The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  “You can’t live in it. It is a world that has passed, that rises like a ghost every four years and then fades away.”

  We climbed down off the rock and hunted for a level place to have our picnic. We found one under a large, twisted pine that had made a soft cushion of dropped needles all around us. I spread out a blanket, and we opened the packages of food and set out the jugs of wine.

  Feeling closer to her than I had to anyone, able to speak with no censor in my mind, as if we were one person, I said, “I am thinking of not returning.”

  She looked stricken. “That cannot be. That is irresponsible. That is unthinkable.”

  “I am thinking it.”

  “Stop thinking it. You cannot desert your command. It would be—treason.”

  I laughed. “How can an emperor commit treason?”

  “You could, if you desert your post.”

  “I want to be happy. I am happier here than I have ever been.”

  “You sound like a five-year-old. Grow up, Lucius! You are no longer Lucius, but Nero. You cannot go back to that child.”

  I leaned over and poured us each a cup of wine.

  “You are always the voice of reason,” I said, downing my cup and refilling it.

  I set out pears, cheese, and small loaves. There was even the famous thyme honey, which I had told her about. I spread some on the bread and offered her a slice. She took it and munched.

  “You should know,” she said, “the senators were right. There is unrest in Rome; your absence is becoming a problem. Only you can restore order there.”

  “Is there an actual breakdown of order?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Then I shall come when I am ready,” I said, sounding more firm about it than I really was.

  “What of Ecloge and Alexandra?” she asked, pointedly changing the subject. “I was able to send you that message about Senecio through Alexandra. Is she still there, and well?”

  “Yes, both of them. As steady as the north star. Never changing.” At least something was.

  We nibbled on the first grapes of the season—still not quite ripe—and some local goat cheese with herbs. Lying there on the blanket in the green shadows, it was easy to feel that peace itself was palpable. I could reach out and grasp it. I took a handful of needles and squeezed them, loosing the sharp smell of resin, mixed with a dusty dryness. “The crowns at Isthmia are of pine,” I said.

  “Stop trying to tempt me!” she said, smiling. “I have to return to my business. You know that. But I would like to be there to see—whatever it is you are announcing.”

  “One is an engineering project, the other a political decree. But”—I reached out and touched her cheek—“you will just have to wait and see, like the rest of the world, since you won’t come. You might be surprised—I do think of revolutionary projects that are beneficial as well.”

  She shifted on the blanket. “Tell me, who—or what—is this Sporus person?”

  “He was a slave in Poppaea’s household who resembles her,” I said.

  “Is that all?” She looked pointedly at me.

  “His grief for Poppaea became extreme. He . . . wanted to become her.”

  “For himself, or for you?” She was relentless.

  “For both of us,” I admitted. “I think . . . it was a form of mourning.”

  “Has it helped?”

  “A little. But in some ways it has made it worse. I wish it had never happened,” I burst out. “But it cannot be undone.”

  “I see.”

  But how could she, really?

  “Let me explain . . . as best I can. There are stories of statues that are exact replicas of a dead person. And there are ghosts that can look like them but cannot be touched. And if there could be such a thing as an apparition that was almost the person, would that do? No. Ultimately it is a tease and a torment. So, no, it has not helped—either of us.”

  “I see,” she repeated.

  “But he has suffered enough, so I pretend it has helped. Now do you understand?”

  “I think I do. My heart is heavy for you and for him.”

  “Thank you.” I drank another cup of wine. I could not change the subject fast enough.

  Soon a warmth spread inside me, courtesy of the wine. I saw her leaning back against the trunk of the old pine, her dark hair shining, her beauty undimmed from the first time I had seen her. She seemed immune to aging.

  “Are you a goddess?” I burst out.

  “What?”

  “They don’t age, and neither do you. You must be part goddess.”

  She laughed. “Not that I know of,” she said. “On the other hand, we know you are part god. Wasn’t Caesar descended from Aphrodite, and are you not also from that branch of the family?”

  I laughed. “So many generations back, there cannot be much god left in me.”

  Here in our secluded mountain retreat, I was overcome with my desire for her, especially as the day of our parting came closer, and we were more alone here than any other place. I rolled onto the blanket, looking up through the branches of pine, feeling the needles crunching under my back. I pulled her over to me.

  “Remember Sublaqueum?” I said. “When we slept out in the woods?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.”

  “Years have passed since then, but I feel the same,” I said. “And want you just as much.”

  “I will always love you,” she said, her words giving me supreme happiness. “And I will never leave you.”

  “Here.” I reached into a small package I had brought all the way up there and took out a bracelet of ivory and ebony. I fitted it on her wrist. “Whenever you want to see me, send this to me and it will serve without words. And we will be together.”

  LXVII

  Corinth is the premier commercial city of Greece, a cosmopolitan port that is home to both the most refined citizens of the land and the human dregs of society who crawl in from the surrounding area. That gave it a pulsing, vibrant life, but after the quiet beauty of Olympia, I found it jarring. The city, destroyed and then rebuilt by Rome, served as Roman headquarters in Greece.

