THE LIFE AND TIMES OF NERO

Book Three

THE THEATRICAL PHASE

I

WHEN Apollonius of Tyana arrived in Rome, on the very first day while he was having dinner in a tavern, he was approached by an itinerant singer who, standing with his lyre in an ingratiating posture by his table, began to sing. The fellow declaimed fragments from Aeschilus’s Antigone, then he sang a Hymn to Youth “composed by the Emperor,” he said. Then the entertainer took from his purse a small box, and from the box he took out an old chord. “From the Emperor’s lyre!” he said with pride. Apollonius gave the man a coin, and the man bowed and moved to another table. The innkeeper said: “The fellow makes the rounds of the restaurants singing songs and poems composed by the Emperor.” Then he winked half an eye: “I think he is subsidized...” Apollonius told him to hold his tongue and serve a cup of wine to the singer.

Yes, the Emperor was singing—to keep away the Ghosts. His mother’s ghost returned each night. He was so distraught that he confided his nightmares with his most intimate friends. He spoke of the Furies that haunted him at night. He must be told that they were but dreams, caused by bad digestion.

But were they dreams?

In the Public Baths, where people met to chat and gossip, somebody had put into circulation a story, that after his mothers’ death Nero went to view the corpse—“to be sure that she was dead”—and he had handled her limbs, pointing out some blemishes and commending other points; and growing thirsty during the gruesome survey, he had called for a drink. “Almost inhuman,” the gossipers said, and spat upon the beautiful mosaic floor.

One day the Chief of Police found on his desk a report that one of the many statues of the Emperor that stood in the City had the sack of the parricides wrapped around its neck. Another night a child was found exposed in the Velabrum with this tablet: “I am not going to bring you up, my son, lest you murder your mother.” On the 30th of April, the day in which the Senate rendered sacrificial thanks for the safety of the Emperor, there was an eclipse of the sun, and the day suddenly turned into night. On the 9th of May, that was the day of the Dead, some Palace servants whispered that the Emperor had left his bed at midnight, and ran out of his room barefooted, snapping his fingers to frighten away the ghosts, and he had performed all the customary exorcisms against the ghosts, washing his hands three times at a fountain, and then he had gone back to his room throwing over his shoulders some black broad-beans which he carried in his mouth, all the time repeating adjurations.

Night after night the Ghosts troubled his dreams. And no magician or soothsayer could placate his mother’s rage.

Someone at Court suggested sports. The Emperor needed recreation. Nonchalantly Nero answered, “Let us try.”

From his childhood he had an extravagant passion for horses. As a boy he used to talk of nothing but the Circus races, although he was not allowed to watch the games. Even now he still amused himself with toy-chariots driven by four horses. He had a tiny set of chariots made of ivory painted in different colours, and he made them run upon a small hippodrome of yellow marble.

The Court now went regularly to the races. The Emperor doubled the number of the races, so that the meetings lasted nearly the whole day. Then he tried to drive a chariot himself, in his gardens, before the applauding courtiers and attendants. Soon he said it should be a great thrill to race in the Circus. To show the people how much the Emperor shared the taste for games, he ordered a new amphitheatre to be built in the Campus Martius, all of wood, so that it could be erected very speedily, and to serve as a model for a future colossal Circus. The builders used for it the greatest tree in existence, a beam of larch one hundred and twenty feet long and two feet in diameter. The Emperor was delighted with the contractors for the speed with which they had built this amphitheatre. All the time he was moved by a strange impatience, a kind of restlessness. He felt impatient with public works that meant years of labour and waiting.

When the first games were held in this new circus, Nero gave orders that no one should be killed, neither gladiator nor prisoner condemned to the beasts. He included in the programme a bull-fight, exactly as it is now preserved in Spain. The game had been introduced by Julius Caesar, who had seen it in Thessalia where horsemen were very clever in killing wild bulls. After the horseman had harassed and tired the bull, he dismounted, faced the bull and seizing it by the horns he overpowered it and broke its neck.

The new amphitheatre was built in a way that could be easily turned into a naumachia. Huge reservoirs poured water into the arena from underground pipes and on the improvised lake appeared little fleets which were kept in readiness in the property-stores of the circus. The ships competed in speed, then, ranged in squadrons, they enacted a mock battle between Athenians and Persians. One day the Emperor presented a greater novelty yet. He filled the arena with real sea water, and the astonished audience saw monstrous fishes swimming and fighting. All at once the locks were opened, the water rushed into the aqueducts, and upon the clean dry sand the gladiators reappeared.

It was all innocent pleasure, and like all innocent pleasures it soon wore thin. What else could one do to keep the Emperor amused? One day Petronius suggested trying something nobler and more refined. “Why not try the Arts ? The only progress Rome has yet to achieve is to equal—for to surpass it would be impossible—the brilliance of Greece, the polish of Athens.” He paused a while; then he looked at Nero with a nonchalant air: “What a task for a young Emperor!”

