The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  I set down the message as if it were hot and would burn the table. “Next,” I said, and was handed a brass canister.

  Clodius Macer, with the Third Legion near Egypt, had declared for Galba and was raising auxiliaries.

  “The last?” I asked. A third was handed to me.

  Galba had emerged from his hideout in Spain and was moving, with Otho and the governor of Farther Spain, to meet up with the legions supporting him. Along the way, he was picking up followers, and the surviving Vindex partisans were flocking to him.

  The armies were no longer mine. I was undone—legions and generals all over the empire were deserting me.

  I was seized with emotions strong as a thunderbolt—currents of fiery anger, icy fear, quivering waves of shock. I stood up and overturned the table, which fell on the hard floor and sent its mosaic pieces flying. The cups flew through the air, their iridescent beauty shattering against the wall. Then I let out a howl that must have reverberated through the entire palace, the howl of a cornered animal.

  Nymphidius and Epaphroditus did nothing. They merely stood like statues, waiting for my fit to subside. Finally I sank back down onto the couch and muttered, “What shall I do? What shall I do? All is lost!”

  They had no ideas, offered no advice. My mind started churning, roaring, and I was no longer cognizant of them even standing there. A thousand ideas ran scampering like drowning rats through my brain, all to the throbbing refrain you are doomed, you are doomed, Rome is lost, the empire is lost.

  But no . . . perhaps not. Calm! Calm! But even the word “calm” was racing and staccato in my panic.

  Ideas, ideas . . . what to do? What to do? What could I possibly do at this late hour? Late hour . . . too late . . .

  I could go to Galba, submit to him, ask him to spare me and let me go to Egypt as a private citizen . . . I could go to the Rostra in the Forum, dressed in black, and address the people of Rome, beg pardon for any offenses . . . I could go to Armenia, be taken under the protection of Tiridates . . . But in the end, I think Egypt is the best choice for me. Yes, Egypt. I will go to Egypt.

  “I must flee Rome,” I finally announced in a normal voice. “It is my only hope!”

  They did not contradict me, but they did move their heads and look at one another. Finally Nymphidius said, “Shall I alert Ostia and have a fleet prepared? When?”

  “Now!” I said. “Immediately!” And in those words, I felt a gush of relief. I had freed myself from Rome. Not as I had intended; it had been forced on me, but perhaps otherwise I never would have had the courage—or the madness—to cut myself free. “Go!”

  After he left, Epaphroditus said, “It would be best if we moved so you will not have to traverse the city to get to the Ostia Road. We cannot know how safe the streets will be later on as the word gets out to the people. The Servilian Gardens are well situated.”

  “Yes, yes!” And so I would leave the Golden House, just like that, turn my back on all I loved there and had labored over, the place that held Poppaea’s spirit firmer than any other. I would fly free, not away from something but to it.

  I grabbed only a few things, stupid, inconsequential things—oddly enough, I did not plan for the journey itself, as if I truly would fly there and had no need of clothing or shoes or money. I was not thinking, of course. I was in a dream, a panic, and such details never figure in a dream.

  The streets of Rome were already in a stew, with crowds milling and a current of excitement and fear mixed together permeating the air. They knew. They had heard. The news had leaked out; the dispatches were now public knowledge, in that mysterious way that information travels.

  I know, I know, I feel the same, my people. Excitement and fear as I exit this life.

  People peered into the litter, trying to see who was in it. I held a cloth up to my face so they could not.

  Farewell to all this. It was oddly like the day I had been declared emperor, when I was borne through the streets, past the crowds, past the fountains, to the Praetorian Guards’ headquarters. Now I went in the opposite direction, in all senses of the word.

  LXXIII

  The Servilian Palace was closed and smelled musty. I had rarely visited it since my honeymoon with Statilia. But now my eyes did not see or appreciate what was around me there; they barely recognized anything. Epaphroditus had rounded up my administrators to accompany us, and Nymphidius had transferred a contingent of Praetorians there before he left for Ostia.

