The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  The men carried him outside on a litter. The day was cooling; the sun threw slanting shadows. Before he was hoisted up onto the pyre, I bent down and put the wreath on his head, smoothing out his hair—always that unruly hair, now curling around the leaves. I kissed him again, and whispered into his unhearing ear, “I saved you from a funeral pyre once, but this time I cannot, my love. But you said we would never be apart in our souls again, and we are not.” I pulled off the bracelet and laid it on his chest. “I have come to you, as we promised. I bring the bracelet back to you.”

  Alexandra came forward and put his prized cithara beside him on the litter.

  I had stepped back, but then I had to return to him. “Oh, my dearest, farewell,” I said.

  At a signal, the men lifted up the litter and positioned it at the top. Then, using several torches, they set fire to it. As the flames rose, the slaves came out of the house to watch.

  I couldn’t bear to see the flames devour him. I looked away, down at the ground, but I could not blot out the sound of the wood snapping and crackling, or the roar of the fire. Nor could I block the acrid stench of smoke surrounding us.

  * * *

  • • •

  Two days later, we made the mournful journey back into Rome, carrying the ashes in an urn of plain pottery from my own workshop. It was stamped with my name and seal. Thus we would truly be together forever. There was no hurry now; in fact it was advisable to delay to allow time for the sarcophagus and the altar with its balustrade to be in place.

  As we rode slowly along, people lined each side of the road, the crowds becoming thicker as we got closer to Rome. Somehow they had learned of the ceremony at the Domitian mausoleum and stood in respect, watching us pass. The Via Salaria took us to the Pincian Hill, with its magnificent gardens on the high grounds. The family tomb was on the southwestern slope. As we approached, a crowd was waiting.

  The tomb held the remains of members of the Domitian family, going back several generations. It was a large structure with niches and memorial plaques. I saw the names Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus, his father, and Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, his grandfather the charioteer. Other plaques showed other names, going further back in time. Statues and marble vases were set at different levels.

  We dismounted and walked slowly to the mausoleum’s entrance, where a guard stood on duty. I carried the urn in both hands, holding it out in front of me, so it would be the first thing to enter the tomb. Before me, in the central area, was the red porphyry sarcophagus, gleaming and polished. They had managed to install it in time. The lid rested to one side; two uniformed attendants were waiting to help lower it into place. Above the sarcophagus was a new gleaming white marble altar surrounded by a balustrade of Thasian stone, as Ecloge had ordered.

  Ecloge and Alexandra took their places beside me, in front of the sarcophagus. Its inside was dark; I could not see to the bottom. We were on our own to conduct whatever rites we wished.

  I asked Ecloge to speak first. She addressed her words in a whisper to the urn. “You passed your entire life in joy, smiling, playing and happy, and delighted your soul with pleasures in the art of song. Now you rest among the dead while still youthful. This urn”—she reached out to touch it—“holds you in a narrow space and encloses your bones. May the earth rest lightly upon you.”

  Next Alexandra turned to touch the urn. “Evil spirits have cut your life short,” she said, “like a storm from the south cuts a tender plant. You were granted only half a life. But in that short half life you shone like the sun. May no one molest this, your resting place.”

  Silence fell. Now I must speak. I held the urn, trembling.

  “You are Lucius again, returned to your family. May you join them in peace. May you find eternal joy. But know that I, who love you, have no joy forevermore, as you have hurried to where the Fates called you. This is all; more cannot happen. This was foreseen for us.”

  I stepped up to the dark box and lowered the urn into it. It was deep; my arms barely reached to the bottom. The urn made a dull noise as it touched its resting place. My fingers traced the top, caressing the smooth clay, before I withdrew my hands.

  Moving back, I nodded to the workmen to proceed. They lifted the top and lowered it carefully into place, settling it so it sealed.

  Carved into the lid was

  LUCIUS DOMITIUS AHENOBARBUS

  Age thirty years, five months, and twenty-five days

  Nothing about his having been emperor. Just a name and his age. The powers that ruled now had forbidden anything else. But at least they had granted him a respectful burial.