For Petronius was a nonchalant man, and Nero could not deny that he was charmed by him—almost jealous of him. Petronius was now in his early thirties, just the very age when a man can look at pleasures with an experienced mind; he had returned to Rome from his Proconsulship of Bithynia a most polished and fascinating man. So distinguished was he, so elegant in everything! That way of speaking, direct and adroit, interspersing his beautiful Latin with Greek words and expressions. Such a brilliant conversationalist! Certainly, Nero thought, no one else at Court could equal him. Witty if there ever was a wit, not afraid to speak his mind, and never offensive, never vulgar. His house in the Carinae district was exquisite. Nero had seen only the banqueting hall, when he had once honoured his friend with his presence at dinner— “but of sheer curiosity,” Petronius had whispered to his majordomo. But that banqueting-hall, which could be entered direct from the paved garden, where lovely foun­tains played upon beds of verbena, the favourite flower of Petronius, was a perfection of simplicity. The columns of the triclinium were of green Lacedemonian, the gayest of marbles. The floor reproduced a lovely mosaic by Pergamus, the Asarotos aecos or “the house unswept”; amidst the remnants of a meal, the artist had depicted a dove drinking into a bowl, and the shadow of the bird’s head was mirrored in the water. On the walls there were a few small paintings by Pyraeius, delightful conversation­pieces portraying the gossips of the kitchen and of the shops. (Nero had really felt envious of those paintings. It was a novel idea he thought. He must have some for his private dining-room.) The walls themselves were panelled with rare marbles, which made a lovely frame to the cheerful panels painted in the taste of Ludius, who composed the first bucolic scenes, taking his inspirations from Virgil’s Georgics. The frieze along the ceiling was adorned with bronzes by Myron, who was most clever in depicting animals, and upon an appropriate pedestal stood a group of Nymphs by Praxiteles. At the four corners of the pleasant apartment stood huge vases of silver, splendidly chased in bas-reliefs, in the style of Acragas, representing hunting scenes from Xenophon. The vases rested upon tables of cedar-wood, the grain of which was like a curly head of hair disarranged by the wind. Each table had probably cost more than a million sesterces. And the servants waited upon the guests silently, the majordomo supervising the dinner with the solemnity and composure of a patrician. Also the parties on the couches were quiet and composed; no excess of drinking, no orgies. The music was subdued. The courses were rich and splendid, but not spectacular. It was almost a homely dinner, but distinguished by the excellence of the cuisine and the perfect choice of wines, flowers and entertainment.

Nero remembered it quite well. There was no denying it, Petronius was a very elegant man. The day after that dinner-party, the Emperor had indeed told him: “I shall have to call you Arbiter Elegantiarum...” The populace adored Petronius notwithstanding his superciliousness, for he was kind and generous, the kindness of the true aristocrat, showing the generosity of a wealthy man and a man of taste.

Yes, the Emperor thought, Petronius was right, and no one else had ever suggested it. To achieve a new greatness through the Arts!

II

Soon the Palace became a meeting place for poets, writers and artists of all kinds. A special office was set up to deal with musicians, actors, pantomime artistes, jockeys and dancers. Their names and addresses were taken, and they would in due course be communicated with. Those who came by appointment were seen by the Entertainment Director, and if the case warranted, would upon appointment be given a short audition before the Emperor in person. As a rule, these auditions took place in the Yellow Pavilion, and the Emperor’s friends assisted in the choice. The best impresario, the Emperor would say, should act as his own agent. Never rely upon anyone else’s taste or choice.

Some of these artists were engaged as teachers or trainers for the Imperial Permanent Company. Others were dismissed with a compliment and a small gift as a memento of Nero Caesar’s graciousness. The Emperor spent many hours watching the training of the Corps-de-Ballet, now and then adding a suggestion or giving a hint of how a step or an attitude might be improved. He spoke of opening National Schools of Dancing and Acting. He planned to make the operetta a popular show, so as to turn popular taste away from games of blood and fighting. “Those more manly games,” objected the diehards, “keep alive the sturdiness of the people and their republican sentiments.” “Quite so,” answered Nero, “but who wants republicanism under a Caesar?” And as for the fighting spirit of the Romans, it was well-nigh a thing of the past.

Now the Emperor had a literary salon. The regular party comprised Petronius, Titus and Labeon; but the Emperor’s Greek secretary Epaphroditus saw to it that the group was properly arranged about the room to the greatest effect. There was Lucan, Seneca’s brilliant nephew. The actor Paris, who was the ladies’ darling. Senecio who could drink ad infinitum. Occasionally one of the guests would introduce some utterly unknown young man, mentioning his talents as yet unrevealed. Some unkind gossips whispered behind their hands that these unknown poets were often allowed to piece together the “rather fragmentary” poems jotted down by the Emperor in his moments of inspiration. But the Emperor, to whom the slander had been duly reported, showed one day to his friends his manuscript tablets, full of erasures and corrections. Indeed, of nothing else was he more proud than of having had one line quoted with honour by “our great Seneca”—Colla Cytheriacae splendent agitata columbae. In his poems he put his taste for the gigantic, he used big words. He read them to his friends. Sometimes he recited them in his private theatre. The audience always rose in acclamation. One day a voice called out that the Emperor’s poem should be cast in golden letters and offered to Jupiter Capitolinus. The Emperor knew that the flatterer was one of his dependants, nevertheless he was overjoyed that the audience applauded in assent.

One night Nero told the company that he had a grand idea—a History of Rome in verse. Who would possess the afflatus to realize it? Lucan answered that he would try. But some weeks later he stated that, poetically speaking, such a stupendous task could not sustain itself. It would be possible to confine it only to episodes. He had commenced the treatment of one episode, quite good it seemed to him. He would call it Pharsalia.

The Emperor preferred to compose light songs, little romances. He was delighted when Tigellinus told him that one of his songs was the tune of the day in the Public Baths. The composing of songs implied an ability to accompany oneself on the lyre or cetra. Terpnus, the harpist, was therefore engaged to teach the Emperor to play. Terpnus also taught him the little tricks of singers for improving and preserving their voices. For several weeks the Emperor sat with the famous citharedus until late at night, while Terpnus played and sang after supper. “My uncle Caligula was a good dancer. I am certainly a good poet, and I will become a great singer.”

There were philosophers too in the literary circle. As a rule, philosophers were received only once a week, after dinner. The Emperor rested on a couch, while the philosophers expounded and discussed their systems. At times the Emperor set to the company a problem, and a lofty discussion ensued. The Emperor listening, now and then dropping a remark. The philosophical soirees were rather tiresome, but Nero said that they improved his philosophical education, which had been greatly neglected by his tutor: “That comes from having a philosopher for a tutor. Seneca only gave me his own works to read...”

