Petronius raised his cup. “I acknowledge your salute,” he said, sipping the wine slowly.
Serenus threw back his glass and gulped.
“Manners, manners,” chided Petronius. “You are in the company of the emperor. Show respect. And, even if you were with a slave, never bolt your wine. It isn’t seemly.” He dabbed his lips with his personal napkin fastidiously.
“Tonight I am a charioteer,” I said. “You can say anything in front of me.”
Petronius raised one shapely eyebrow. “You may regret that.”
It was only then that I spotted Britannicus, seated in a corner, arms crossed, staring down at the floor. He wore no costume at all, no adornments, just a plain tunic. I had hardly seen him in the weeks since Claudius died. He had been at the funeral and after that disappeared. I went over to him, motioning for a server to bring him some wine. He gruffly shook his head.
“No wine tonight? You indeed want to turn things upside down.”
“I do not care for the type you are offering,” he said. He glared at me as if I were a brigand. “No wonder you are dressed as a charioteer, since that is what you really want to be.”
“We are what we are. In any case, there is plenty of other food and drink,” I said.
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“Suit yourself.” I gave up and went back to Petronius, who was holding forth on Ovid and his writings. He looked up at me lazily and said, “Birthday Man! Does anyone know a poem about a seventeen-year-old emperor? No? There haven’t been any, that’s why. What about a seventeen-year-old, period?”
“If you don’t know it, Petronius, no one does!” Otho cocked his head. The wig moved.
• • •
After the banquet, in the early hours of the morning, we played games of forfeit and fortune. We took turns leading the games, drinking with each forfeit, so that by the time I had my turn directing, the room was spinning. I was to appoint someone to do something they probably didn’t want to do. Britannicus had been ignored all evening, but now I would single him out. Perhaps it would make him feel more welcome. After all, he was younger than everyone else, still not eligible for the toga virilis, although he would be soon.
“Britannicus,” I said, pointing at him, “I command you to entertain us with a song.”
He rose, probably the only sober person in the room. He took his place in the middle of the space, then burst out into song with a surprisingly loud and practiced voice. He turned as he sang, directing his words to everyone present. Drunk as I was, I knew the song. It was from Andromache, a lament for a lost throne, stolen from its rightful owner.
Without father, without home,
Without inheritance,
All taken, all stolen,
All gone,
All hope flown.
Return it to me, O ye gods!
He then stopped in front of me and said, “Felicitations on your birthday, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus.” Then he turned his back on me and left the room.
A stunned silence fell over the entire company, until Petronius drawled, “I told you you’d regret it.”
• • •
It was Britannicus who would regret it! Oh, yes, I lost all sympathy for him, insulting me in front of my guests, on my birthday celebration. My birth name was nothing to be ashamed of, but by this he had openly refused to recognize my adoption as a Claudian and as emperor, announcing publicly that he was making that claim for himself. Although the gathering was a private one, there is nothing private at court or in Rome, and by the next morning everyone would know about it.
And sure enough, Mother knew by noon; she pushed her way into my quarters where I was working on dispatches from the Armenians and stood, smirking. I waited for her to speak, to see what direction her tirade would take.
“I suppose you stood there like an ox while he held forth,” she said. “You were never quick on your feet.”
“It was beneath my dignity to respond,” I said.
“A high-minded excuse.” She lifted her chin and looked at me with narrowed eyes.
“What if it is? Better to be silent than to blurt out foolish words.”
“I am beginning to agree with Britannicus, and others. It was a mistake to make you emperor. I have had doubts for some time.”
Her doubts had started within a month of my accession, when I made it clear that she was not to rule alongside me. I said as much. “I suppose you think Britannicus could be more easily managed,” I said. “But perhaps he would have a nasty surprise for you, too.” I moved closer to her, crowding her back against a table. Still she refused to give ground, until I was almost pressing against her. “Here’s a secret, Mother,” I hissed in her ear. “No one, not even a child, likes to be ruled by anyone else, dictated to, controlled. Britannicus has shown that he is hardly the docile lamb you would require.”
Now she moved back. “He at least is loyal.”
“To his dead father? It is easy to be loyal to the dead; they make no demands. If by that you mean I am not loyal to you, that is not true. To be loyal does not mean to acquiesce in everything that person might want, especially if it is harmful.”
“As if I would ever want anything harmful for you,” she said, her voice sad. But she could summon any emotion she wanted to color her speech. It was no longer effective with me.
“It takes great wisdom to know what may be harmful in the long run,” I said.
She laughed. “And you have that? You, who spend your time on poetry and cithara lessons?” She had spotted my new cithara, just delivered from a master artisan, lying on a table. I had progressed beyond the lyre now, and Terpnus was to start instructing me in a few days. “This is ruining you!” She raised her foot and kicked the instrument off the stand; it flew through the air and landed with a thud on the marble floor, shattering.
This was sacrilege! I knelt and gathered up the pieces. The fine wood, the carvings, the workmanship destroyed. “You understand nothing, nothing of me.” I rose, the pieces cradled in my arms.
