by Allan Massie
Tacitus believes that character is fixed, so that what emerges at one stage in life was merely hidden before. He may therefore conclude that the young Nero was merely a hypocrite concealing his true nature. I have indeed heard him make this argument. He takes the same view of the Emperor Tiberius.
Then, tracing Nero's degeneration, he will undoubtedly blame Greek influences. I remember how often in our late-night conversations over another flask of wine – and Tacitus in his early thirties was as hard a drinker as myself, or indeed as Tiberius is reputed to have been – he would curse the foreign tastes which were, he said, 'reducing our youth to a bunch of gymnasts, loafers, and perverts. The Emperor and Senate,' he would mutter, 'are to blame. They not only allow these vices and practise them themselves, but they even force Roman nobles to debase themselves by appearing on the stage to sing, declaim and dance. They indulge in Greek athletics, stripping naked, putting on boxing-gloves and sparring, rather than toughening themselves by serving in the army.'
The truth is that Tacitus, priding himself on his old-fashioned ways and, taking Cato as his hero, has always had a vulgar taste for blood and slaughter. He relishes cruelly, even though it may also repel him. Complicated fellow. I was too well-mannered to say so, and used to content myself with teasing him.
'I don't suppose,' I would say, 'that you have often been invited to strip and display your charms.'
There would be trouble for anyone who made such a suggestion to me.'
Oh dear, I never could resist teasing him. I can't even now. It really surprises me that my old friend has become so great a man, if, that is, a mere historian can be thought great. He talks of greatness, writes longingly of greatness. But what has he ever done that was great?
Nothing disgusted him more than the story of Nero and his catamite, Sporus; and yet he could never leave it alone, but reverted to it frequently in conversation.
Sporus, a Greek boy, had been a slave in the household of my mother's sister when Nero first saw him. The boy was only twelve, but, according to my mother, already very pretty, with soft dark curls, silky skin, high cheek-bones, strangely narrow eyes. The young Emperor at once lusted after him and commanded him as a gift. What could my aunt do but part with the child? Nero had him castrated, on account, he said, of the purity of the boy's voice which he pretended was what had first enchanted him. A couple of years later he went through a form of marriage with him, the boy being dressed as a bride, and wearing a garland of red roses. After the ceremony, a parody of the real thing, he retired with him to a bridal chamber, and poor Sporus had to scream as if he was a virgin being ravished. I believe Nero even wounded him so that the sheets would be bloody. All this was perfectly disgusting, but it was rather harsh and quite unreasonable of Tacitus to speak with such contempt of the boy. What choice had he? My mother, having a better understanding than the future historian, always spoke sympathetically, even tenderly, of poor Sporus. I mention these circumstances now because of the part the boy subsequently found himself playing.
Nero's excesses are not my subject. Tacitus will revel in describing them. Let him do so. My memories of the last year of Nero's life are very different, and delightful. What did I care if he, in his mad extravagance, was taking advantage of the destruction wrought by the Great Fire four years previously to create his new palace and rural landscape, with its groves, pastures, herds of cattle, wild animals and grottoes where the mean houses of citizens had once crowded about each other? What did I care if men said in bitterness that all Rome was being transformed into Nero's villa, and if satirists advised the citizens to flee to Veii, assuming, that was, the villa did not get there first? What did I care, even, if every week brought news of some plot against the tyrant, followed by the melancholy report of yet another suicide of some exposed and terrified conspirator?
For me that year was dominated by love. For me now, in cold and wretched exile, it is a time of sunlit afternoon. Summer afternoon, but summer afternoon with the freshness of spring.
Domatilla… I have only to form her name to find myself near to weeping.
There was the moment that summer when she was transformed from a girl I had always known and liked and been happy to amuse, to… how shall I put it? Not a goddess; I leave that nonsense to poets. No, but just as the Emperor's Golden House spread itself in unimaginable delights over the dull city, so my life too was made golden by this hitherto scarcely imagined girl. Perhaps intense love is never anything but a projection of the imagination on the other.