But he worked hard at his poetry. At night he kept tablets and stylos by his bed so that he might note down every idea that floated into his mind. He wrote many poems, among them an idyll on the subject of Daphnis and Chloe, and an Ode to Apollo. And he began a tragedy which streamed from his pen with wonderful facility. He apportioned his time so that not a minute of his day was wasted. He also plunged into study, and read a great deal. Seneca took him for quiet walks, directing his attention to things which he had never noticed before.

One day the Emperor had a doubt, that his poems were but school exercises. He showed to Seneca his very best. The old man read it through with impassive mien. The poem was quite banal. But could Seneca disappoint his pupil and Emperor? They read the poem together again, correcting a line here and there. Nero was delighted. All considered, Seneca felt that it might be a good thing to have a would-be-poet occupying the Throne. Also it flattered his vanity to have his artistic suggestions listened to. The friendship between the Emperor and Seneca became more intimate. It opened new vistas to the First Secretary of State and former pedagogue. “It is happy for you to have chosen the path of poetry,” Seneca told the Emperor. “The mighty rules the world, but the poet possesses the world completely. When I was in exile on the wild island of Corsica, I should have perished of anguish had I not been a poet.”

Nero was thrilled. He repaid Seneca with generous gifts, which the old philosopher very readily accepted. In fact, thought the old man, they were coming handy to pay for the new fountain he had laid in his garden. It was so much pleasanter to write about simple life in a most beautiful garden.

Often, at sunset, the Emperor sat alone upon a terrace. From the Palace gardens one had a view of the beautiful Hill. The hill used to be a paupers’ burial ground, with its zigzag lines of open pits where the dead slaves were piled. Later on, for hygienic reasons, it was abandoned as a cemetery, and Maecenas, at the time of Augustus, had turned the hill into a public playground. A hundred years of laying fallow had benefited the soil and every bush and flower grew luxuriantly. Towards evening the air became so heavy with the scent of flowers that anyone stopping there long was seized with dizziness. At this hour, people said, witches could be seen on the magic hill, and sorceresses grubbing among the abandoned graves to find the herbs from which was brewed the potion that had driven Emperor Caligula mad. Nero looked at the hill, and he thought of a poem in which he would sing of a young Emperor who had gone to grub among the graves with the witches and the sorceresses, to seek the herbs with which to brew a potion for the woman he loved. In his galloping fantasy he already saw himself singing the poem before all the people of Rome, and the people would rise and implore the Emperor to sing more and more...

III

Now the Emperor was thinking of nothing but plays and songs. If only the people of Rome could hear his beautiful voice!

One morning, Seneca, chatting with the Emperor after the signature of State papers, told him that, in a way, those pursuits were unworthy of a Caesar. Nero looked at his First Secretary of State in surprise. Seneca himself had praised his poetical inclinations. “A God,” Nero said, “did not disdain these pursuits—Apollo played the lyre. Surely he was not belittling himself in becoming Apollo’s equal?”

Seneca shrugged his shoulders and bowed himself out of the room. In all truth he had merely mentioned the matter to appease his own conscience. He knew quite well that in the next room there was the actor Paris, waiting for him to go out and resume his dramatic lesson.

To humour the Emperor, and also to keep the “scandal” within bounds, Seneca and Burrus built in the Vatican valley, on the right side of the River, a small closed circus where the Emperor could, at his pleasure, gallop around in his chariot drawn by the thoroughbreds supplied by Tigellinus. But what Nero wanted was the atmosphere of the Circus, the competition, the shouts of the crowd, the excitement of the public races. Short of this, he organized small private races among his friends, and drove Asturcon, his favourite Asturian horse.

Soon the rumour of these private races went round Rome, and the populace said that they wanted to see their young Emperor driving a chariot. One day a great crowd pressed at the gates of the private circus, joyfully clamouring for admission. Without consulting either Seneca or Burrus, Nero gave the order to open the gates. The crowd acclaimed the Emperor dressed in a green tunic, erect in the light chariot, a golden ribbon around his hair, the reins lashed about him like the drivers in the Circus, in his girdle a short knife with which to cut the reins in case of danger, the beautiful horses, with their ears plastered stiffly back, their eyes moving restlessly, waiting for the crack of the whip. The race started. The chariots were soon hidden in a cloud of dust. Seven times they went round the course, and each round was indicated by removing one of the seven stone dolphins, high above the track. The chariots closed upon each other, the drivers straining forward, the horses’ flanks shining with sweat. An immense roar rose from the crowd, every throat shouting the Emperor’s name. He had won! The crowd expected it. They cheered him to the Heavens. He returned to the Palace in high spirits. He said to Seneca: “I will lend myself to the enjoyment of the people.”

After this he felt that he could now truly and properly appear on the stage. Again Seneca and Burrus expressed their doubts. “The majesty of the Empire,” they said. “The risk of lowering the Emperor’s superhuman position by competing with a profession for which many people felt a certain contempt.” The Emperor found enough answers to his Ministers’ objections. To the prejudices of the Roman diehards one could oppose the opinion of the more enlightened Greeks. The people of Greece had always held actors and comedians in high esteem. Sophocles himself used to perform his tragedies although he had been sent abroad as ambassador and made Com­mander of the Armies. Simon, son of Miltiades, loved to sing at the banquets. The Heroes and great Captains of ancient days had cultivated music, thus following the example of the Gods themselves. In Rome itself the citizens used to take part in the performances of the Atellanae, without being less esteemed for this. The histrions were despised solely as slaves and debauched individuals. As artists they were given applause and wealth. Society had always made friendship with actors and singers, and considered them welcome guests at dinners and house-parties. Did the Emperor need to remind his First Secretary and his Prefect of the Palace of the great actor Roscius who received from the Treasury one thousand denarii per day? Or of Esopus the tragic actor, who was so prodigal that he used to breakfast on meals worth ten golden pieces, and left nevertheless to his children twenty million sesterces? And Roscius was an intimate friend of Cicero. Indeed, he helped to train him as a public speaker. Let the Emperor give the signal, and soon all the greybeards of Rome such as Poetus and Piso—the honour of the Stoics and the hope of the aristocrats!—would be seen on the stage performing tragedies...