  Out into the bright sun, I saw the crowds, still waiting. They carried flowers, and one by one they came to the tomb and laid them on the sarcophagus.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ecloge, Alexandra, and I climbed the hill and sought out one of the gardens there. The hill was known for its luxuriant gardens that afforded a fine view of Rome below us. I was drained, limp, but as I climbed, strength returned.

  It was over. His life was over, ended here at this cold marble monument below us. I could see the stately Mausoleum of Augustus not far away, beside the Tiber. He had not wanted to be there; he was never really part of that family, for all he was the great-great-grandson of Augustus. Now he did not have to be; he had escaped at last.

  “I think I will be buried where he died,” said Ecloge suddenly. “Perhaps I shall use that grave already dug. Someone should, and take the sting from his having watched it being prepared.”

  “It is too early to be planning that,” I said.

  “I am many years older than he was. We can be gone tomorrow.”

  I was not so concerned with where I would eventually lie as I was with the long years stretching out before me without him. The emptiness would echo in my soul every day.

  LXXV

  LOCUSTA

  Here I sit in my prison, still waiting for my fate to reveal itself. I am normally a patient person—my profession calls for it—but this exceeds even my gift for self-control, and I jump every time the door opens. I know many people connected to Nero have been executed, and that I may be joining them—soon. I have already been held here for months, after Galba took command in Rome.

  His agents came to my academy, charging in, arresting my students, and hunting me down in my office. With no explanation of why they were arresting me, they hauled me off to Rome. But no explanation was needed: I was associated with the Neronian regime, and they were rounding up everyone they could find.

  Before Galba arrived in Rome, which took a while, the news about Nero’s fall had reached me out in the country. I mourned greatly for the young emperor, my friend. The reports of it were garbled. I was not sure if he had been able to avail himself of the poison I had given him or whether a grimmer end awaited him. Or perhaps there was no end at all, and he is in hiding. Some people believe that, and it is not impossible. The freedmen who were with him at an outlying villa have been enigmatic. Perhaps they lured him there to betray him to his enemies. Perhaps they were truly trying to help. We will never know. What we do know is that only a very few people ever claimed to see Nero dead, and the principal witness, Galba’s henchman Icelus, had a vested interest in proclaiming him dead and hailing Galba as his successor.

  It was Icelus who gave permission for Nero to have a proper funeral. But who is in the Domitian mausoleum? Could it be someone else, or could the tomb even be empty?

  Nero was weary of being emperor. That I knew from my last conversation with him. It would be very like him to slip betimes away, to disappear into the east. Indeed his betrayer, Nymphidius, said he had fled to Egypt.

  Ah, Nymphidius. I hope Nero is alive to know that his betrayer was slain by the Praetorians he had lied to in order to trick them into deserting Nero. Falling upon him, swords flashing, they cried that they were avenging Nero. Nymphidius was that lo
west of the low, a double betrayer, for he tried to have the troops proclaim him emperor in place of Galba, claiming he was the son of Caligula. The self-purported son of Caligula now rests only the gods know where, but most likely in a ditch somewhere. Thus should perish all disloyal deceivers.

  Nero’s tomb (if indeed he is in it) has been continually decked with flowers by the common people. Galba has dismissed this by saying, “Nero will always be missed by the riffraff.” Galba himself has already lost whatever support he had with the people who put him in power by refusing to pay the huge stipend promised to the Praetorians, saying, “I am accustomed to paying soldiers wages, not bribes.”

  He may not last long. But who will replace him? The family of Augustus is no more, snuffed out, gone. Someone must rule Rome, and that someone will have a family. But which family will prevail? I fear a civil war looming like the bloody ones that raged in the Republic.