  It had the usual temples, agora, theater, stoas, and council house. The sanctuary for the Isthmian Games was nearby, almost abutting on the city, making these games urban competitions, unlike Delphi, Nemea, and Olympia.

  “The prostitutes will be setting up booths of convenience near the agora,” said Tigellinus. “If the customers can’t find the ladies, the ladies will come to them!” He was chewing noisily on a pear. “Successful businesses know how to cater to their customers. Convenience, convenience, is the key!” He tossed the core into a basket. “Well, Caesar, what is it today? We have settled everyone at last. Most are on the plain a mile or so from town.”

  “We should go out to look at the isthmus,” I said. “The place where the canal will be dug.” I had sent Roman engineers ahead for preliminary measurements to see if my grand project was feasible. “Are the prisoners of war here yet?” General Vespasian, from his campaign against the rebels in the Galilee, had promised six thousand Jewish prisoners of war to dig the canal.

  “They are just arriving on three ships. We will settle them near the place where they will be working.”

  “Then it will begin!” My long-dreamed project was going to be realized. “I want to inspect the site before ground is broken. Let’s go there this morning.”

  We rode out through the city, its markets and stalls doing crowded business. The theater seats were empty of patrons, but merchants had claimed them, spreading out blankets with their wares. The air was tinged with the smell of the nearby sea.

  My mind was still filled with images of Olympia and my parting from Acte. But I felt a leap of excitement when we reached the edge of the isthmus, where the sea touched the shore and where workers would
soon be digging. We dismounted and walked up the hill before us to its crest and looked down at the tiny four-mile strip of land separating the two bodies of water. The ridge where we stood was some hundred feet high, and higher yet in the middle. I kicked the soil; it was shallow and underneath was hard rock. But was it this way all the way down?

  “We will have to drill shafts to see exactly what sort of rock we are dealing with and how deep it goes,” I said. If it was this hard all the way down, the task would be very challenging. No wonder no one had been able to do it.

  “If you can do it, you will be lauded as a genius. If you fail, you will be castigated as a fool,” said Tigellinus, scraping at the soil with his hands, baring the rock.

  “I’m used to that,” I said. I pointed to the site below. “We will start the digging from both sides and the workers will meet in the middle.”

  “I heard a so-called expert from Egypt say that the water levels on each side are different and if you join them you will flood Greece,” said Tigellinus.

  “I have brought in real engineers, the Roman kind, who are true experts in water levels, to check on this. After all, our aqueducts are engineering marvels and demand great knowledge of water behavior.”

  I turned slowly to see the entire panorama. Before me stretched the Peloponnese; to my left was the Aegean Sea; to my right the Bay of Corinth, with the city of Corinth nestled beside it. I turned in the opposite direction, where the mainland of Greece lay, with Athens and Mount Olympus. A goodly land. A land soon to be free. I saw it all and felt my heart swelling with what was to come.

  * * *

  • • •

  The games opened with great solemnity, and I was hailed as Sol, the new sun risen to illuminate Greece. The competition had been held elsewhere for many years and was only now returned to its original site, the sanctuary of Poseidon, because I was coming. It was under the auspices and in honor of Poseidon, god of the sea, fitting because of the location. His sacred pine grew nearby and provided the branches for the victors’ crowns.

  My quarters were in the city, a large palace complex located near the theater. Statilia had quietly moved back in with me, discreetly never mentioning the reason for her voluntary absence in Olympia.

  “The last lap,” she said, settling herself on an elaborately carved couch provided for our comfort. She tucked her legs under her gown and waved a goblet of wine in her right hand. “And then home.”

  Home. Where was home, to me? The question had assumed increasing urgency and needed to be answered. Soon.

  “Yes.” I poured myself a goblet and joined her on the couch. “I have a few events here, but mainly I am content just to watch.” I was honestly exhausted from all the other competitions, one after another, month after month. It had seemed reasonable when I planned it; now I saw how unrealistically grueling it was. Normally the succession of contests were staggered out over a four-year period, and with good reason. By now the number of people in my company had dwindled and only a stalwart few Romans remained. The field of competitors had also thinned, and most here would be local.

  But the main event had nothing to do with athletics. Only I knew what that was, and I would hold it close until the day itself.

  “That’s unlike you,” she said. “But you have the canal project to initiate, and perhaps that’s enough for one place.”

  I twirled the goblet in my hand. Its bubbles swirled, making a little vortex inside: my own miniature Charybdis. “I am getting used to local Greek wine,” I said, savoring its sharp resin taste. “And it took some getting used to.”

  “I’ll be glad to get our own back again,” she said, draining her goblet. “Won’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The taste of Greek wine will always be inextricably mixed with memories of the games.”

  “Surely you have better ways of remembering them.” She laughed her deep, throaty laugh.

  Oh, yes. I smiled. “You are right,” I said.