Seneca and Burrus looked at each other. There was nothing to be done. Soon, however, it became clear that the Emperor himself was terrified at the possibility of his debut on the stage being a fiasco. Roman people were good judges of plays. They would not hesitate to hiss the Emperor off the stage. He could not stand the dishonour of being booed.

It was then that Tigellinus hit upon a most brilliant idea. Tigellinus, the clown, the twister, the lewd, but so clever, so cunning. And the idea was so brilliant that when it was mooted to Seneca and Burrus, they most heartily approved of it. For at least it relieved their fears.

Tigellinus’s idea was to do away with the risk of the Emperor being booed. To make sure that there would be applause, not applause that would sound absurd and ludicrous, but applause coming from all sides of the theatre, applause that should eventually bring down the house. And thus Tigellinus, with the assistance of the Commander of the Praetorian Guards invented that immortal trick of theatrical success—the claque.

The “thing” was discussed and organized at Seneca’s mansion, which rivalled by now the Palace in splendour. The house of Seneca the Stoic, now practically controller of the whole Empire, was a very great house indeed. The square court was surrounded by a sober portico of Doric design, and under it were statues, panels in bas-reliefs set into the walls and some of the small paintings that were the height of fashion, with garden-scenes or conversation­pieces. Seneca’s town house was the home of a collector and a great connoisseur. There was, among other things, a unique collection of ivory tables, delicately inlaid with ebony. Seneca was now a very wealthy man. His fortune was estimated at three hundred million sestertii. Some said he had made money by his loans to the Briton Kings at a very high rate of interest. A wise man indeed, austere in mind and thought, and shrewd in business; a most profitable combination.

At these meetings Poppaea also took part, besides Seneca and Burrus. (Petronius had politely declined the privilege, promising to assist in the preparation of the programmes.) The Emperor had made up his mind to make his debut for the Juvenalis Games. Poppaea sug­gested the Marcellus Theatre, and said it would be wise to have some other artists on the bill, Paris for instance, who was such a darling of the women, and Alytros whom the Emperor liked very much.

Burrus was reluctant to express an opinion. The Commander of the Guards was troubled by his old leg wound, and when he took off his gilt helmet the scar over his forehead shone red. Of late he had become gloomy, suspicious and taciturn. Every day more he despised the web of intrigues which was entangling the Throne. The day before he had again asked Seneca, “Do you really mean that the Emperor is going to be an actor?” And now he had to arrange for a detachment of Guards to attend the performance, spaced out among the audience, to avoid disturbances and ensure good order.

It made him feel vexed even to have to discuss the arrangements. He gave, however, some good news about the famous claque. He had chosen a number of Leaders of the Festival, to act as non-commissioned officers and to lead the applause. These Leaders would receive a salary of forty thousand sestertii, payable monthly without any advance except a bonus equal to two months’ pay. One must not trust this sort of men too much. If they had too much money in their purse, they may absent themselves, or fall ill on the very day. Then there would be officers whose duty would be to give the signal for the applause, for one should avoid the risk of the applause coming at the wrong moment. These officers were chosen from among the Knights and the nobility. There were plenty of needy young loungers in Rome. The whole lot would be trained on the parade-ground. An old actor had given him a good hint—avoid letting the applause die out slowly. It must stop abruptly, after a thunderous, irresistible outburst. Someone would cry out a few words, but only here and there, like the “bravo!” of an enthusiast after hearing a top note. Anyway, there would be several rehearsals.

Like the old soldier that he was, Burrus was as good as his word. He took his new recruits in hand, and divided them in platoons. Some were to sit on the stage itself, others in the orchestra stalls to give the lead to the troopers distributed among the dress-circle and the vast pit reserved for the populace.

Then Tigellinus found a name for this new Cohort: Augustals—the Artistic Guards of the August Actor. The Emperor was delighted with the name. The Augustals. The name sounded excellent.

From amongst the many young idlers of Rome, the most handsome and those who were most inclined to enthusiasm were enrolled in the Cohort of the Augustals. It was described as an honorary body, but nearly all accepted the salary. The élite was composed of those who were to stay on the stage, to hearten the singer. Seneca considered the thing quite innocent. He himself, during the rehearsals, gave the signal for applause by moving the hem of his toga.

IV

The preparations went on feverishly. For several months the Emperor worked hard and rehearsed under his dramatic and singing masters. To develop his voice he submitted to all kinds of training and privations. Two days a week he ate nothing but spring onions from Aricia and young leeks stewed in oil. He gave up eating bread; he spent hours on a couch with a small slab of lead upon his chest, to fortify his lungs.

Then he thought that his Imperial dignity would be assured if he were supported on the stage and accompanied in the performance by the scions of the oldest families and some of the most noble knights. Seneca passed the word round. Within a few weeks a new Corps was formed and duly registered with the Consuls—The Society of Imperial Philodramatics. Attractive offers were made to members to induce them to join. Quite soon there were enough philodramatics to form a regiment. At the Public Baths the people nicknamed them the Dancing Legion. But in this way the Emperor was merely following a fashion. There was in Rome a Society of Citharists, rather a poor sort of club, where songsters and poetasters met to air their sorrows and gossip while eating a meal. All at once this Society of Citharists bloomed into a most fashionable Club. It moved to the elegant district of the City and took over beautiful premises and the Emperor agreed to be Honorary President. It became quite the thing to lunch or dine at the Citharists’.

