated with the terror of realisation. I knew that look. I had seen it often in battle. I had seen men and boys make that same astonished discovery, in an instant of revelation, that everything they thought of as being essentially themselves, everything they knew through their senses — what they knew best of all, their own body — could be snuffed out, as if life was no more than a dream now turned nightmare. His lips moved, his tongue touched his lower lip and I turned my thumb up, to save his life.
I saved not only him, but myself, and my own reason. I had acted without calculation. I left the arena amidst a storm of boos and catcalls, as the mob howled their disappointed blood-lust. I was trembling. I took a glass of wine to calm myself.
"The crowd will hate you for this," Sejanus said.
"They hate me already. Let them hate, provided they fear."
I quoted the line lightly. It was inaccurate, for I had no wish to be feared, only obeyed. Even that is not accurate, as an expression of my sentiments. I would rather there had been no need even for such obedience, and I would have preferred that people obeyed the dictates of reason and virtue rather than of any man. I might, more appropriately, have quoted Horace: odi profanum vulgus et arceo — I loathe and shun the profane rabble… The words sounded in my mind, but I kept them to myself. Yet in that instant my resolution, slowly formed in the dim recesses of my determination, was complete: it was possible to shun them forever. Still, even now, I did not acquaint Sejanus with my purpose. Instead I sent him back to the circus to offer some anodynic and hypocritical explanation of my departure.
"And my excuses. Don't forget to offer my excuses to our masters, the people."
"Of course."
"The public wishes to be fooled," I said, "therefore let it be fooled."
"I don't understand."
"No matter. Nothing is any matter."
"Are you sure you are all right?"
"Yes," I said, "I have seen deliverance." And with these words I dismissed him.
Then I sent one of my freedmen to the gladiators' school to purchase the defeated German, and bring him to me.
He entered, puffy-eyed, in a short tunic of grey wool, with sandals on his feet. He threw himself prostrate before me. I told him, in his own language, to get up.
"You are a free-born German," I said, "and perhaps of good birth. I know it is not the custom of your people to abase themselves in this manner."
"I have been torn from the customs of my people, and compelled to practise other manners."
"Of what tribe are you?"
"Of a branch of the Cherusci."
"The Cherusci? But they have not been at war with us. How does it come about that you are a prisoner and a slave?"
He explained that he was the son of a chief and had been sent, according to the German fashion, to complete his education with another tribe and, finding them engaged in frontier warfare with the legions, had been captured in a skirmish.
"And so, by a series of accidents, I arrived where I found myself today. Why did you save my life?"
He guessed — I could tell from the nature of his glance — one answer, which was not the whole answer, and to have embarked on a full analysis of my reason for acting would have led me into areas I neither understood, nor wished to understand, myself. So I merely smiled and said, "I thought you were too young to die."
"Too young, or…"
"Too young to die in that manner at any rate…" "I am grateful."
"Once long ago," I said, "a German boy, who looked rather like you, saved my life in battle. Perhaps that was why. Perhaps it is to that boy who has been dead many years that you should be grateful. I don't know. I felt this afternoon that there had been too much blood. I have had more than my fill of it. Have your wounds been dressed?"
"Those that can be have been. What will you do with me now?"
I could not answer. Instead I passed him a cup of wine. He looked startled, then drank it back in one go, in the German manner, of which, I remembered, I had cured the young Segestes and his father.
"For the moment," I said, "you had better remain in my household."
I spoke without reflection. The boy blushed.
"Of course," I said, "I daresay you would rather I returned you to your own people, but it might not serve. I have seen how your people treat returned slaves. They regard them as having been degraded by their experience. No, you will do better to remain with me."
Naturally, when the word went round that I had taken the boy whom I had rescued from the arena into my own household, the worst construction was put on my actions. The boy was said to be my catamite, and insulting graffiti appeared throughout the city declaring that I had been
moved by lust, not humanity. Agrippina was reported by Sejanus' agents as expressing her revulsion and contempt for my "debauched senility". "Will the Roman people be content to be governed by an old man who cheats them of satisfaction in order to gratify his immoral impulses?" she was even heard to enquire.
