The Confessions of Young Nero

by Margaret George

  • • •

  Now I would rest and prepare for the Juvenalia, much more personal to me. It was late and I was practicing on the cithara for my debut performance, plucking the strings softly, relishing their melancholy sweetness. Whenever I stopped I heard the sound of crickets outside, and tonight, the faint notes of a nightingale, far beyond the window.

  There was a light knock on the door, blending with the sounds of the night outside. Had I really heard it? I stood and walked over, listening again. Yes, a faint tapping. I opened the door and in the darkness saw Acte’s face before me.

  It seemed an apparition, called from the mists of the night outside. But no, she was real, warm as I pulled her into my arms.

  “You came,” I said, as if it were a miracle.

  “Yes,” she said. She pulled the covering from her head, and, arms around one another, we closed the door and she came into my room. We stood still, embracing, words suspended, awkward words that were difficult to frame.

  “I am grateful,” I finally said. “We must never be parted again.”

  What need for words now? They would only sully this precious moment. Let our bodies speak and our mouths be silent. And so it was.

  • • •

  The daylight stole into the chamber, the tawny October rays that bathed everything in gold. I watched as it crept across the floor, painting the squares of marble, reaching the bronze feet of a tripod, the square ebony legs of a stool. Gradually it touched our bed, but Acte did not stir even as the light lingered on her face. I studied that face as I never could when she was awake, marveling at its dear familiar contours, precious to me.

  Acte was back. All would be well. The frightening anxieties that had descended on me—was this what the Furies really were, quieter and more persistent than the myth?—would be banished. The enormity of what had happened to Mother, which seemed to grow in my mind rather than fade away, would diminish. What was done was done and there was no undoing it. Her person could not be reconstituted from the ashes that rested in Baiae, although they seemed to blanket my mind, dark specks that swirled in my thoughts, clouding them. But Acte, my North Star, my constant, would hold me fast and anchor me.

  She moved, opened her eyes, and in their dark depths I saw my world made whole again.

  • • •

  We prepared for the Juvenalia. I started to recount the events at the Ludi Maximi, but she said, “I was there. I saw them. Well, not all of them, as I couldn’t be two places at once.”

  “You were there? Why did you not tell me, sit with me? Where were you?”

  “In the stands with the common people. I wanted to see it through their eyes.”

  “What did you see, what did you hear them say?”

  “I saw the ‘gladiators’ and the ‘venatores’ fighting the toothless lions and the declawed bears and the fangless snakes, feeling very brave. Even toothless, a lion is dangerous.”

  Of course, professional venatores had been standing by in case of real danger.

  “What else?”

  “I was sitting behind someone lucky enough to catch a token. I have to say, your men threw them far, way up in the stands where the poorest people sat, and where they did the most good. The man who caught it near me shrieked with joy.”

  “Did you see what was engraved on the token?”

  “Yes, it was a number four.”

  I smiled. “Ah, then he has much to shriek about. A number four was a sack of silver coins, mainly denariuses.”

  “I also saw the play with the burning house.”

  “Did you see the elephant?”

  “No, I missed the elephant.”

  “Ah, that’s a pity! We shall not see that again anytime soon.” Now I must ask. “What were people’s opinions of the games? You heard them, unfiltered.”

  “They were delighted. The common people love you; they feel you are one of them, that you care about them and share their passions. They love knowing that you support the plebian Greens rather than the aristocratic Blues, and that you spared no expense to give them these games. And that the tokens went mostly to the poorest, rather than the senators sitting in the first rows.”

  “Was there any mention of—Mother’s plot against me?”

  “No, none.” She looked at me as if she expected me to speak of it. But I must not. No, the story must stay the same, the one that had been told to everyone, the official story; there could be no alternative version—not even to her.

  • • •

  The day had come, and the time-honored ritual of the first beard shaving must be carried out. I insisted that rather than a barber, Acte must do it in the privacy of my chamber.

  “You have gentle hands and I trust you,” I said. My beard was not very long, and truth to tell, it had been trimmed before. Had it not been, it would have reached to my navel by now. I had rather liked the short beard, but no Roman man was allowed to wear one—only barbarians had beards, the mark of the uncivilized. Oh, and some philosophers, but that was an affectation, and Romans did not trust philosophers anyway. So, above all, an emperor must be clean-shaven.

  The instruments were prepared, laid neatly on a tray: a bronze scraper and polished steel knife. Acte picked up the knife, her hand trembling.

  “Do not be nervous,” I said. “Look, I am trusting you with a knife by my throat.” Was there anyone else I could, unequivocally, say the same about?

  She fluffed up the downy beard, still reluctant to attack it. “I suppose it is fitting that I do this,” she said. “As I first met you before you had a beard.”

  “Yes, as a beardless boy,” I said, using that popular phrase.

  “Now you shall be beardless again,” she said. Taking a deep breath, she proceeded with the scraping.

  All done, the remnants of the beard were gathered up and put in a gold box to be dedicated to Jupiter later. I was closing the lid on my youth, offering it to the gods.