At last the great day came. The Juvenalia celebrations always began early in the morning. Rome was beflagged and garlands hung from windows and balconies. Processions and bands paraded the streets. Everybody was in festive mood for the yearly holiday of Youth.

For several days Nero had received no one except his singing master and the actor Paris. A silken scarf round his neck, he spoke in whispers.

On the morning of the great day he went out under the Palace porch to review the procession. The chariots and carriages were covered with flowers and garlands. A band of urchins with crowns of smilax danced around the ceremonial chariot carrying a gigantic Phallus made of fig-wood, and behind it came the priests and an escort of noble matrons and mad women. Already in the Circus the young men of twenty-one were shaving their first beards and casting them upon the fire as a sacrificial offering.

In the early afternoon the crowd flocked to the theatre. The news was out, the Emperor would sing from the stage. No other item on the bill could have attracted a greater audience. Burrus, however, and the Chief of Police had organized a strict scrutiny of all who entered the theatre. Inside, the Augustals were already in their places, properly distributed among the audience.

But in his dressing-room the Emperor was very nervous. To avoid uttering one single word, he wrote on a tablet what he wanted to say. His secretary and his singing-master nodded their sympathy and understanding. He asked again what position his name had been posted on the bill. He was told that he was the fourth. “Is it a good place?” The dresser assured him it was the best one. “And the new curtain, does it look well?” He was assured that the curtain looked splendid. It was indeed a marvel of marvels. An immense canopy of blue cloth, spattered with golden stars, covering the open roof of the theatre like a firmament.

Finally a page crossed the stage, solemnly carrying the Emperor’s lyre wrapped in a silken cover, and laid it on the altar of Dionysus. The entire Court and the principal Senators were already seated around the stage. From the auditorium cries arose in a martial staccato: “Ne-ro! Ne-ro! We-want-Ne-ro!” The claque was commencing to work. Seneca felt quite relieved.

At last Nero entered. Great applause and cries of joy greeted his appearance. The Emperor was of medium height, but on the stage he seemed very tall. His stature was increased also by the high-soled cothurns worn by all actors, laced with gold clasps, the green toga bordered with gold contrasted beautifully with a chlamis of purple, thrown upon his shoulders. Upon his face was a golden mask, as was proper for a performance. Soon the public from the stalls noticed that the mask had the face of Poppaea. The ladies in the stalls were smirking, but the whispers soon went round, and the populace was delighted that the Emperor should pay this compliment to the woman he loved.

Nero sang fairly well, or rather recited a poem in melopean cadences, accompanying himself with the lyre, a beautiful instrument, elegantly modelled in silver and gold. From the background Seneca and Burrus gave the signal for the applause, moving the hem of their togas. The Augustals and the claque took up the cue promptly, and answered with thunderous applause. The crowd, in a joyful mood anyway, and carried by the claque, joined in enthusiastically. Nero had a grand success. Wreaths and flowers were thrown upon the stage. People yelled for encores. Someone called out: “It is a divine voice!” Nero spread out his hands, and threw kisses in all directions. In his dressing-room a crowd of admirers was waiting to kiss the hem of his dress. Others offered him fig-leaves and laurels as the day demanded. The Emperor could hardly contain his exultation.

The audience had been cleverly chosen from amongst all classes, from the elegant salons and from the shops. A kind of exhibition had been built for the occasion in the Park of Augustus around the Naumachia. From booths and stalls all kinds of desirable gifts and refreshments were offered. Every member of the audience had received with his ticket a voucher enabling him to secure an article of his choice.

The populace was truly delighted. No one had a clear idea of what kind of entertainment they had witnessed—was it a concert recital, or a new kind of show in the style of Athens? However, the spectacle had been grand and the mise-en-scene superb. The ballet that preceded the recital was good, and the short farce at the end had served to enhance the classical quality of the Emperor’s performance. And the viands and cakes and drinks distributed during and after the show were really first-rate. To cap it all, a lovely present to bring home as a souvenir! The river was floodlit from barges. The mob sang and danced all night. It was capital, indeed. Everybody in the Baths and taverns and at the barber-shops was already asking, “When will the Emperor give another performance?”

Seneca took a long breath. The Emperor was more popular than ever. Was it the Emperor’s merit or the fault of the populace? Seneca shrugged his shoulders. Life is the mirror of the times. One might still appreciate an essay in praise of Virtue, even if there is no one who believes in virtue. Or in Seneca at all.

As a matter of fact, there was something of a tiff, the following day, between the Emperor and the Commander of the Guards. Burrus repeated his congratulations; but he tartly remarked that, according to what he had gathered from the report of the Chief of Police, many of die spectators had been chosen among classes that it would have been wiser to leave out. It was not right to bring the populace to the level of the Palace. Things that were part of life at Court, a mere divertissement for persons of one’s class, might be misconstrued by the people. It offended and harmed the patricians, and at the same time it might lower the dignity of the Emperor in the eyes of the people. One should not forget that the Roman people had been bred on military glories.

Nero waved this talk wearily aside. What did the old General understand? Present-day Romans preferred their actors to their generals. The Emperor’s popularity was much greater for having sung in the theatre than if he had conquered a new Province. The General should go into the Forum and put this question to the people: “New games or a new Province?” They would simply laugh at the question...

V

From Petronius to his friend Marcus Valerius. “I hardly need to mention that our Divine Nero Caesar is now immensely popular. His debut as a singer has been an immense success. Now the mot d’ordre is to keep up with popular taste. We mingle with the gladiators. We are bosom friends with the Oriental acrobats who make huge pyramids of naked bodies. I have high hopes that I shall be able to learn a new dance between daggers planted on the boards. No dinner-party is fashionable without a sprinkle of these lionized guests.