“I understand enough to know that I never should have made you emperor.” She turned and left the room.
• • •
I half expected an apology from Britannicus sometime that day, but nothing came. Only Mother and her attack on me and her veiled threats. I remembered her saying earlier, What is done can be undone. Would she go to him, team up with him to unseat me? It seemed unnatural. I was her son, after all. But Mother had never balked at what was unnatural. Perhaps I could mollify her by some token, something significant. I called for the wardrobe mistress and asked for an inventory of the imperial gowns. There was a full treasury of them, and I selected a ruby- and pearl-encrusted robe to be sent to her, with fulsome expressions of my appreciation of her.
I tried to put it all out of my mind and concentrate on matters of state. There were appointments to be made for governors of the provinces of Cilicia, Portugal, and Syria. Syria was always a particularly delicate assignment. There were also gaps in the military commands, positions that needed to be filled. The main Roman fleet was at Misenum, near Naples, and its present high commander was retiring. I would have to find a replacement, someone I could trust utterly. I wanted to create an elite navy, a military arm to counter the power of the Praetorians. Claudius’s new harbor at Ostia was functioning well, able to handle three hundred ships, but how much better it would be if the ships could sail directly into it from the Naples area, avoiding the disastrous storms of the open sea, possibly through Lake Avernus, using a canal? Would such a canal be possible? I wanted to consult with engineers about this. It would be quite long—some hundred and twenty miles—but Roman roads and aqueducts and artificial harbors had proved we could accomplish astounding engineering feats. For the people of Rome, I also wanted to improve the provision markets and drew up plans for a new domed one, the Macellum Magnum, at the top of
the Caelian Hill, as well as public baths and an attached exercise complex in the Campus Martius. In addition, I would build a wooden amphitheater nearby, for a better games venue. In the new year I would be consul and would work with the Senate on all these ventures, or at least with the Consilium.
So my days were busy with these governing matters, and my evenings were for theater, dance, and composing poetry and music. And, of course, there were the parties of Petronius and Otho that lasted until the darkness of night was just shifting toward dawn.
• • •
At length, after much thought, I decided on the new commander of the fleet. He was clever, utterly loyal to me, experienced, and resourceful. He also deserved a token of my esteem for him and my gratitude for his years of service and companionship to me. But before I could send for him, he came to me, proving our reciprocal friendship once more.
Anicetus had standing access to the imperial quarters, but he seldom invoked it. In fact, I had seen little of him since my accession, so I was particularly happy when he was announced. He strode into the room, and before he could bow, I took his hands.
“Dear friend,” I said, “as always, we think alike. For I was going to send for you. You have forestalled me.”
“I hope, Caesar, that you were sending for me for a happy matter,” he said.
“Yes, indeed it is. I have an appointment for you. A promotion, of sorts.”
“If it takes me away from you, I am not sure I would call it a promotion.”
I tapped his arm playfully. “You flatter skillfully, as always. But this appointment you should not spurn. I want you to be admiral in command of the fleet at Misenum.”
His broad face showed shock. Like all truly loyal people, he had not named stations and positions for himself in his mind, so his surprise was genuine. “I will, of course, accept. As you know, I had a great deal of sailing experience in Greece, in my other life. So I feel at home on the sea.”
“I am not sure how much time you will actually be at sea,” I confessed. “It is more of a strategic position.”
“Yes, but I understand the sea, ships, and sailors.”
“Who better to command them, then?” I clasped his elbows. “Then it is done. Congratulations, Admiral.” I clapped for a servant to bring us wine and dainties. I waved him over to a couch where we could talk. “Now, you must tell me all your news.”
He took a deep breath. Before he could say anything, the server appeared with the tray of refreshments. We helped ourselves, then I asked that he withdraw and leave us alone. It was so good to see Anicetus again. We spoke of many things, as we had always done. I told him of seeing the funeral procession of Alexander Helios, and of the thoughts that had gone through my head. “I vowed to always remember what he told me about looking to the future,” I said.
“Agrippina Augusta,” a voice announced from the entrance doors. Before I could say, Send her away, I’ll see her another time, she was on the threshold.
She walked in, all swirls and imperiousness, flicking a fan—utterly useless in the January cold, an affectation if ever there was one. Her eager expression turned sour when she saw Anicetus with me.
“Oh my, are you still seeing him?” she said. “This relic of your childhood before you had a proper tutor?”
The brazier nearby glowed with its heated coals, but it was not the coals that made my cheeks burn. I stood and said, “You are speaking of the new admiral of the fleet,” I said. “My trusted commander and friend, Anicetus of Greece.”
Her mouth twisted in disdain. “You have made a freedman an admiral?”
“I am sure he will prove a good admiral.”
“I am sure this proves you are an incompetent emperor,” she said. “Unfit to rule!”
I turned to Anicetus with a smile. “It’s a wise father who knows his own son, they say. And an unwise mother who does not know hers.”