  She poured herself another goblet. “I am a glutton for punishment,” she said. “Or perhaps I just like wine. Even this.” She sipped it.

  “In the two-day pause in the middle of the games,” I said, “I am planning the ceremony for the canal. The engineers have completed their plans and measurements and pronounced it ready to proceed. There is no difference in the water levels on each side after all. And I myself will dig the first shovelfuls.”

  She set the goblet down and looked at me. “Your eyes are shining. You are never happier than when you have a new project. I hope it succeeds. I shall watch you dig the dirt with pride.”

  “The shovel will be of gold,” I said.

  “Of course!” She laughed and squeezed my hand.

  * * *

  • • •

  Sol himself beamed down upon me in symbolic approval of his chosen one as the company of officials gathered for the inauguration of the Isthmus Canal. Dressed in a purple toga for the occasion, to underscore its solemnity (quite a concession from me), I looked at the sparkling water around us and addressed the company.

  “Noble officials of Greece, honored Romans, citizens of Corinth, I, Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, Imperator of Rome, here bequeath a gift to you: a canal to allow ships to pass directly from the Bay of Corinth to the Aegean Sea. No longer will ships have to endure the stormy danger of sailing around Cape Malea of the Peloponnese. This canal has been dreamed of, and needed, for centuries. Your own king Demetrius, Julius Caesar, the emperor Caligula, all wanted to build it, but none succeeded. What they could not do, I will, with the help of the gods.”

  I then led a series of carefully worded propitiatory odes to the gods of the area: Amphitrite, Poseidon, Melicertes, and Leucothea.

  “And now, the first earth is broken.” I picked up the golden shovel and held it aloft, then turned to a ready plot of earth and dug enough to fill an entire basket. I hoisted it onto my shoulder and carried it to a place where I could empty it. Ten other men, selected for reasons of protocol, followed me, and the mound of fresh-turned soil grew.

  There was a stirring, a murmur, cheers. Then came a faint voice from the crowd. “Apollonius of Tyana says you will never sail through it.”

  A gasp, then silence. I looked around, searching for the speaker. “Who is Apollonius of Tyana?” I said with a laugh. “I say this: Apollonius of Tyana will never sail through it.”

  People then laughed, and the work began in earnest. But later Epaphroditus said, “That was a bad omen. I didn’t like it. You recovered yourself well, though.”

  We were gathered at what was supposed to be a celebration of the successful event. “Omens, omens.” I shrugged. “Anyone can quote something and pretend it’s an omen. I thought it was just outright rude.”

  “It certainly was that,” he agreed.

  Statilia glided over. “It went well,” she said. “I would not trouble myself to remember that man’s disruption. It was nothing. He is nothing.” She stroked my shoulder. “The gold shovel glittered in the sun! It hurt my eyes.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The games continued, with a heightened mood after the announcement of the canal. As the final day approached, I sent out word that there would be a special ceremony in the stadium before the customary victors’ banquet.

  I had closeted myself until late at night agonizing over the exact wording of my speech. It seemed impossible to convey precisely the weight, the significance and momentousness of what I was doing. I consulted secretly with legal and constitutional experts but told no one else. My mind was at ease that all was in order for my command, and that it would stand, but I could not predict the reaction to it.

  Once again, for the second time in as many days, I put on my most formal imperial toga. I adjusted a gold wreath on my head—although I had won pine wreaths, I spoke to the people now as emperor, not a fellow competitor—and, clu
tching a copy of the speech, entered the stadium, where the last races had just been run. The crowd filled the banks and the track, thousands and thousands deep.

  It was late in the day, and the sun sent slanting shadows across the field. A fresh breeze from the sea sprang up, a relief after the heat of midday.

  The moment was here. I looked out and unrolled my speech. But I did not need to look at it. The short speech was burned into my memory.

  “Men of Greece! I present you an unexpected gift, although since I am known for my magnanimity, perhaps nothing can be thought unexpected coming from me. But this is a gift so vast you could not hope to ask for it.”

  The silence was profound as they waited to hear what it was. But I would draw it out a bit longer. “If only I could have bestowed this when Greece was at its zenith, so that more people could have benefited from it. But I make this benefaction not through pity but through goodwill. I thank your gods, whose watchful providence I have always experienced both on sea and land, that they have afforded me the opportunity of so great a benefaction.”

  I stepped back and raised my arms high, up toward Sol. “Other emperors have freed cities. Nero alone frees a whole province!”

  If silence could deepen, it did now. Time seemed suspended.

  “From henceforth you are liberated and freed from Rome and Roman taxation. This is freedom you have never experienced, as you have been under the yoke of foreigners or one another for most of your history.”

  I then stepped down and through a path of people that opened as silently as a door in a dream. How long they remained speechless I would not know, but it was important to leave before a cacophony of voices and questions would break out. Let them talk and react among themselves. Like a god, I could make my pronouncement and then withdraw, leaving humans to interpret it. I smiled. The victory banquet would be very different now. But I would not attend.

  * * *

  • • •