  • • •

  The ceremony on the Capitoline was watched by hundreds of people, as I solemnly laid the box at the feet of Jupiter’s statue. It was a source of continual wonder to me how public ceremonies drew such huge crowds; it was as though they had a bottomless appetite for official occasions and formalities. And it was the emperor’s duty to feed that hunger.

  Now I would remove to my private grounds across the Tiber, near the Vatican Fields where the Juvenalia would take place. The racing track would be lonely, as all the events would be either in the gardens or in the theater; this was not athletics but art. And it was my first—but it would not be my last—attempt to change the thinking of Romans about art and drama, starting with the most influential people. Hence my insistence that they actually participate in the performances.

  Strolling through the gardens I was pleased to see scores of people practicing. In the sunken garden, fifteen women were treading the stately steps of a ballet, moving slowly and deliberately, their costumes trailing on the flagstones. Oh, the suppleness of youth. They bent and swayed like willows in early spring, and they were early spring, too. But . . . looking closer at one of them, although she moved like the rest, I could see her face was lined and beneath her headdress gray hair protruded.

  “Illusion, illusion, there is nothing like it,” whispered my old friend and tutor Paris, the dancer, suddenly standing beside me. “Did I not show you long ago that a good actor can change ages?”

  “Paris!” I had rarely seen him since I had left Aunt’s. “Are you directing?”

  He grinned. “Indeed I am. The ballet, pantomime, and the tragic drama. I leave the music and chorus to others.” He nodded toward the older woman. “How old would you guess her?”

  Her face and her movements were at different places on the age spectrum so I chose something in the middle. “Fifty?”

  “No, my friend. That is Aelia Catella, and she is eighty years
old.”

  “No, that’s impossible.”

  “I swear it. Shall I bring her over and introduce her?”

  “No, don’t disturb her practice. But I am astounded. Ballet must be the elixir of youth, then. As you know, I’ve tried ballet. But I wasn’t very good.”

  “No, I didn’t know. But that does not surprise me.”

  “Why? Do you think I’m clumsy?”

  “No, quite the opposite. The ballet is too slow moving for you.”

  “Ever the flatterer!” I clapped him on the back.

  “It is an occupational hazard for an emperor, I fear. Hearing only flattery.”

  “A wise man once told me, if you want to flatter someone, tell him he hates flatterers.”

  “Who said that? I must remember it to quote it.”

  “I don’t remember.” Actually no one had said it. I had framed the words myself.

  Leaving the sunken garden, we walked together through the open area hedged by myrtle bushes. In the middle a fountain splashed, filling a large circular basin bedecked with statues of Venus bathing, Neptune flourishing his trident, and a score of sea creatures—crabs, starfish, octopuses—crawling across the rim. The sun was still hot overhead, but nonetheless a score of men and women were practicing their chorus recitations in the wide-open space. The ages were mixed here, too, with elderly former consuls and aged matrons as well as comely youths.

  “Paris, what do you think?” I turned to him. “All these people clearly have the desire and the talent to perform, and to appreciate drama. But what of other Romans? Do you think they are uninterested because it is foreign to them, or because it is inherently distasteful?” Before he could answer, I added, “For it is my wish that I can help bring an appreciation of all these things to the people of Rome.”

  He shook his head. “Tastes are particular to different cultures,” he said, finally. “It is hard to transplant one from its native land to another climate.”

  “Customs aren’t fruit trees,” I said, “able to flourish only with one soil or altitude.”

  “But they are not always portable. What appeals to one population may leave another cold. It is hard to convert people—to anything.”

  “But look, all these people—” I argued.

  “They are here singing, acting, and dancing because they were ordered to by the emperor,” Paris said.

  “They were invited, not ordered.”

  “An invitation from the emperor is an order.”

  Not from me. Oh, surely not from me. I did not wish to be that sort of emperor, whose invitations were compulsions.

  When I did not answer, he said quietly, “You know it is true. And I can speak freely because your old tutor has a special privilege—the privilege to speak the truth. Whenever and whatever you ask me, I will try to be honest.”

  “You old flatterer!” I laughed. But it was good to have an old friend, one who might be trusted. But I knew he flattered, too.

  I turned and went my way to a shady trellised arbor, where several men were practicing tragic drama, all with masks. I would forbid them to wear masks in the actual performance—we wanted to see their faces.

  “Off with the masks!” I said, startling them. They turned to face me and one by one stripped off the masks. There were two former consuls, several aristocrats, and one retired general. And, standing behind them, Gaius Calpurnius Piso.

  “So I see you perform at last,” I told him, signaling for him to come over to me.

  He smiled, a smile that dazzled, and looked me searchingly in the eyes—something he must have perfected as a means of encapturing his audience. “Caesar, I perform only in private,” he said. “You are giving me the chance to see how it feels to perform in public.”

  “This is a very select audience. It hardly counts as a genuine public,” I admitted. “What are you performing?”

  “The speeches from the scene in Agamemnon where he has just returned to Mycenae. ‘Now I go to my father’s house—I give the gods my right hand, my first salute. The ones who sent me forth have brought me home,’” he recited in Greek.