  Could it really have come to this? There is none so blind as he who will not see. I had looked left and right, always on the alert for danger, but watching in the wrong direction, thinking the threat would come from within my own family, or from Rome, never suspecting it could come from the provinces.

  Why had I not visited the legions all along to ensure their loyalty and show my respect? Why had I not listened to Statilia’s advice to mount the eastern campaign first, before going to Greece? I had belatedly raised legions, preparing at last to lead a campaign as a true descendant of Germanicus, but in vain now. Time, always my friend, now turned against me.

  The sun would be setting soon, bringing on the night—my last night in Rome. Was I sure of that? Was I absolutely committed to that course of action?

  I went into the bedroom, where slaves had transferred some of my personal belongings, including the chest. If I had not thought of clothes, of mantles, of shoes, they had. And thank all the gods, at the bottom of the chest remained the one thing I must not be parted from and which I had forgotten to save in my panic: the gold box.

  I sat down at my desk, reserved for personal correspondence. It was always stocked with paper, seals, and ink. Perhaps I should compose a speech that I could deliver on the Rostra, defending myself. It might be necessary if my getaway plans failed. I spread out a paper and tried to do it.

  My beloved subjects. I stand before you here your suppliant, entirely at your mercy.

  No. Wrong approach.

  My most dear subjects, you may have heard rumors of . . .

  No. Do not reiterate information they already have.

  People of Rome! I have led you, protected you, cherished you, lavished gifts on you for many years, and led the country into many triumphs, diplomatic and military. Shall I continue as your chosen emperor?

  Better. But still not right. I put them all aside. I had best discuss the transfer to Ostia with the Praetorians on guard; it would have to be early in the morning. I had heard nothing yet from Nymphidius about the readiness of the fleet, which he was arranging. But if only one ship was ready, that would suffice.

  I went out into the courtyard where the guards were congregating. There were about fifteen of them on duty. I spoke to Publius, the ranking guard.

  “Tomorrow I transfer to Ostia, early in the morning. Make all preparations and be ready to depart before sunrise,” I said. “I invite you to make the entire journey with me, boarding at Ostia.”

  “Journey to where?” asked a burly young guard.

  Should I tell them? Caution advised against it. “I will tell you once we are there,” I said.

  He shrugged and glanced at the man standing next to him, who said, “I do not wish to march to Ostia tomorrow.”

  Did I hear correctly? He refused my order? “It is your duty,” I said. “What of your oath?”

  He laughed. “What of it?”

  Publius stood quietly, not reprimanding his soldier. “Publius!” I said. “What sort of officer are you, to allow such insubordination?” I waited for him to apologize and force the other man to as well.

  Instead he looked straight at me and quoted Virgil. “Usque adeone mori miserum est? Is it so hard then to die?”

  “What?” was all I could manage to say.

  “We have no wish to die alongside you,” said Publius. “Do we, men?”

  This must be a dream, a continuation of the night
mares. It felt real, but it could not be. Speechless, I backed out of the courtyard and took refuge in my rooms. I bolted the outer doors, protecting myself from the guards who were meant to protect me. I still had my personal bodyguards, and I stationed them around all the rooms of my apartments.

  The sun had fled the sky, and soon darkness would close in. The darkness within and without enveloped me. I undressed and lay down to think, trying to comprehend what had just happened. It was not in the script I had written for myself, when I thought I could order the scenes, the dialogue, and the actors. Suddenly I was seized by sleep, as if Morpheus himself had abducted me. Perhaps in his mercy he had.

  I awoke with a start, far from rested but my mind crystal clear, as if all the muddy sediment had been vacuumed out while I slept. I rose and looked out the window. From the position of the stars, I could tell it was around midnight. Accidentally falling asleep so early, I had not had lamps lit, and I called for a servant to bring light.