“Our Divine says that we must invent something new to amuse the people as well as ourselves. Tigellinus, who has been appointed Grand Master of this unending mas­querade, has already suggested all kinds of new inventions. He has made the impresarios add bizarre turns to the Circus shows, such as races of chariots drawn by four camels. The day before yesterday, our noble friend Atinius was let down by ropes on to the stage, seated upon an elephant. His creditors, I hear, are no longer pressing him. Afranius has composed a kind of charade or pantomime entitled The Fire, in which the performers are allowed to carry off, and to keep for themselves, the furni­ture of the house which, according to the plot, is burnt upon the stage. For several days we have had the Games enlivened by throwing into the arena thousands of articles of all descriptions for the people to scramble for—fowls, lambs, clothes, pieces of silver and gold, pictures, tickets for corn, all for the fun of seeing the populace scramble. But Tigellinus shall have to rack his brain for something else. Moreover, Nero wants to behold the Games from the front of the proscenium, and when the scramble starts, the crowd comes much too close to the Emperor. The Chief of Police has pointed out that an accident might occur, and who would be blamed but Tigellinus?

“Nero Caesar, however, is quite happy. Since the Theatrical Phase commenced, Nero declares that he has discovered his real self, whatever that means. East night he confessed to me that he is very proud of his peculiar good looks—his increasingly heavy jowl and high-bridged nose, which, he says, give him the appearance of an Asiatic sovereign. This is the point—he seems particularly proud of looking like an Asiatic king. In all truth, his body is growing much too stout for a man of his age, and his legs are far too slender for such a fat body; but when he is properly arrayed, and with a touch of make-up to improve his sallow complexion, his head is quite striking. It has dignity and geniality. It is indeed the head of an actor. His barber has devised for him a style of hair, in rings of curls, one above the other, and now the Divine affects a certain carelessness of dress, and has taken to wearing around his neck a large silk handkerchief to protect his throat from the damp air of Rome’s evenings and so as not to endanger his voice.

“Only the colour of his hair causes him some concern, for notwithstanding the touch of gold dust that his barber uses quite cleverly, it is definitely a red head. The populace nicknamed him Bronzebeard before he shaved his first beard (and put it in a gold box upon the knees of Jupiter), and the nickname sticks. Some days ago he said, ‘Do you know why we have red hair?’ And he went on to tell me this lovely story, ‘From the Domitii there came two celebrated families, as you know, the Calvini and the Aenobarbs. We Aenobarbs derive both our extraction and cognomen from Lucius Domitius. When this glorious ancestor of mine was entering Rome, he was met by two strangers who asked him to announce to the Senate a victory of which the City had not yet heard any news. Lucius Domitius was surprised by their august appearance and mien, and the two strangers, to prove that they were more than mortal, stroked his cheeks, and by a single touch they changed the colour of his beard from black to red. Ever since we Aenobarbs have had red beards.’ When this lovely story was told, he smiled almost expectantly, looking at me with his protruding, short-sighted blue eyes, flickering his red-lashed eyelids, and then he added with a sigh, ‘But I cannot, alas, change your beard, my dear Petronius, although I am called Divine.’

“Another day he said: ‘It was quite proper that I should have been born on the eve of the Saturnalia, for I was designed by the Gods to be Emperor of the Saturnalia.’ But Lucan, who has a poisonous tongue, whispers about town: ‘Nero entered life as one goes to the graven feet first.’

“I am resuming this letter to add that last night we have enjoyed a new fancy. Tigellinus has brought forth a new ‘invention,’ a series of living tableaux depicting mythological scenes and episodes. All the guests were asked to take part. Rather a shocking thing, I must say. Even Nero is afraid that our censorious Senators must be in an uproar. As for myself, I would not be surprised to hear that our Senators are not shocked at all. Besides, when the mythological scene became too crude, the Emperor advanced upon a small platform, cetra in hand, and sang to us a tragic poem. The balance of art was redressed.

“He has also said that he considers that Rome is quite ugly. These narrow lanes, he said, their filth and smells; in the summer nights, from the Suburra, there seems to float up to the Palace a foetid air... One day, he said, he must change all this. Quite true, our Rome is not really a beautiful city, and the smells are appalling. Nevertheless, I think it was a dangerous thought to express. Yet, our Divine loves to survey the City from the terrace, through his emerald monocle, and he says, ‘Even as a name, Rome is too old. I would like to build somewhere else a really great city and call it Neropolis.’ And he told me that he often thinks that he is the only modern man in Rome.”

VI

One day, some time later, the Emperor had returned to the Palace from the theatre in high spirits. He had gone down into the orchestra among the Senators to receive from the hands of the men of Consular rank, whom he had appointed judges of the theatrical competitions, the crown for the best performance in prose and verse, which had been unanimously decreed to him. They had also awarded to him the crown for the best performance on the lyre. This had delighted him beyond words. He had saluted the crowd with affection, while the populace cheered him to the echo. Then he had ordered that the two crowns should be hung upon the statue of Augustus.

So that when Seneca was announced, the Emperor, still filled with those pleasant emotions and his mind turned to the gesture he had made to the memory of his great predecessor, greeted his Prime Minister with a reference to the afternoon’s occurrence, “Augustus,” he said, “would have been proud to see a new ornament added to the line of the Caesars.”

But the Prime Minister had come to talk about some public discontent over the fiscal policy. Nero listened patiently for a while, as he always did, at the same time considering what a colossal bore his old tutor was. Then, he said, “These complaints and accusations against the Public Treasurers have given me an idea. I think indeed that it is the most extraordinary idea ever conceived by a ruler. I am going to propose to the Senate that all taxes should be abolished.”

The Prime Minister was simply flabbergasted. “Divine Nero Caesar,” he replied, “the Senate will exalt the Emperor’s magnanimity, but very firmly they will reply that without its ordinary revenue the Empire could no longer exist.”

“Then let the people be informed of the sources of the Imperial Finances and their expenditure. It will do good to the plain citizens to be initiated into high finance.”

