The Confessions of Young Nero

by Margaret George

  “My mother became a slave in the household of the new governor of the province. She died not long after, I found out—possibly by her own hand. I had no brothers or sisters. I was sold and sent to Rome, luckily to the imperial household.”

  What could I say? That it was undeserved? That Rome was cruel? But that was how the empire operated—suppress, crush, expand. “I am grieved to hear of it,” I said. “I can only say that the gods brought you to Rome—and to me.”

  “I suppose they did. If you believe they look out for us at all.” She turned and looked at me. The lantern just behind me illuminated her face. “Let me tell you a little of Lycia. You would feel at home there. It is a Greek land, thoroughly Greek. We are even mentioned in Homer, as an ally of Troy.”

  “Troy! You supported Troy, even though you were Greek?”

  “Well, so they say. And Sarpedon, Zeus’s own son, was from Lycia.”

  “So the women of Lycia were always fair?” I asked. “Fair enough for the gods?”

  She laughed. “Zeus was not particular. But yes, a Lycian woman caught his eye. I have always liked that part of The Iliad where Zeus wants to bring Sarpedon back to life and Hera says, ‘Well, if you must, but realize that you are setting a precedent and soon all the sons of gods by mortal women will want to be brought back to life!’ There were a great many of them. Half the armies were the sons of gods.” She sighed. “Later his body was brought back to Lycia by Sleep and Death. I’ve seen the tomb.”

  I rolled over and embraced her. The feel of her in my arms, with the sweet-smelling pine beneath us, seemed worthy of any god. I wished to possess her in every way, to make her mine forever, not just at this moment. Our clothes were flung off and we pressed against one another, warm flesh to flesh. “Do you remember the night we spoke of Sappho together?” I whispered. “I wanted to say the rest of the words but I could not, not there. So I say it now: ‘Come to me now, then, free me from aching care, and win me all my heart longs to win.’”

  “I am here,” she said. “Here and ready to free you.”

  • • •

  The lanterns had almost burned out; they were flickering and guttering. We had given ourselves to one another time and again. It must be almost dawn.

  “I want to marry you,” I said.

  Drowsily she laughed.

  “I mean it.”

  Again she laughed.

  “I am serious.”

  Now she opened her eyes, startled. “Do not say such things. Do not tease me. I cannot bear it.”

  “I am not teasing. I want to marry you.”

  “You are already married.”

  “It is no marriage! You know that. I was forced into it. She hates me. I never see her.”

  “She is the emperor’s daughter. She cannot be set aside.”

  “That emperor is dead.”

  “But his daughter is not, and cannot be dishonored.”

  “I cannot go through the rest of my life yoked to someone who hates me, when I love someone else.”

  “You will not be the first.”

  “Then let me be the last!” I grabbed her shoulders. “Oh, let me be happy! You said you would free me from aching care. Now keep your word!”

  She sat up, fully awake now. “It is not that simple. You cannot marry a former slave.”

  “But you come from noble stock. And if that is not enough, you are probably linked to royal houses in Lycia and nearby provinces. We’ll find a pedigree for you.”

  “A bogus one,” she said. She leaned over on her elbow and held out her hand, stroked my face. “Not a worthy wife for an emperor who has the blood of the Caesars.”

  “I am the emperor! I decide who is worthy!”

  “Oh, my dear Nero. That is what I love about you—well, one thing. You are so innocent.”

  But it was she who was innocent. The fact was, the emperor had infinite power. I was only just grasping this, grasping the extent of it.

  XLII

  Seneca and Burrus were not pleased with my plans for my new villa. Truth be told, they were not pleased with much of what I was doing or proposed to do.

  The third anniversary of my accession was coming up and the amphitheater at last was ready for the delayed celebrations, as the theater had taken longer to build than expected. But no matter. There would be games all day, wild-beast hunts, and bounty for the common people—grain, silver, birds.

  I would drive a chariot out into the arena and from there throw out the tokens to the crowd.

  “Ill-advised,” said Seneca. We were meeting in a secluded room of the palace, with windows that gave out onto the landscape of the Palatine. The gardens were still blooming, but the winds of autumn would soon strip them. “The chariot—not proper for you. And the largesse—impractical. If you start doing that, people will expect it every time. Your treasury is not unlimited.”

  “The Senate will not approve,” said Burrus.

  I looked at both of them. Seneca was getting stooped and Burrus had worry lines all over his leathery face. Old men. Old men who could not understand what glory and freedom meant.

  “And this villa you mean to build—why do you need it?” Burrus went on. “It’s ruinously expensive, what with the dams and the engineering.”

  “I do need it,” I said.

  “What you mean is, you want it,” said Seneca. He almost wagged his finger.

  “Yes, that is what I mean. I want it, and I shall have it.”

  “The Consilium will not be pleased. They may refuse the funds.”

  I laughed. “The Consilium has no power over the finances. All they can do is advise. The minister of accounts and revenues, my friend Phaon, will approve. Not that he has the power, either, to deny me.”

  Burrus and Seneca exchanged meaningful looks. “Your attitude is unfortunate. Be careful of proceeding without caution or advice.”

  “I will,” I said.