  Silence. I called again. Silence. Carefully, I felt my way around the room, groping for the door. I pulled it open and stared out into darkness. There was no one here. The bodyguards had deserted. Far down the corridor a lampstand flickered, making jumping shadows. I took an oil lamp and lighted it from there, then went through the rest of the palace knocking on doors to rouse the people who were supposed to be with me, but got no response.

  So this, then, was the end. Not a journey to Egypt. Not a speech on the Rostra. Thank all the gods I had the means of self-deliverance in the gold box. I returned to my bedroom, only to find that there must still have been people hiding nearby, because my sheets and bedclothes had been stripped and the bed lay bare before me. An old cloak and a tattered hat lay strewn on the floor—cast off by the thieves?

  The chest! I rushed to it and threw open the lid. Empty. The clothes, which I would need for my earthly journey, and the poison, which I would need for my otherworldly one, were gone. Stolen. I was utterly abandoned.

  “Have I neither friend nor foe?” I cried, so loudly it rang out through the house.

  Shoeless, I rushed out of the palace, into the garden, and then a little way onto the street. I would throw myself into the Tiber and drown, having no other quick way to end myself and disappear. I could see its faraway glint from where I stood. But being thrown in the Tiber was a mark of disgrace, a mean and sordid death. No. I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t.

  Slowly I returned to the palace, feeling every pebble under my bare feet. The Praetorians had fled, so I encountered no one until I was almost at my rooms. Then I heard voices. Epaphroditus, Phaon, and Sporus were huddled near my door.

  “Thank the gods, Caesar, we did not know—we feared—”

  “That the Praetorians had done to me what they did to Caligula?” I asked. “These had not the courage for that. The best they could do was quote Virgil.”

  “Your room was empty, your belongings gone,” said Epaphroditus. “What else could we think?”

  “The streets are starting to fill with people, expecting trouble,” said Phaon. “It may not be safe to stay here. They will seek out all the imperial residences, looking for you. And with no guards, they will have easy access. Remember how they tried to storm the palace in support of Octavia?”

  All too well. “Have you any word from Nymphidius? Perhaps we should transfer to Ostia now.”

  They looked at one another. “No,” said Epaphroditus. “We have heard nothing.”

  “I need a place to think, to plan,” I said. “A safe haven.”

  “Come to my villa,” said Phaon. “It is between the Via Nomentana and the Via Salaria, four miles out of Rome. It is in the opposite direction from Ostia. They will not be looking in that vicinity.”

  What choice did I have? “Very well.” I was in my night tunic, barefooted. The plunderers had left me the faded cloak and old hat and I grabbed them. I also grabbed two daggers, which they had missed.

  We took four horses from the stable and mounted them. “Follow me,” said Phaon. Our route would take us through the heart of Rome to the northeast corner, past the Praetorian camp, but there was no help for it.

  On we went, passing sites of my former glory: the Circus Maximus, the Forum, the Domus Aurea and its colossus, mocking me now. The streets were indeed filling up, but no one noticed us. The hat and the handkerchief I held up to my face disguised me, and the bare feet helped. No one expected to see the emperor thus.

  We emerged near the Praetorian camp and had to skirt so close that I could hear conversations from the soldiers outside.

  “Galba will defeat him utterly,” one said, and I had no doubt who the him was.

  “Yes, crush him!” said his companion.

  Just then they saw us passing by. “They must be a party hunting for the emperor,” one said.

  “Is there any news of Nero in the city?” cried one. We did not reply but hurried by.

  Suddenly my horse shied; there was a stench from a dead body in a nearby ditch. I wasn’t thrown, but I had to use both hands to keep the reins, exposing my face. An old veteran standing close to the road recognized me and saluted. So not everyone had turned against me. Even the words of the Praetorians in the camp had been noncommittal.

  Soon we were past the camp and safely out on the Via Nomentana. A long time ago we had ridden out to see Seneca this way. Seneca . . . one of the earlier betrayals. Long before Seneca’s house Phaon said, “It’s here!” and pointed to a path leading off the road. “Leave the horses.”

