The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  She led me on into the adjoining room of the house, where the funeral mask of her ancestor was displayed, the one used in the mourning rites. He stared out at us, a mild-looking man in spite of his martial prowess. He looked trapped, as if he wanted to flee from this dusty museum.

  Flimsy old robes, long-dead leaves, wax masks—was I in a mausoleum?

  “Thank you for showing me,” I said.

  “There’s more,” she said. “Much more. He had many other honors and distinctions.”

  I took her hands in mine. “Doubtless they are very meaningful to his family, but I need see no more once I have seen the tokens of his highest distinction.”

  She pulled her hands away. “Oh, you have had so many, these must seem boring and paltry to you. From the days before there was an emperor, before one man hogged all the honors.”

  “I didn’t come here to fight with you or to discuss politics,” I said. “I understood that we had another mission.”

  She smiled. “Oh, yes. That.”

  Perhaps she was as leery of it as I was.

  “But first, let us have some wine,” she said.

  Yes. Let’s.

  A slave appeared with a pitcher of wine, a jug of water, and two stemmed goblets on a tray. He set it down and carefully poured out the wine, then added water. We each took our goblets.

  Ah, wine. Gift of Bacchus. Bosom friend of Aphrodite. I drank deep of mine—after letting her drink hers first. Just in case.

  “Let us sit out in the garden,” she said, leading me to the peristyle and taking her place on a marble bench. In the falling light slaves lit lanterns, and we watched the last colors of day leach and fade from the flowers, so that only the white ones were visible. Soon they drew pale moths, their fluttering wings hovering over the petals. After the gaudiness of day, peace reigned.

  Now she took my hand, holding it between hers. “This is my favorite place,” she said. “I like to come here at close of day. That is why I asked you to come at this time.”

  “Why do you like it best?”

  “The day is done, for well or ill, and I can contemplate it calmly, knowing there is nothing I need do for the next few hours and nothing I can do to change the last few hours. There is profound peace in that.”

  “Is peace what you seek?”

  “An underlying peace, not a static life,” she said. “There is a difference.”

  “So philosophers would say.”

  “Yes, they would. They do.”

  “Have you come to peace with what happened between me and Vestinus, or is that too much to expect?”

  “Now I have. But first I had to do what I did at the banquet. I had to, for his sake. I owed it to him.”

  “To take revenge, or try to,” I said. “It is a basic desire. But perhaps, trying to take revenge and failing fulfills the obligation well enough?”

  “Yes, it does. In the eyes of the gods, it is the same. Now I am spared from cursing you. To curse you would be to curse my own life, if it is tied to yours.”

  “Is that the only reason?” If she still wished me ill, then I had no desire to yoke my life to hers. “If we are not together, then you would just as soon I go down to doom? Not a very complimentary opinion.”

  “No,” she said. “I would not want any harm to befall you.” She took my head in her hands and turned it to look at her. “But we still have one thing to settle.”

  She took me up the stairs to an upper room, where her bedchamber was situated. It was open to a roof terrace, and from it I could see almost the whole of Rome, punctuated by the light of thousands of torches.

  “This is mine alone,” she said. “My ancestral home.” She paused. “Vestinus has never been here. We lived in his house.”

  No shadow of the past here, then. No site of either happiness or sorrow with Vestinus. Just her own life, her own memories, from before she knew him.

  She took my hand, and together we went inside, toward the bed. The room was dark, and when she made to light a lamp, I stopped her.

  “Leave it,” I said. The dark was tender and embracing. From the two small windows came only a faint light from the dying day. Framed by the windows, the first stars twinkled feebly in the sky. Faraway music, perhaps a flute, floated in the evening air. So did the sounds of the streets, people calling to one another, the cries of playing children.

  I took her in my arms. She fit there well. I was no longer apprehensive or self-conscious. She bent down and pulled away the blankets, exposing the smooth, untouched sheets beneath, running her hands over them, inviting me there.

  She was an experienced woman, knowing what pleased her and how to give pleasure to someone else, unblushingly. There is no substitute for that, and if there cannot be wild adoration, there can still be passion, sensuality, and satiety.

  Neither of us spoke the word “love.”

  * * *

  • • •

  We were married in that house a week later. By the time I had climbed back into the litter in the morning light, it was all settled. I had passed her test in bed—“surprisingly well,” she had said, a thought I did not care to pursue. What had she expected? Did I want to hear? No.

  “So I see no need for delay,” she said.

  Nor did I. This way Tiridates could be a guest, making it somewhat of a state occasion. And so we stood in the atrium and spoke the words that bound us together, all but one phrase—Whenever and wherever you are Gaia, I am Gaius. I had made that vow to Poppaea and even in death I would not break it. Besides, in the underworld, when we are pale shades looking for one another, I wanted no confusion.

  Statilia did not object. Even the marriage itself seemed a practical arrangement to her, and thus the ceremonial details were not fraught with meaning. She did not even seem curious about what would now be at her fingertips as empress. Perhaps she was so self-possessed she had no need even to ask.