It was one afternoon at the seaside, and if I was to narrate what happened that afternoon, it would appear perfectly commonplace. Domatilla had some friends with her. We played some ball-game. Domitian lost his temper and shouted at his sister, accusing her of having infringed some rule of the game. She lowered her eyes and spoke gently, seeking to pacify him. But he, giving way to a mood which I knew only too well, refused to be mollified, turned away, and strode off towards the woods. She called after him, appealingly and then, when he paid no heed, her upper lip, which was long and a little too thick for perfect beauty, trembled. But she shrugged, scuffed her feet uncertainly in the sand, and suggested we resume the game, for which, however, no one now had any heart. 'Bother him,' she said, recognising and resenting her brother's ability to impose his sullen will on the company – even by withdrawing his presence.
Nothing, you see, nothing. Yet it was in that moment when she looked after him and scuffed her feet in the sand that she became no longer the girl I had known all my life, but someone quite new to me, whom I experienced the absolute need to know perfectly and thoroughly.
I followed her to the house, where I found her drinking a glass of lemon squash.
'He's so silly,' she said, and a tear escaped her eye, trickling down her cheek which was flushed, either from the game or as a result of her emotion. I wanted to take her in my arms, and lick the tears which she now began to shed in profusion as she gave way to great sobs. I was at a loss to understand why she was so moved, and I did nothing. I could speak no words to comfort her. But I felt much.
VII
You chide me, Tacitus, for being dilatory, as you call it. May I remind you that you are the historian, not me, and that I am doing you a favour, or endeavouring to do you a favour, in excavating painful memories?
But I am glad that you now at last ask me specific questions. In particular, you seek to know what it was like in Rome when Galba, who had been proclaimed Emperor by the legions in Spain, entered the city. You weren't there yourself, you say. Indeed you weren't, and I was. If this part of your History is to be authentic, you must rely on me. Don't forget that. No doubt you have other informants, and will study documents. But if you seek an eye-witness account from one who understands, or once understood, politics, then you must put your trust in me. For which reason you should remember your manners.
I don't pretend to know everything, but I can promise you that I won't pretend either to more knowledge than I truly possess. What you get from me is authentic, from the horse's mouth, as we say in these barbarian parts, where the horse is highly revered. And you must allow me to approach it in my own way. The years, and my bitter experiences, have deprived me of the literary skills I once was so proud of.
What, I wonder, do you really know of Nero's death? There are more than a dozen stories that have gone the rounds, not least, of course, those which assert that he didn't die then but escaped. You will remember that in the subsequent few years at least half a dozen false Neros presented themselves. And what will you make of that, if you happen to mention it? Perhaps you won't mention it, because it points to something which you will not readily wish to admit. These false Neros all gathered support from the common people wherever they presented themselves. Why? Because, outside the senatorial class to which we both belong (you uncertainly, if you don't mind me saying so) Nero was popular. And not only with the riff-raff. Respectable provincials had a high regard for him; he had done them no harm, they had prospered during his r
eign, and the Greeks especially admired and even loved an Emperor who so highly valued Greek culture.
Nero was at a villa on the Bay of Naples when he learned of the revolt in Gaul. Characteristically, he did nothing. Soldiers bored him, and he assumed that this was a mutiny which could be settled by the promise of a lavish donation, which he empowered the Governor of Gallia Ludgenensis, G. Julius Vindex, to offer them. That shows his indifference to what was happening. If he had listened to the report he would have known that Vindex himself was leading the rebellion. But he was busy chatting to his architect when the messenger brought him the news, and listened with only half an ear, if that.
It was several days before he learned that rebellion was not confined to Gaul, where however the issue was in the balance, for Lucius Verginius Rufus, the Governor of Upper Germany, opposed Vindex. That news was of little comfort to Nero, since it was not clear whether Rufus was still loyal or acted on his own account.