  We dismounted and started pushing our way through a path hedged in with briars and weeds that caught on my cloak. The path was stony and also overgrown with nettles and thistles, so Epaphroditus and Sporus laid down their cloaks for my bare feet. How far was this villa? It took a long time to reach it at this pace. Overhead the sky was still dark, with thousands of stars, but the villa was not visible.

  Finally Phaon said, “Just up ahead here,” and pointed. I saw nothing. “We should not go in the front,” he said. “There are slaves in there; we don’t want them to see. We will have to make another entrance.” We crept forward, and at last I could see the outlines of the house.

  We finally reached clear ground around the house and a gravel path. “We will dig a secret entrance so we can get into the basement unseen,” said Phaon. He handed Epaphroditus and Sporus tools that had been resting up against the back of the house, and they set about digging. He pointed toward a gravel pit and told me to hide in it until the secret tunnel was ready.

  “No! I refuse to go underground while I am still alive,” I said, and sat down by a small pool of muddy water beside it.

  Around me the cicadas were humming and there were crunching and snapping noises as animals stalked through the undergrowth. From another villa dogs were barking, and a night bird shrieked from a marsh. I shivered, pulling my cloak around me. It was studded with briars from the passage through the meadow, and I tried to pull them out, but there were too many; they had torn the mantle in many places.

  I was terribly thirsty. I had had nothing to drink since . . . since before I had spoken to the Praetorians. I leaned over and, cupping my hands, took some water from the little rain pool. It tasted of mud and slime. But it was wet. I scooped up another handful and drank it, too.

  “So this is what my decocta Neronis has fallen to,” I whispered. I could almost taste the pristine boiled and cooled water that had sustained me in good times and bad. But there was no time as bad as this, and now foul pond water must take its place.

  “It’s ready,” whispered Phaon, tugging at my sleeve. I went over to the makeshift tunnel that was dug under the foundation and crawled through the little hole. Once I was through, I found myself in a low room with a filthy mattress covered by a stinking mantle. I flung myself down on it, almost gagging with the smell.

  The others followed me through the hole, and Sporus handed me a piece of stale bread an
d a cup of lukewarm water. I smelled the bread and turned it aside, but I was still thirsty and had to drink the water.

  They left me, and I could hear them speaking together in low murmurs in a corner of the room. There was nothing to do but lie quietly and wait for the light to come. Lie and think.

  Stale bread in place of a banquet table. Warm water in place of snow-cooled water. Three freedmen as my entourage, when I had paraded through the Forum leading hundreds only a little while ago. A ragged cloak, a tunic, and no shoes, when I had been clothed in silk, gold, and softest leather. A hunted man, formerly the ruler of the world. The fall was complete.

  How had this happened? How much of it could be laid at my own—now bare—feet? In my life, I had had to survive, and then I had turned my back on what I had survived for, and attempted to escape into art. Now I would have the ultimate escape, forced upon me, no way back. I had performed lines from plays written by someone else, had assumed other personas on stage. I had played the part of a beggar, and now I was one. This day, in these last dwindling hours, I was the only actor in my own play, and I had to play myself. I had to write the lines myself and perform them myself. But what role should Nero assume? What should I write for myself?

  “I have taken too little thought of this,” I cried. “Too little thought, and now it is too late!”

  My projects all unfinished: the Domus Aurea, the Corinthian Canal, the Avernus Canal, my epic poems, the music I had yet to write. Nothing complete. Oh, what a world this artist was losing—so much yet to explore, to understand, to create.

  I was born an artist, but two other Neros arose alongside that person as I grew up. There was Nero the emperor, who carried the weight of the state on his shoulders, and the third Nero, who protected and guarded the first and second by whatever means were necessary, even the darkest.

  Now in my last hours I could cast away the other versions of myself, needing them no longer, and return unencumbered to my true and only self: the artist.

  Once I had told Tigellinus that Christians were to be envied, for having something so precious that it overrides all else in your life, even your life itself.