  Tiridates presented us with a magnificent gold sculpture of a horse, with the promise that he would send a selection of his best steeds for breeding purposes. His entourage put on an archery exhibition for our entertainment, and we had the usual banquet to celebrate. At length, as the sun sank, we had the traditional wedding procession to the home of the groom, in this case my small residence in the Servilian Gardens, one I seldom visited as it was inconveniently located in the southwestern part of the city, near the road leading to Ostia. But for this bride, I wanted a place with no ghosts, at least for the first few days.

  Alone at last in the privacy of the bedchamber, she gave a great sigh.

  “So it begins,” she said. She turned to me. “A late marriage is as different from a first one as a violet from an aster. But we have glorious examples of those late unions—Julius Caesar himself had been married three times before he met Cleopatra.”

  But he loved her more than the others, I thought. It was not the order in which love came but that it came, late or early. “Both the violet and the aster are beautiful in their own season,” I said diplomatically.

  LIII

  We stayed at the Servilian Gardens residence for a week, shutting ourselves off from the rest of Rome. I tried to sort out my jumbled feelings about this marriage and about Statilia herself. That I needed an empress was obvious; I was not yet thirty and could not go through life alone. There was also the practical matter that I needed children, or there would be no one to succeed me, and Rome would be thrown back into the strife that followed Caesar’s death. But should I have married this woman?

  Too late for that, Nero, too late. It is done and settled. There is some satisfaction in that, some peace of mind.

  We were alone except for the slaves, and the daily visit and briefings from Tigellinus and Helios, who had become increasingly important to me. Tiridates had departed for Parthia, and the recruiting for legio I Italica was progressing nicely. It seemed that many men were eager to
join.

  Seated on one of the stools in the workroom, Tigellinus winked. “And how are . . . things . . . Caesar?”

  “Well,” I said curtly.

  “I am sure Vorax would welcome a visit,” he said, “if things are not so well.”

  “I am well aware of my choices, Tigellinus,” I said.

  “I am just reminding you, Caesar.”

  “My memory is not failing.”

  Would that it were. If my memory of Poppaea were not so vivid, perhaps I would be less troubled. When Statilia was in my bed I was able to vanquish it, because Statilia was a seasoned voluptuary and drove all other thoughts from my mind at the time, but they crept back afterward.

  But in the enclosed world we were occupying, secluded and protected, we were able, gingerly, to get to know one another, what and who we were before the conspiracy.

  She was three years older than I, being thirty-one. She had married Vestinus when she was seventeen but had taken many lovers.

  “Well, that explains it,” I said.

  “Explains what? As if I do not know.”

  “Why you had to settle that before all else with me. Comparisons?”

  She sighed and reached over to take a fresh-cut fig resting on the nearby table. “They are inevitable,” she said. “That becomes the curse of marriage. They say that the best matches are made between two virgins because they know no better and are satisfied with whatever they get.” She bit into the fig, and juice ran down her chin. She wiped it off quickly.

  I laughed. “That does not describe you.”

  “Nor you,” she shot back. “Did you know, there were rumors that I was your lover and that Vestinus was named in the conspiracy so you could marry me?”

  How had Tigellinus failed to pick up that rumor? “Absurd,” I said.

  She laughed. “Are you sure we have never been lovers before?”

  “Wouldn’t I remember it?”

  “Well, you were quite drunk that time at Piso’s . . .”

  O gods! Was she one of the ones on Petronius’s list? Or was she teasing me?

  “I surely would never have forgotten,” I said gallantly.

  “You have improved since then,” she said. “If you hadn’t, well—” She spread her hands, laughing.

  “If I was that drunk, it is no wonder I am better now.” But was she serious? I doubted we had ever been together. But I would not pursue it.

  As the days passed, the old easy feeling I had had with her in the past returned. We spoke of many things, and her low, throaty voice, which I had always found attractive, was beguiling. She exuded a sophistication that shunned conventional judgments and allowed her to speak her mind.

  “If I trust someone, mind you,” she said. “And for some reason I have always trusted you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you had the courage to be openly yourself in the face of disapproval. To be an artist in spite of ridicule and opposition.”

  “Ridicule?” I bristled.

  She draped herself over the edge of a couch, carelessly, like a thrown scarf. “Surely you must know that there were people who laughed at you.”

  I knew there were people who condemned me, but laugh? “I didn’t hear them,” I said.

  “Good. But I did. Never mind. Because you were true to yourself, you are honest through and through. And I could trust you. To listen, and to keep it to yourself.” She smiled. “You are not a gossip.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do,” she said serenely. “I can tell. My mother told me that she had the ability to read people, to know them after they had spoken just a few words. I inherited that gift.”

  “Is it a gift, or a curse?”

  “It’s a painful gift,” she admitted.

  It was one I wished I had, painful or not. Then I would not have been shocked at Piso, at Seneca, at Lucan or Faenius or any of them. Perhaps I could now rely on Statilia to be my eyes and ears. She might be better than Tigellinus.