Rebellion is like an epidemic. Once launched, it breaks out everywhere, and spreads rapidly. The Spanish legions were not to be outdone by their colleagues in Gaul and Germany. They, too, were ready to reject Nero.
The Governor of Spain was Servius Sulpicius Galba, a veteran general, now over seventy, reputed to be a man of ability; and indeed at different points in his long career he had justified his reputation. Now he was compelled either to listen to his troops or suppress their mutiny. He chose the former course, and proclaimed himself 'Legate of the Senate and the Roman People', though neither Senate nor Roman People had appointed him their legate.
Meanwhile, in Gaul, Vindex and Rufus had come to an agreement. It wouldn't last long. The two armies fell out, and Vindex killed himself. But while the outcome there was uncertain Galba seized the opportunity now open to him.
So Spain was lost to Nero. At first he was little perturbed. 'Spain is a long way off,' he said, 'and the Praetorian Guard, for whom I have cared so tenderly, will not desert me.'
They might not have done so if he had immediately returned to Rome and gone to their camp and appealed to their loyalty – and naturally to their greed. Vespasian's brother, Flavius Sabinus, the City Prefect, was afraid that this was just what he would do. He had already determined that Nero must be disposed of. So he sent the Emperor a message saying that Rome was quiet, there was no cause for anxiety, and the word was that the rebellions in Gaul and Spain were already petering out. What's more, he got the Praetorian Prefect, Nymphidius Sabinus, to send a similar message; they were cousins and Nymphidius, I believe, hoped to gain the Empire for himself, though Flavius was determined he shouldn't.
This was just what Nero wanted to hear. So he abandoned any plan to come to Rome and gave himself up to revelry. But, in a gesture intended to impress people with a sense of his energy, he named himself sole Consul.
All this gave time for the Senate to act. Once they had received confirmation that Galba was in control of his army and was making for Rome, and been assured by Flavius and Nymphidius that the Praetorians were ready to desert Nero – for a suitable reward – they convened and, greatly daring, declared Nero 'a public enemy', to be punished 'in ancient style'. 'What does that mean, "in ancient style"?' Domatilla asked.
'I don't know exactly,' I said, 'but something disagreeable I should imagine. Our forefathers could be rather rough, you know.'
'I can tell you,' Domitian said. 'I can tell you exactly.' He smiled -you remember that smile of course, like a snake's? The executioners strip the condemned man naked, thrust his head into a wooden fork and flog him to death. We can be pretty sure Nero won't like it. I should think they'd hear his screams at Ostia.'
'Horrible. Poor Nero,' Domatilla said, 'poor anyone to suffer like that. What brutes our ancestors were. They won't really treat him like that, will they?'
'No,' I said. 'He is the Emperor, after all. The common people would lose all respect for us if an Emperor was put to death in so barbarous a manner. I imagine they hope the threat of such a death will be sufficient to persuade him to kill himself. Anyone must prefer an honourable death at his own hand to such ignominy.'
(How young I was, how naive. I know now that there are those who will endure anything, any humiliation, any pain, rather than surrender life. Sometimes I even admire such fortitude.)
'They say he fainted when he heard of Galba's revolt,' Domitian said.
They say all sorts of things,' I replied. 'This afternoon at the baths, I was told first that Nero intended to invite all the members of the Senate to a banquet, and then poison them; second, that he was going to set the city on fire again, but only after letting wild beasts – lions, tigers, and so forth – loose in the streets to hinder the fire-fighters; and third, that he was going to buy off the Gallic legions by giving them permission to sack any city they chose. It's all rot, even though Nero is such a liar and fantasist. He won't do any thing like that. People also say he's paralysed with terror.'
'I heard something else,' Domitian said, 'that he was intending to go to Gaul and confront the rebel legions. Only, instead of haranguing them in a manner worthy of his ancestors, he would fall on his knees before them and weep and weep. This, he says, would soften their hearts. They would be so moved to find their Emperor throwing himself on their mercy, that they would take him to their hearts. How contemptible can you get? Actually, I don't suppose they'd react like that at all. I imagine some centurion would step up and cut his throat, stick him in the gizzard.'