  Could Nero be alive? King Vologases of Parthia sent a special emissary to the Senate to ask them to honor Nero’s memory. It is strong in the east, and revered. And there has been news of someone claiming to be Nero appearing in Greece, gathering followers, arming slaves. He is said to resemble Nero in looks and skill on the lyre and cithara, and many people in Greece have recently seen Nero and can verify whether he truly is the same man. He seems to have passed the test.

  If so, will he return to Rome and oust Galba?

  A sound at the door. It is opening, slowly. Perhaps Galba has decided he needs my services. Perhaps he will set me free. Perhaps it isn’t Galba at all, but Nero returned.

  I stand up, ready.

  LXXVI

  ACTE

  The warm wind blowing over the grave has a heart of chill, a whisper that winter is nearer than it seems. So it is with me. Soon I will be sixty, and this will be my last journey here.

  I lay late-summer flowers on the grave of Ecloge, who kept her vow to be buried in the grave prepared for Nero. On her marble gravestone is engraved CLAUDIAE ECLOGAE, PIISSIMAE—to Claudia Ecloge, most loyal. No higher virtue can be imagined than this.

  Phaon is gone now, no one knows where; the villa is owned by someone else. He kindly allows Ecloge’s grave to be tended and does nothing to discourage the stream of visitors who come to see where Nero took his last breath. Some still believe he is alive; of course I know better. But who can extinguish rumors that are determined to burn on and on, smoldering and smoking?

  There have been at least three men eager to take advantage of the rumors—the so-called false Neros who impersonated him, relying on similar looks and musical skill. The first appeared in Greece only a few months after Galba’s accession and gathered army deserters to his cause, as well as others who wished Nero back. He was cornered and captured on the island of Cythnus, off the coast of Greece.

  The second one appeared ten years later, this time farther east. He claimed he had escaped the soldiers sent for him at Phaon’s and had been in hiding ever since. He headed for Parthia, where he expected a warm welcome. The ruler did indeed welcome him and was ready to mount an effort to restore him to the throne, but his true identity as a Terentius Maximus was revealed, and he was executed.

  The last one came ten years after that, some two years ago. He was embraced by the Parthians, who resisted Rome’s demand to surrender him but were finally persuaded to. He, too, perished.

  Nero, Nero . . . why do you keep returning in these teasing forms? Is your spirit still so restless?

  I cast a look toward the corner where he had bled. All traces are gone now; the earth has long since drunk the blood, and plants have grown wild upon it. It has been twenty-three years since that day.

  Now I must leave this sad spot and go to his grave.

  I could seek the Pincian Hill without going through Rome itself, but as this may be my last visit, I want to see it one last time. So I choose the turn that takes me into the heart of the city, the city that has known six emperors since Nero. The year after he died unleashed wars between contenders for the throne. As there were no claimants from the original Julian family, anyone could entertain imperial dreams, and four did; that year is called the Year of Four Emperors. First there was Galba, who lasted only a few months, to be replaced by—yes!—Otho, who was replaced by Vitellius, who was replaced by Vespasian. Ten years later we got his son, Titus, as emperor, followed by the younger brother, Domitian, who reigns now.

  As for Nero’s companions and henchmen, their fates varied by emperor. Helios and Nymphidius were the first to go, executed in Galba’s reign. Otho condemned Tigellinus, who had recovered from his illness only to die; he had to cut his own throat when he was given the command. Sporus committed suicide rather than become Vitellius’s plaything. Epaphroditus lasted the longest but was executed by Domitian because he had failed to prevent Nero’s suicide, an example an emperor could not condone.

  The streets, as I enter them, are the usual noisy lanes, filled with people going about their business, as people do regardless of who wears the purple and lives in the palace.

  The palace . . . the lower Golden House is no more. Vespasian destroyed it and replaced it with the looming structure I can see from across half the city: a gigantic amphitheater. I am approaching it now, with its sandy arches and shadowed niches; the roar from inside says there are gladiatorial games going on. Huge crowds mill around outside, so I will skirt the building.