  * * *

  • • •

  Emerging from our cocoon into the turmoil of Rome, we relocated to the Golden House and Statilia moved into Poppaea’s quarters, a bittersweet event.

  The rooms were furnished with pieces more to Statilia’s taste. She brought her own slaves, wanting those to wait on her as always. Thus, little by little, whether we want it or not, the present consumes the past.

  Statilia was introduced to the Senate and the people of Rome as my empress. We were duly congratulated and feted. No one dared do otherwise.

  “You, who excel at mind reading, tell me what they really think,” I asked her after the long ceremony had come to an end.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t think they really care,” she said.

  “Oh,” I said. I was disappointed.

  “They are more concerned about your upcoming trip to Greece,” she said. “They don’t like to be left alone for such a long time. That was part of the concern about Caesar—he was going to Parthia for at least three years. It is dangerous to leave Rome for too long.”

  “I’ve served Rome like a slave for twelve years, never leaving it! I deserve a respite, a chance to do something else,” I burst out.

  “What you deserve and what is wise are two different things,” she said, shrugging.

  “Other emperors have left Rome, going off to conquer territory.”

  “Then perhaps you ought to go on the campaign with Tiridates first, then go to Greece. People will be satisfied that you have first done something for Rome rather than yourself.”

  “My competitions in Greece will win glory for Rome. I am doing it in the name of the people of Rome.”

  “People don’t identify with artistic pursuits in Greece or anywhere else. I don’t notice your Neronia making any converts.”

  “What do you mean? They were well attended!”

  “I don’t see the games or races being replaced by them. As soon as they were over, people went right back to their old familiar Roman favorites, racing and fighting.”

  “I can’t campaign with Tiridates first,” I said. “He needs more time to prepare. And the schedule of contests in Greece are all arranged.”

  “As you wish,” she said. “You are the emperor.” Clearly she thought I was making a mistake.

  * * *

  • • •

  By early July the preparations were all in order. An astounding number of people wanted to accompany me on the tour, belying the naysayers who predicted the trip would be unpopular. A number of senators, including Cluvius Rufus acting as imperial herald, high-ranking military leaders like General Vespasian and the head Praetorians, and, not surprisingly, hordes of artists and athletes, joined the group.

  Before taking leave, I addressed the Senate. They turned out in full measure, knowing this was the last meeting for some time.

  I stood and adjusted my toga. At least I wouldn’t have to wear the wretched formal thing for a long time. “Noble senators of Rome,” I said. “I am embarking on a journey no emperor has undertaken before. Not a journey of conquest, except in the realm of the arts and athletics. I go to Greece, the cradle of our customs and inspiration, where the sacred games are still held—the games of Zeus at Olympia, the games of Apollo at Delphi, the games of Zeus again at Nemea, the games of Poseidon at Isthmia. And also important, the games of Actia, which the divine Augustus founded to commemorate his decisive victory at Actium that ended the civil war.” I looked around, scanning the faces from left to right. “Some of you have asked to come with me, and of course, I welcome you. Should anyone else wish to join us, it is not too late. We leave in two weeks.”

  A rotund senator stood and asked, “But how long will you be away, Caesar?”

  “I will attend the full cycle of games, and that will take a year.”

  �
��A year!” a cry went up.

  “Perhaps some of you might wish to come for one or the other of the games, rather than the entire time. The games are staggered throughout the year. I think the Olympian one in summer will be the grandest.”

  Another senator rose. “We aren’t concerned about whether we go but that you will leave us for so long.”

  “I have appointed loyal and qualified representatives,” I said. “Helios will be my principal deputy, able to transact business in my name.”

  A stunned Senate stared back at me. Finally one man rose and said, “A freedman! You appoint a freedman to sit in the judgment seat of the government?”

  “No, I am still in the judgment seat. Helios is merely acting in my name.”

  A thin, nervous man stood. “Forgive me, Caesar, but this is—this is—”

  “Outrageous!” cried another man. “To leave us in the hands of a servant, a freedman—” Someone jerked on his toga, and he quickly sat down.

  His companion now stood. “Of course, Caesar is never outrageous, he has our best interests at heart always, but what my friend was trying to say is that—can we really go on without you?”

  “It is only for a little while. And I will return with honors earned in your name that will glorify Rome and the Senate.”

  If that answer did not satisfy them, they kept it to themselves and smiled back. In a body they rose and wished me well.

  * * *

  • • •

  Tigellinus, Nymphidius, and I went to review the newly raised troops of legio I Italica. They were stationed in a camp outside Rome and were lined up in formation for my inspection. From horseback, we looked out at the orderly rows of men, their special helmets with added height gleaming in the sun.

  “A goodly sight, Caesar,” said Tigellinus. “But can they fight?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They are pretty, I admit,” said Nymphidius, “but they were selected for their height more than anything else. And a tall, thin tree is not necessarily the strongest.”