  “Splendid,” I said. A bit too slow in the delivery, but he did have something.

  “I enjoy being someone else, even for a short time,” he said.

  As if he could know the true torment of being two, or three, other people, all at odds—but I liked him. “We should practice together,” I said.

  He smiled again. “I would be honored.”

  An invitation from the emperor is an order. “After the festival, let us choose a time.”

  “You could visit me in Baiae,” he said. “My villa would welcome you. And the balcony there is a fine place to practice, with the sea gleaming below. Perhaps we could do Andromeda if we want a sea theme.”

  Baiae! A shudder went through me. “Thank you,” was all I said.

  Behind us the other actors were reciting their lines, melodious voices like the low murmur of bees. Did everyone see himself as a mythological character at some deep level? Far inside, an Agamemnon, a Perseus, a Jason? Was I giving them the gift of bringing it to the surface, revealing it in the light, if only briefly? “Well, I must not keep you,” I said, releasing him back to the others.

  On the other side of the garden a grove of plane trees offered winding paths beneath their shade. As I crossed over there, I was pleased that so many groups of people were practicing out in the open, availing themselves of my pledge to provide instruction. Once inside the grove, many people were enjoying the shade, strolling slowly along the pebbled paths. I spotted Seneca right away by his particular slow gait. There was another man with him.

  “Teacher!” I greeted him. He swung around to see me and bowed.

  “May I present my brother Gallio?” He coughed. His cough was getting worse.

  “An honor, Caesar,” Gallio said. He had a pleasant demeanor but seemed sickly like his brother.

  “Gallio was with me in exile—er, relegation—in Corsica, and after that dreadful stint ended, we returned to Rome together, and then he served as proconsul of Greece under Claudius,” said Seneca.

  “But I had to resign early, because of my lungs.” Gallio coughed, too.

  “Literary talent runs in your family,” I said. As well as weak lungs. “Your brother Seneca certainly, your father, Seneca the Elder, and I understand your nephew, who was a friend of Britannicus, is now in Athens. He used to attend my writers’ group.”

  “You refer to Lucan,” said Gallio. “The son of our youngest brother, Mela. Yes, he’s now a furiously scribbling poet.”

  “I would welcome him back here in Rome. He could rejoin the circle of poets and writers I sponsor.”

  “He is—” Gallio started to say.

  “He would be honored,” Seneca interrupted.

  An invitation from the emperor is an order.

  “You shall write to him,” I told Seneca. “Issue the invitation.” I turned to Gallio. “I have told your brother it would be fitting if you introduced me at the Juvenalia. Your family’s artistic standing would enhance the occasion.”

  “An occasion I have begged him to forgo,” said Seneca. “He intends to perform onstage. Singing and playing.”

  “What is wrong with that?” said Gallio. Clearly the brothers had rehearsed this, knowing what I was going to ask. “Everyone else is performing. Why not you as well, brother?”

  “Yes, I could perform, and it’s no more wrong than other consuls performing. But he is the emperor. It demeans the office. He must not be onstage like regular men.”

  Gallio, a better diplomat, shrugged. “If one emperor did it, then other emperors would follow, and it would no longer be shocking. My lord, I will gladly introduce you. Now, tell me—how do you wish to be introduced?”

  “Not as ‘Caesar’ or ‘the emperor.’ Let me take a stage name, as others do. O
r let me for now be merely ‘Nero.’ I can choose a performance name later.”

  “And at what point does this performance occur?”

  “It is last, of course,” said Seneca. “For the shock value.”

  “No,” I said, “that is not the reason. I wish it to be a surprise and the finale of the festival.”

  “The truth is you are nervous,” said Gallio, winking. “Why not go first, then, and get it over with?”

  “I don’t want to overshadow the other performances. People will inevitably talk about it and that will be distracting. Let them talk about it later, not during the festival.”

  “Besides, this gives you the option of changing your mind,” said Gallio.

  I left them on the path, relieved to have met Seneca’s brother and settled the matter of my introduction. It was a bit chilly in the grove and so I sought the sunshine. It was late enough now that the fiercest rays had passed, and the low light was turning benevolently golden, painting everything the distinctive Roman October glaze.

  Along the far wall of the garden, small channels rippled with water, stirring water lilies on their surfaces, wafting their cloying perfume toward me. At the fountain-source of one of the channels, there was a woman moving languidly, like one of the slow-spinning leaves falling from the plane trees. She was completely alone, lost in her own dance.

  As I approached, I recognized that form and face. Poppaea. The radiant beauty I had glimpsed, seen, met, but only in passing. I was drawn to her and stood watching as she practiced her steps, oblivious to everything around her, caught up completely in her art, a state all artists longed for but rarely achieved.

  Suddenly she stopped, like a woodland creature that senses a human presence. She turned around, searching, and saw me.

  I nodded to acknowledge my presence and walked over to her. She stood waiting.

  I was used to beauty, for I saw it all about me in statues by Greek masters, in mosaics. Although I was surrounded by it, I was not inured to it, for beauty is supreme in its ability to wound. But few living persons can approach the heights of the beauty in art. Poppaea did.