Seneca shook his head, and embarked upon one of his interminable tirades. Of all the offices created by the Romans for the administration of the State, he said, the most important was the Consulate. Later came the Tribunes created to protect the rights of the people and of the small landowners in particular. The houses of the Tribunes used to be open day and night to the citizens who might at any time require the Tribunes’ assistance. The Tribunes watched over the Senate, and their persons were sacred. They opposed any law and kept in check both the Senate and the people. In the same way, the Tribunes had a right to veto judgments by the Senate in criminal trials. Between the Consuls and the Tribunes, who had more strictly political powers, there were the Censors, who held a moral authority over the citizens of all classes and orders. The Censors could examine the life and conduct of the Senators themselves and pass censure upon any Knight who neglected his horse or upon any young patrician who unduly prolonged his bachelorhood and they could deprive him of his rank and degrade him to one of the lower orders. There was a time when the President of the Senate was chosen by the Censor for his high morals. Nowadays they choose him for his laxity...

The Emperor yawned. But Seneca was now expatiating, “The Prince of the Senate was the real leader of Roman aristocracy. He was the first to speak in the debates in the House. His vote had a special weight. Even at the time of Augustus...”

The Emperor seized the opportunity with impatience: “I declared at the outset of my reign that I intended to govern according to the model of Augustus. I omitted no opportunity to show my generosity, my clemency and complaisance. I abolished the more burdensome taxes. I reduced by three-quarters the rewards appointed for informers by the Papian Law. I distributed four hundred sesterces a man. I gave annual allowances to the noblest Senators who were in reduced circumstances, in some cases as much as five hundred thousand sestertii. I gave to the Praetorian Cohort a free monthly allowance of corn. Who can say I am not generous and munificent? ”

As all this was quite true, Seneca had no answer. In fact he felt rather annoyed with himself for having allowed his tutorial habit to take the upper hand, thus preventing him from broaching the subject that had been the primary reason of this audience. Now the Emperor was roused, and it was wiser to let him have his say.

My Prime Minister and honoured teacher, let me remind you that during his Consulship the Divine Julius Caesar robbed the Capitol of three thousand golden pieces and put in their place three thousand pieces of gilt copper of the same weight. He stole like a brigand. In Spain he held to ransom even the colleague he was going to replace. In Lusitania he sacked the towns that had opened their gates to him. In Gallia he destroyed the cities and took away everything of value. He robbed the sanctuaries of their votive offerings. He amassed gold in plenty; and to what purpose? To bribe the troops and the Senators and the Knights. Yes, indeed, people were less frightened of the cruelty of Sulla than of the generosity of Julius Caesar!” But soon he laughed: “So-called public virtue is nothing more than hypocrisy. Even Augustus said so.”

Nero was indeed very fond of exalting his own rule. His government was honest, he repeated. The Provinces were wisely ruled. He had reinstated the people’s meetings. What more could an Emperor do without being taken for a downright Republican?

No one, indeed, could say that the administration was not satisfactory. Eight years of peace had allowed the Empire to develop its resources to the utmost. Seneca and Burrus guided the Imperial government with a light hand. Rome ruled the world without oppressing it. Only on the Eastern frontiers the Parthians were giving trouble; but it was an agitation of long standing, going back to the days when the terrible Parthians had destroyed the armies of Crassus and defeated Mark Antony. It was a question of protecting the trade of Rome with the Far East. As soon as they had become masters of Egypt, the Romans had followed up and increased the business relations which the Greeks had established with India. Already under Tiberius, each year one hundred and twenty ships left the port of Myos-hormos, on the Red Sea, to carry trade with the Far East. Overland they reached the country of Seressa, in the centre of Asia, which dealt in a rare and valuable textile called silk. The Parthians were jealous of their trade with the Chinese, and wanted to retain their monopoly of silks, and they never permitted the Romans to cross their Province and reach the interior of Asia. It was therefore a point of honour and a business advantage to wage war against the Parthians. Furthermore, the Parthians disputed the suzerainty of Armenia to Rome; their king Vologese—a descendant of the powerful Arsacides—meant to place his brother Tiridates on the Armenian throne.

A campaign was therefore decided upon, and on the advice of Burrus, the command was entrusted to Domitius Corbulo, an excellent general. Corbulo was a man of Herculean stature and strength, sober and rigid in life, well proven in battle and splendid in command. He believed, like the famous Marius, that the enemy must be conquered rather by attrition than by the sword, and therefore he insisted on inflexible discipline for his troops. He made his army, softened by too long garrisoning in the East, spend the winter out of tents and train by long marches and arduous exercise. He himself went into the front line, bareheaded in cold weather. Soon his army made the enemy tremble, and in the year 61 the war commenced against the Parthians.

Corbulo advanced into Armenia at the moment when Tiridates, heading his innumerable cavalry, was sacking and plundering the territories of those who supported Rome. In the midst of this formidable cavalry, always on the move, the massive Roman army advanced, surrounded by an enemy that found victory in retreat. Tiridates tried against Corbulo the strategy that Surena had found successful against Crassus and Phraate with Antony. Some of Tiridates’ forces were light cavalry on very fast horses, armed only with great bows. They fought while escaping. Their arrows were winged with such force that the Romans received the wound without having seen the missile. Other troops, called cataphract, were entirely covered with an armour made of shells and steel, like human crocodiles, which left the warriors entire freedom of movement, turning on horseback as they pleased, and the long halberds they carried made them formidable assailants. Now and then they manoeuvred en masse, raising a cloud of dust that made them invisible, and in this smoke-screen the cavalry encircled the Romans, piercing them with their lances.