'I don't know,' I said. 'Soldiers can be very sentimental, I'm told. That might be the only thing that could save him, and he's such an actor he might even pull it off. But I can't suppose he would have any chance of getting to Gaul.'
'Poor Nero,' Domatilla said again. 'I do feel sorry for him. I know he's done terrible things, but all the same… I hate to see people humiliated.'
I think it was that night that, walking through the city, I came on one of Nero's statues, with a note attached to it, written in Greek: 'This time it's a real contest, Nero, and one you can't fix but are going to lose.' Nobody knew what was happening. Some Senators began to regret their rashness when it was reported that Nero was calling on the common people to rise and arm themselves in his defence. Then, at the baths, one of my admirers – but I forget which – assured me that this was nonsense or, if it wasn't nonsense, the next best thing, since no recruits had presented themselves. 'Die for Nero? Not bloody likely. That's the popular opinion,' he said. 'Actually, I do know that Nero was preparing yesterday to go to Gaul, but his first concern was to find wagons to carry his stage-equipment, and then to arrange for his concubines to have their hair cut in a boyish style and be issued with shields and weapons such as the Amazons used. The man has taken leave of what senses he still retained. He's living in a dream world.' No doubt, I thought, but it may still turn to nightmare for the rest of us; and I hurried home to make sure that all was well there and my mother safe. I had already begged her not to leave the house till things were more settled. Though I couldn't imagine that anyone would harm her of choice, accidents will happen, especially when someone like Nero is at his wits' end, and the mob is excited beyond measure – as it might be at any moment.
Was it that evening or one a few days later that, shortly after I had retired to bed, where I lay sleepless, listening to the ever-changing sounds of the night city that refused to surrender to silence, I heard a scratching at the outer door of our apartment? It was a gentle noise, calculated, as I supposed, to alarm nobody. Yet its persistence suggested anxiety, even fear. I rose, put on a dressing-gown and, picking up the cudgel which we kept in a stand by the door, listened to the renewed scratching. 'Please help,' came a thin high voice. 'Please let me in.'
I did not recognise the young man who stumbled through the door, falling against me. I pushed him off, and he swayed, and would have fainted (as I supposed) had I not taken him by the shoulder and guided him to a stool by the table. He sat for a moment with his back to the wall, his legs quivering. His face was streaked with dirt an
d tears and what might have been blood, and his tunic was torn. Then he uttered a deep sob and buried his face in his hands so that I could not see his features but only the tangle of black curls now presented to me.
My mother, aroused by the sounds, joined us from her chamber. She took one look at the young man, who had, with a start of terror, lifted his head. 'Sporus?' she said. 'So the Emperor is dead?'
'At my hand,' he said. 'Perhaps. In part. I don't know. I hope not. It was terrible.'
My mother told me to fetch wine, while she busied herself heating up what remained of the broth we had had for our supper. Sporus gulped down the first cup of Marino wine as a parched traveller drinks water from a well, and held out his cup for more. I sipped mine and watched him. His hand still shook, and every now and then, though he must have known he was for the time being safe, he darted anxious looks at the door. 'Were you followed here?' I asked.
He shook his head, but there was no certainty, only hope, in the gesture.
'Let the boy be,' my mother said. 'Give him time. He's worn out, and no wonder. He'll tell what he has to tell when he has some food and drink in him.'
She placed bread on the table, and then soup. Sporus hesitated, as if the thought of sustenance disgusted him. 'Eat,' my mother said, 'then drink more wine.' At last he was ready.
This is his account. I assure you it is authentic. I wrote down his story when he had finished speaking and fallen asleep. I have kept the document with me throughout the upheavals of life. You know yourself, Tacitus, that I have ever been an orderly man, and one who sets great store on documentary evidence.