Alone, in the starry watches, on the camp-bed which I had retained since my soldiering days, I knew the truth of these accusations. Who can disentangle the network of emotions which prompt action? My mind, searching in vain for sleep — for I had long been a victim of the most desolate insomnia — played with images, simultaneously painful and pleasant, of the boy Sigmund's limbs stretched out on the bloody sand, of his trembling lips and of the blond hair that flopped over his left eye.
I could not deny to myself what I felt, nor the delight which I took in having the boy about my person. But I was impressed also by his manly character, by his reserve and dignity. The embraces of an old man with foul breath and a scrawny chicken neck could not fail to disgust him. I would not compel him to debase himself. He had a sense of decency which I could have believed vanished from the world. It pleased me to have him in my household, to engage him in conversation, instruct him in virtue and knowledge of the world, to be able to rely on him for little services which he performed with punctilious respect.
For a few brief months I approached happiness. It was disturbed only by my miserable consciousness of Livia's decline into a species of madness often associated with extreme age, and by my consciousness of Agrippina's malice and unremitting hostility. Scarcely a week passed without Sejanus bringing me evidence of her zeal in poisoning men's minds against me, even of encouraging plots against my life. Mindful of her popularity, and of the respect due her as Julia's daughter and Germanicus' widow, I declined to permit him to act against her, hoping always that she would in time desist from her malignant folly. I did not realise that it was in her blood, that she was possessed of the same impulse to self-destruction that had maddened Julia herself.
Meanwhile I reposed all my trust in Sejanus. He was the one man living who had never let me down. Then one day he approached me with a request, an unprecedented act, for he had previously been content to accept what I offered and never to ask anything for himself. But this request was startling. To emphasise its importance, he put it in epistolary form, though we had long been accustomed to discuss everything freely and without formality.
The many kindnesses of your father Augustus, and the still more numerous marks of favour and friendship I have received at your hand, have accustomed me to bring my hopes and desires to the imperial ear as readily as to the gods. I have never asked for anything for myself, neither money nor great office. I would prefer, like any other soldier, to work for the emperor's safety, which I am ready to secure with my own life. Yet I have now, to my astonishment, won the greatest of privileges — to be thought worthy by a certain great lady of alliance in marriage with your family. I speak of Julia Livilla, the widow of your lamented son. The consciousness of what Rome has lost by his untimely death drew us together: we discovered a common sympathy and comforted each other in our grief. Her sentiments towards me have encouraged me to hope for what I would not otherwise have dreamed of as being within the realms of possibility. Besides, she has reminded me that Augustus himself, when choosing a husband for his daughter, did not regard men of my equestrian order as beneath consideration. Therefore, I humbly request you to bear in mind, if you should now be thinking of a husband for Julia Livilla, your devoted friend who would gain nothing but prestige from the relationship. I ask nothing more. I am content with the duties I perform; satisfied — for my children's sake — if my family is safeguarded against the unfounded spite and malevolence of Agrippina. For myself, to live out my life under so great an emperor represents the summit of my ambitions…
The request surprised me. On reflection however it seemed natural that Julia Livilla, deprived by cruel fate of her husband, should have turned for consolation to the only man of comparable quality with whom she was acquainted, more especially since Sejanus' own marriage to Apicata had failed, to his evident distress. Yet there were issues other than personal happiness to be considered. I therefore replied in cautious and non-committal manner.
My dear Sejanus,
There is no one, as you know, for whom I feel more affection, and in whom I repose greater trust, than yourself. I have proved this again and again. If we were all private persons, then I would not hesitate.
However, while such men's decisions may be based on their own interests and affections, rulers are situated differently, since in important matters they need to consult public opinion. So 1 can't fall back on an easy answer and merely say that Julia Livilla can decide for herself whether she wants to marry again or not. (And of course if she does, she could find no one more worthy as a person than yourself.) I shan't even say that she has a noble mother, Antonia, who is more properly her intimate adviser than I am myself. No, I shall be more frank with you, as you deserve.