  Vespasian drained Nero’s lake, filled it in, and put the amphitheater on top of it. He dedicated it as the Flavian Amphitheater. But irony reigns. Nero’s colossus, still standing close by, has given the amphitheater the popular name Colosseum. So Nero still presides here.

  Little else remains, though. Looking up at the Oppian Hill as I come closer, where the glorious pavilion used to be, Titus has constructed ugly baths. Some of the original pavilion remains, but its days are numbered. It was never finished and never will be.

  In that it is like so much of Nero’s legacy. His great enterprises and grand designs have been abrogated, aborted. The Liberation of Greece was rescinded by Vespasian. The Corinthian Canal was not completed. The Neronia were not continued. The only legacy he leaves behind is his music; his compositions are compiled in The Master’s Book and are still performed. Art has indeed outlived stone and politics. That would please him.

  It is better to go through the Campus Martius at this hour than the rest of the central city, so I will take that route. It is less crowded and has more open spaces. The public buildings here make Rome elegant and welcoming; visitors always remark on them. Today there are many strolling people, some eyeing the Pantheon, others the Augustus monuments farther up, the sundial and white marble Altar of Peace. Now in midday the shadow of the obelisk, serving as the gnomon for the sundial, is short. Nearby is the rotund Mausoleum of Augustus with its park, attracting sightseers and devotees.

  Are you not glad to lie elsewhere? I asked Nero. The weight of that family pressed you down, and you would not want to rub shoulders with them there for eternity.

  Lovely as this part of Rome is, it is not so lovely for condemned prisoners paraded in chains here in a mock Triumph, exposed to the jeers of the crowd before a public execution. Galba rounded up many from Nero’s regime, including Helios and Locusta, and subjected them to this punishment.

  I leave the city behind and am out in the open air, passing by gardens, smelling their dusty, late-summer scent. Ahead is the tomb of the Domitians. I see a small group of people at the entrance.

  I approach them, curious as to who they are. They are of all ages; some seem to be foreigners, others Romans. There are even two legionaries.

  “Why have you come?” I ask one of the families, a mother and two children.

  “I have told the children about him,” the woman says. “As this is a lovely day, I thought I would take them here.”

  “What have you told them?” That he was insane, a tyrant, a monster? That was the official
story, peddled now by the Senate.

  “That he was the most remarkable emperor we have had,” she says. “He was not a warrior but an artist; he wanted to please the ordinary man, not the aristocrat; he raced chariots!” She laughs. “When shall we have such another?”

  “Never, I fear,” I say. Never, I know.

  I climb the stairs into the sheltered interior. The sarcophagus is polished and clean; all around and on it are flowers, fresh ones. He is remembered.

  I am here. This may be the last time. I am no longer young; I feel the changes in me, and the way back and forth from Velitrae grows longer. I have come from Ecloge’s grave, which she shares with you. She was faithful unto death. So shall I be.

  I run my hand over the smooth, cold stone of the sarcophagus. I gave you back the bracelet. But I still have something you gave me long ago: the emerald eyepiece you used to see better at distance. I look at it and feel your vulnerability. You could see what lay close by but not what was far away.

  I touch the stone again, feeling the carved letters that spell his name.

  A last farewell, my love, my friend. We shall not meet again until we see one another in the dim light of Hades. It will not be long. I can feel it. Wait for me.

  AFTERWORD

  This is the story of the last four years of the life of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus—whose five legal names are brimming with Roman history but who is now known to all merely as “Nero,” joining that rare cadre of people for whom one name is enough and instantly recognizable.

  In my prior novel The Confessions of Young Nero, I tell the story of how he grows to manhood and assumes the purple. But in many ways he did not come of age until the supreme test of the Great Fire of Rome. Rome was forever changed by it, and so was Nero. His relationships to the people in his life changed, his outlook on life changed, and his character changed. This volume begins with the Fire and ends twenty-three years after his death, giving us both the immediate repercussions of his life and reign and its somewhat longer aftermath.