  “You have surrounded yourself with freedmen, who will always be subservient to you. It may be difficult to get unbiased advice from them,” said Seneca.

  “Such as you give?” I asked. “You are representative of your class, the senatorial one, as much as they are of theirs. If the mighty senatorial class were willing to serve as advisers and ministers they would not be shut out of decisions. But since they persist in thinking the only honorable sources of wealth and power are land and the army, not trade or finance, they have sabotaged themselves and handed the power over to lower classes.”

  Seneca winced. “You are quite a champion of the lower classes, it seems.”

  “They aren’t hypocrites,” I said.

  “But they are just as self-seeking,” said Burrus. “Aspiring to positions above their station.”

  “Insinuating themselves in the affections of gullible people,” chimed in Seneca.

  He meant Acte. I sat silently, waiting for them to say the words. The quiet stretched on, filling the space.

  Finally Seneca said, “It has come to our ears that you have taken up with a slave girl.”

  Burrus cleared his throat. “A freedwoman, rather.”

  I let the silence draw out a bit longer. They began to wiggle and fidget. “Yes, and I mean to marry her.”

  Now they almost fell off their stools. Seneca blanched and gasped for words, his mouth moving like a fish’s. To his credit, he found them. “We have heard good things about her. Not only is she beautiful, she has a fine character. But to marry her, no, you cannot consider it.”

  “I have already considered it and have made up my mind.”

  “Does anyone else know about this?” Burrus spoke.

  “It is between us for now,” I admitted.

  “It must stay that way,” said Seneca. “And you must abandon the idea. Oh, in many ways she is ideal. It is better that you not meddle with aristocratic women or—gods
forbid!—debauch the wives of senators, like Caligula did.”

  “Your marriage is unfulfilling,” said Burrus. “We understand that. You need another outlet, and as Seneca says, not with highborn women. But marry her? No.”

  The words of Serenus floated through my mind. Why do you obey them? You are the emperor, not them.

  “I shall do as I please. I deserve to be happy!”

  “Does anyone deserve to be happy?” asked Seneca. “And what is happiness?”

  “I don’t need a philosophical discussion of happiness, Seneca. I know what happiness is, and I want it.”

  “There are no happy lives,” said Burrus. “Only happy moments.” The old soldier at least had common sense.

  “Then I want the maximum of happy moments,” I said. My music gave me happiness, my poetry, watching drama, driving chariots. What was happiness, indeed, but defining what makes one happy and resolving to do more of it? In reverse, defining what makes one unhappy and resolving to do less of it.

  “Does roaming the streets with a lot of ruffians give you happiness?” barked Seneca. “Shocking behavior, most unworthy of you.”

  “What is worthy and what is not? I used the opportunity to hear, firsthand, what my people were saying and learn what they were thinking—unfiltered by anyone else’s interpretation. Oh, it made my ears burn sometimes. But better to know. But I can’t do that anymore. It got out of hand.”

  “It certainly did!” Burrus crossed his arms. “It had to stop.”

  “And it has,” I said. “But the villa and the celebrations and Acte have not, and will not.”

  • • •

  They attacked me for public actions, and Mother did for private ones. I had seen little of Mother since she had tried to kill me (how casually I say this, which proves that the most twisted and dangerous situations can come to seem normal) and failed. I avoided her as much as possible, which was easy to do. Her apartments were on the far side of the palace, and she was not admitted to Consilium meetings or private ones with my secretaries. I made sure my quarters were well guarded at all times and kept a dagger near me day and night. I hired extra tasters. I knew Locusta would not turn against me, but there were plenty of other poisoners for hire and Mother could find them. I had informers who kept me abreast of her doings. There were hints of other plots and she was still championing Octavia, to what end I could not discern.

  So I was startled and taken aback when one chilly day she was announced at my quarters. I composed myself and rose to meet her. I removed my cithara from its resting place and out of her sight. I would not have this one destroyed. Nor anything else, for that matter.

  She emerged from the hallway into the receiving room as if she owned it—which, at one time, she had. She looked much the same, lovely as always—although she was showing slight signs of aging around her eyes and mouth. She was only forty-one, which I found hard to remember. She seemed ageless, present since mythological times. But she was still within childbearing age, as Tigellinus had ominously warned me; if she should find a man of appropriate lineage—preferably one descended from Augustus himself—to take up with, she could produce another Augustan heir.

  I rose to meet her. “Mother,” I said, going to her, taking her hands, leaning to kiss her cheek. She smelled of roses.

  “Emperor,” she said, bowing. She looked around the room. “You have changed things.”

  The outer receiving rooms had been stripped of their austere busts and uncomfortable bronze benches, replaced with Greek statues and padded couches.

  “Yes, they are all originals,” I said, pointing to one by Phidias. “My agent got it in Olympia.” I could see her looking for the bust of Germanicus, now retired to a workroom no one frequented. “I find artwork helps me to concentrate.”

  She smiled. “Dear son, it has been so long!” When she smiled she was most entrancing—and dangerous.

  “What can I do for you, Mother?” I ushered her to one of the couches and clapped for a slave to bring us refreshments.