First then, Agrippina's ill-feelings (to use a mild term) will be greatly intensified if Julia Livilla, who is — I don't need to remind you — her sister-in-law, should be joined with you in marriage. This would virtually split the imperial family in two. (As you know, I detest the expression "the imperial family", as being incompatible with our Republican inheritance, but nevertheless facts are facts, and this is one, however disagreeable.) Even now, the women's rivalry can't be repressed, and my grandsons are torn between them. What would be the consequences if the proposed marriage made the feud worse?
Second, you are mistaken, dear boy, if you think that Julia Livilla, after being married to Gaius Caesar and then to my beloved Drusus, would be content to grow old as the wife of a mere knight — or that you could retain that status. Even if I allowed it, do you think it would be tolerated by those who have seen her brother and father, and our ancestors, holding the great offices of state? Your elevation would be necessary. You say you do not want to rise above your present rank. I honour that sentiment, though it is the general opinion that you have long ago eclipsed all other knights. You are even now an object of envy and, in envying you, people criticise me. I am already criticised for the favours I have granted you. Don't you see that the envy and criticism would be intensified by this marriage?
You remark quite correctly that Augustus considered marrying his daughter to a knight. But he foresaw that any man distinguished by such an alliance would be enormously elevated, and so those he had in mind were men like Gaius Proculeius, a close friend of his, who took no part in public affairs. The two positions are not comparable. Moreover, in the end you must remember, the sons-in-law whom he actually chose were, first, Marcus Agrippa, and then myself.
I have spoken openly as your friend. Ultimately I shall not oppose any decision that you and Julia Livilla come to. Of certain projects of my own, and additional ties by which I plan to link you to me, I shall not speak now. I shall only say this: your own personal merits, and my consciousness of your profound devotion to my interests and to my person, convince me that no elevation would be too high. When the time is ripe I shall speak frankly to the Senate…
Sejanus declared himself deeply touched by my letter. He acknowledged the justice of my observations and promised to consider them carefully.
"Nothing," he said, "must be done to give any further cause for the vile and unjustified criticisms directed at you, or that will encourage Agrippina in her seditious manoeuvrings."
But I knew from the look in his eye that he had not abandoned his hopes. That was natural, for the prospect of marriage to my son's widow was alluring. Moreover, Julia Livilla herself was eager for the match; and she had no fear of antagonising Agrippina further. Indeed she welcomed the prospect.
The same autumn saw two disturbing trials which contributed to the resolution I was secretly forming.
A case was brought against a senator, Votienus Montanus, who was accused of slandering me and the constitution Rome had inherit
ed from Augustus. With incredible folly, he called a common soldier, by name Aemilius, as one of his witnesses. This man, who had been dishonourably discharged from the service some time previously, had apparently been deprived of his wits by a sense of grievance. He poured out a stream of abusive filth, mostly directed against me. I can scarcely, even now, bring myself to list the slanders. The least was habitual immorality. I was accused also of having been an accessory to the murder of Germanicus — a murder which was, of course, wholly imaginary and which had been disproved in poor Piso's trial. Impiety towards the gods and the memory of Augustus, participation in orgies and magic rites involving the prostitution of free-born virgins and even the ritual sacrifice of servile children — such monstrosities stood out from the stream of filth with which my ears were assailed. Perhaps the demented man had been encouraged to speak like this — though he probably needed little encouragement — in the hope that the court would be distracted from consideration of the crimes with which Votienus himself was charged.
The second case was even more serious and distressing. It was first brought to my notice by Sejanus. Compelled as any ruler must be in our unhappy times, to operate a system of surveillance, I had nevertheless found this requirement so distasteful that, unlike Augustus, who kept a close eye on such matters himself, I had delegated full responsibility to Sejanus, as the only man in whose honour and scrupulosity I could trust. One morning he approached me frowning, his face a study in gloom and perturbation.
"Something extremely unpleasant has come to light," he said. "It concerns a noble lady, Claudia Pulchra."
Then he recounted how this lady, a cousin of mine and also of Agrippina's, whose close friend she also was, had made her house on the Aventine a hive of sedition. The first rumours had been brought to Sejanus by Gnaeus Domitius Afer, a recent praetor, whom Claudia had attempted to seduce.