Instead of answering me, she hissed at Anicetus, “Greek slave who does not know his place!” Then to me: “You will lose the empire!” She turned her back and walked out, as quickly as she had come.
I sipped my wine and tried not to be unsettled by this. “I apologize for her insult,” I said. “It is best to ignore her.” Apparently my gift of the gem-laden gown had gone unappreciated. Her tantrums had lost their effectiveness and now merely wearied me. “Please, pretend she did not intrude.”
He ran his hands through his hair, still thick though with strands of gray. “It is she I came to speak to you about.” He sighed. “I would not, until I was sure of it. But you should know. She has been currying favor with Britannicus, seeking him out in his rooms, telling him that his rightful place was stolen from him and that she can and will restore it to him. I am not sure of what means she will use.” He hung his head as if he was the instigator of it rather than the reporter. “I have my informers, but they cannot be present everywhere. I would just say—be wary at mealtimes. Or even—now.” He cast a glance over at the platter of apples, figs, and nuts. “I wish I had spoken first, before she came in, lest you think I am just saying this to get revenge for her insult to me just now. But I swear, this is the matter I came to tell you.”
“I believe you,” I said. “I would trust you with my life.”
“It would seem that is what you are doing just now.”
“Thank all the gods for you, Anicetus.” I clasped him to me.
“Be watchful, dear friend. Be very watchful.”
XXXIV
I was working late, guardedly, in my quarters. I had withdrawn into them early to try to address legal questions that were awaiting my decision. But I found it hard to care whether this senator received his income from his grain ships or whether that magistrate in Campania had his adoption by his aristocratic neighbor approved.
It was a bitterly cold night. I had two braziers filled and glowing, and still the cold crept through my feet and slowly up my legs. My fingers were so chilled I found it hard to hold the papers.
I stood up and went to the window. Outside, the bare branches of the trees made stark shadows on the ground, beneath a white full moon. Far below, the Forum slept in the moonlight, quiet at last. The tall columns of the Temple of Castor stood serene, eternal. Truly Rome was a glorious city. As always when I saw her spread out like this, in all her beauty, my pride swelled and I wanted to embrace her.
I was her caretaker, her protector. But what did I want for Rome? Greatness, of course. But what sort of greatness? She had been placed in my hands, but as I now knew, only provisionally. She might be taken away at any moment.
What made an empire great? Our earlier leaders had an answer, the same answer going back to the Babylonians, the Assyrians, the Egyptians: territory. Conquests. But we had done that. That phase was over, and we must build a new one, perhaps one the world had never seen before.
But such lofty thoughts were not to be pursued tonight, when the magistrate and his adoption were calling, and my hands numb. I must finish with this and go to bed.
I moved the oil lamp closer to the papers and sat back down. Slowly, very slowly, I became aware that there was someone else in the room. I stiffened and stood up, pulling out the dagger I now kept on my person at all times.
The room was quiet; I saw nothing, but the corners were dark and impenetrable. There were guards but they were some distance away, beyond the closed door and down the hallway.
The door. The door was locked. How could there be anyone else in here? The balcony? I turned slowly, my eyes seeking any sign of movement, my ears straining to hear breathing. Yes, it was coming from that far corner, behind the curtain. I rushed over to it, dagger pointed at it, when with a rustle the curtain parted and someone small stepped out.
“Please!” a voice said. “Quiet. They must not hear!”
Now she moved into the faint light and I saw who it was.
“Acte?” I whispered.
Gently I untwined her arms. “Warn me of what? And how did you get in here?”
“I have lived in the palace for many years,” she said. “I was in the imperial apartments of Claudius before I moved to the lady Octavia’s establishment. I know all the secret passageways and connections.”
We moved from the shadows of the curtains, nearer to the oil lamps.
I stroked her shoulder. “Now, tell me what you have come to tell me.”
She took a deep breath. Oh, by Zeus, she was fair in the lamplight. “I am betraying my friends—for they are friends and I am part of their household, not a servant. But I have heard too much and I hate what I have heard.”
“What is it?” Out with it, whatever it was.
“They are going to kill you. At the banquet next week just before Britannicus comes of age.”
“Who is ‘they’?” Oh, let it not be my wife or my mother.
“Britannicus. Octavia. Agrippina. The plan is that you will die that night, the next day Britannicus is of age, your mother takes him to the Praetorians as the rightful successor, and they proclaim him emperor.”
“And what happens to me?” How calmly I asked that, as if it was only a matter of curiosity for me.
“You will be hastily cremated that very night. They are already—already gathering the wood for it. It’s being constructed behind a fence, so no one will see it until the night.”
Cremated. They were already building my bier!
“I’ve heard them laughing and talking about it, about you—it’s obscene—they are evil. Especially Britannicus. He said he wanted your head cut off and brought to him.”
And what of Octavia, my wife? I thought she was fond of me at least, respected me at least.
“Octavia was reluctant at first,” said Acte, answering my unspoken question. “But in the end, she was won over by the effusive flattery of Agrippina and the resentments of her brother, who feels he was cheated.”
The Confessions of Young Nero Page 21