  She sank down, tucking her sandaled feet under her voluminous gown. She sat regally, upright, not sinking back into the cushions. “Does a mother need a reason to see her son?”

  “Most do not, but this one does.” I smiled.

  “Oh, how did I raise such an unnatural son?” Sadness chased across her face.

  “Perhaps by being unnatural yourself,” I said. “It is my heritage, dear Mother. Now, as I asked, what may I do for you?”

  She smiled again and touched her hair, carefully dressed in braids, ornamented with pearls. “I wanted to see you, see you ensconced in your imperial quarters—quarters that I know so well—and know you as emperor.”

  Just then the slave came with the tray of drinks and tidbits. It was first offered to Mother. She took a goblet and picked up a piece of dried fruit. She held the goblet to her lips.

  “You may drink,” I said. “It is safe.”

  She smiled, the smile of a cobra, tilted the cup back, and drank. Her sensuously curved neck moved as the liquid descended. The neck . . . yes, Tigellinus was right. She could still command lust and desire, and she might use it.

  “Well, now you see me as emperor.” I stood up and turned slowly around. I was wearing one of my best tunics, decorated with gold threads and stars. “Soon you can see me publicly at the anniversary celebrations of my accession. They will be spectacular.”

  “I had heard you had taken to wearing tunics instead of togas,” she said, ignoring what I had said. “It isn’t seemly.”

  “They are comfortable,” I said.

  “People won’t respect you,” she said. “You must dress as emperor, not a libertine.”

  “Emperors and libertines are synonymous,” I said. “Mother, why are we talking about my clothes? Surely you did not come for that.”

  “At least you are still wearing togas for ceremonial occasions.”

  “Enough about the togas!” I yelled. She had done it again, made me lose my temper. “Now, what do you want?”

  She rose, put down her goblet. “Since you won’t be civil or polite, neither will I. I’ve come about that Greek slut you have taken up with.”

  For an instant I did not connect that with Acte, not at all. “I haven’t taken up with any Greek sluts,” I said.

  “Yes, you have. Do you think that ruse of having Serenus pretend she is with him has fooled anyone?”

  “You mean Acte,” I said. “Claudia Acte. She is not a Greek slut.”

  “She’s a slave.”

  “She was once a slave, true. Her family had the misfortune to oppose Rome in its greed to annex her country. But she is free now, educated, honorable in every respect.”

  “Honorable! Ha!”

  “You are speaking of my future wife,” I said.

  No sculptor, no, not even Polyclitus or Kresilas, could have captured the expression of shock and horror on her face. For once she, the mistress of retorts and snipes, was speechless. Finally she choked out, “No!”

  “Yes,” I said. “I have found the person who makes me happy, and I mean to make her my official wife.”

  “What of Octavia?”

  “I will divorce her. She will be glad to be free of me—although probably not of the status of being the emperor’s wife.”

  “You can’t do this,” she said.

  “Yes, I can and I will.”

  “You have taken leave of your senses!”

  “No, I have come to my senses,” I said. “I know now that I am emperor, and what that means. So, if this is all you have come to say, I bid you good day, Mother.”

  I clapped for an attendant, who appeared instantly. “My mother is leaving,” I said. “Please escort her out as befits her station.”

  She glared at me, then drew herself up. “As you please,” she said. “And we shall see.”

  XLIII


  The day was here at last—the grand celebrations of the day I had come to the throne. The wooden amphitheater, the first of the complex that would include the baths and the gymnasium, was finished, and it would be inaugurated with spectacular exhibitions. For days Rome had been readying herself, and on the morning of October thirteenth crowds had been waiting since midnight.

  I, too, had been sleepless since then. The day itself was sacred to me. I had not forgotten a single instant of that very long day that preceded it. Three years had brought profound changes to me, and now I was emperor in fact as well as in name, regardless of whether I was wearing a tunic or a toga. I could be naked and still be emperor.

  Today I would wear a purple cloak such as triumvirs wore, with a sun-ray crown, as Apollo’s chosen, when I drove my chariot. Yes, I would drive that chariot out into the arena, publicly.

  The sun rose on a perfect day. Thank you, Apollo.

  • • •

  The stands were full; as far as the eye could see, crowds squeezed into the space, and still more were coming. The faces looked as numerous to me as the stars. Those unable to get a place thronged the outside, and as I drove through them, they swarmed my chariot.

  “Nero! Nero!” they cried. They waved branches and banners and screamed.

  Why should they be excluded from the rewards? Did not Apollo send his rays upon all? I reached down into the pouch with the tokens I was to throw out into the crowd inside. I tossed a handful out, and they scrambled for them.

  “Report to the arena office to claim your prizes,” I said.

  “Glorious emperor!” they cried.

  When they turned in their tokens, they would be astounded: gold, jewels, even houses were awarded. I wished I could see their faces.

  Driving out into the arena, with its blue awning spangled with stars, I circled once around, slowly, to the calls and cheers, then drew up the horses. A herald sounded the straight trumpet and proclaimed a celebration for the beneficence of the gods in bringing the emperor Nero to the people of Rome.

  “For they have blessed us, have looked kindly on us, and for this we give them deepest thanks.”