Tiridates tried to encircle Corbulo with his hordes. His troops opened out of the plain, moved like a storm amidst clouds of dust and fluttered on the horizon like a thunder­cloud. But Corbulo’s army advanced in impressive order, like a solid moving fortress. So compact was Corbulo’s army that the city of Artaxata was captured and burnt. Corbulo continued his advance towards Tigranocerte, but the great city opened its gates, and Armenia submitted. The former prisoner Tigrane, a ghost of a king, was sent from Rome by the Emperor to reign over Armenia. But Corbulo, who alone could keep the country in check, was victimised by jealousies in Rome, and was ordered to take over the Governorship of Syria.

Equally successful was the quelling of Queen Boadicea’s revolt in Britain. General Commander in Britain was Suetonius Paulinus, who meant to pacify the island and obtain, if possible, one of those victories that change the face of things.

The revolt had been brewing for a long time. King Presotagus, who held sway over Norfolk and Suffolk, before taking leave of this life, in the year 61, made the Emperor Nero his heir jointly with his own two daughters, hoping in this way to save both his kingdom and his fortune. But as soon as he was dead, the Romans seized his land and desecrated his house, and his widow, Queen Boadicea, was thrashed with rods and his daughters dishonoured. Queen Boadicea was a lady of terrible appear­ance, with a harsh voice and a wild bearing, her neck encircled by a heavy necklace of gold, her bosom tight into a corset, and she wore a flowing mantle of brilliant colours held by a brooch, her flaxen hair floating upon her shoulders.

The fury of Queen Boadicea was increased by another reason. King Presotagus had had some financial deals with Seneca, who had privately loaned to him large sums of money to breed horses. After King Presotagus’s death, Seneca had called in his loans, that were a kind of mortgage on reversions, and Boadicea did not hesitate to tell Seneca to go to the devil, and decided for open rebellion.

Mysterious and supernatural signs announced the revolt. In the Curia of Camolodunum, capital of the Province, ghosts were heard calling aloud for vengeance. One morning the great marble statue of Victory was found overthrown from its pedestal and lying prone on the ground as if the Goddess had surrendered to the enemy. At night the Theatre resounded with screams, and one day somebody said that the sea was the colour of blood and the tide had left upon the shore the outline of horrible corpses.

The veterans settled by Claudius at Camolodunum were the first victims. The whole town was razed to the ground. The Roman temples were burnt. The Ninth Legion, which rushed to the defence under the command of the Legate Petilius Curialis, was put to the sword to the last man. A similar fate befell Londinium, which was beginning to be a commercial centre of some importance, and the same happened to Verulamium. Seventy thousand Romans and allies met their death under the scythed chariots of the terrible Queen, or were massacred and burned at the stake.

Suetonius Paulinus hastened from Wales, and succeeded in putting together a new army of ten thousand men.

Against him stood no less than one hundred thousand Britons. But Paulinus compelled the enemy to give battle on the ground he had chosen. He had at his disposal the Fourteenth Legion, with the reserves of the Twentieth and some auxiliaries drawn from the neighbouring garrisons, ten thousand men in all. He chose a narrow gorge flanked by impassable forests, and having made sure that he had the enemy only in front, he waited for the Britons in an order of battle that was well known since the time of Marathon.

Before the hills between which Paulinus had taken position there was a vast plain, upon which the multitude of Britons advances helter-skelter, cavalry and infantry together. So sure were the Britons of victory that they had brought with them their wives and families, and had placed them upon wagons at the end of the battlefield to enjoy the sight of the grand combat. Boadicea, standing upon her war-chariot with her two daughters before her, dashed from one clan to another, shouting that she was on the field only as a woman of the people, ready to die to avenge her lost liberty, the wounds inflicted on her own body and the outrage on the virtue of her daughters. As soon as she finished speaking she took from the folds of her dress a hare, a sacred animal for the Britons, and seeing the hare running at full speed, they took it as a good omen.

The battle began. Paulinus had placed the Fourteenth Legion in the centre, surrounded by light infantry, and had arranged the cavalry on the flanks. The Fourteenth at the start stood still, shielded by the narrow entrance to the valley, but as soon as the enemy came within range, the whole Legion charged as one man. Simultaneously the auxiliaries attacked, and the cavalry with their long spears overcame all obstacles. The greater part of the Britons, taken by surprise, tried to run away, but the retreat was cut off by their own chariots and wagons that formed a dangerous circle of spectators at the end of the field; and the Romans made a slaughter from which not even the women and children escaped. Queen Boadicea, rather than fall into the hands of the Romans, took poison.

The news of the revolt, followed by the resounding dis­patches from Suetonius Paulinus, created much talk and satisfaction in Rome. But the stories of the vengeance applied by Paulinus prompted Nero to show leniency instead, and he spoke to his Cabinet of returning to the policy of Augustus who had persistently refused to occupy Britain. The Cabinet pointed out that an evacuation, even after such a military success, would have dangerous repercussions throughout the Empire, and would be difficult to explain even in Rome. The Emperor, therefore, limited himself to send the freedman Policletus with extraordinary powers and a formidable train, and as Suetonius Paulinus, in a subsequent engagement, lost some boats, Nero seized the opportunity, and recalled him.

VII

Peace, Nero could say, reigned everywhere. Nothing, however, seemed to escape a touch of ridicule. Some little time later, the Ambassadors of a German tribe arrived in Rome to beg from the Emperor the freedom of their territory. During their stay they were taken to the Theatre of Pompey to see the play. They could not understand the drama on the stage. On the other hand, they were most interested in the emotions of the public, and even more in the structure of the auditorium, and the different seats and boxes reserved for the various orders of citizens. Suddenly the German Ambassadors noticed in the orchestra stalls a group of spectators dressed differently from the other members of the audience. They asked who were the strangers seated with the Senators. Their escort explained to them that those places were reserved for the Ambassadors of people who had proven to be most brave and loyal to Rome. At this, the Germans rose and proudly went to sit among the Senators.

But one day a strange rumour ran through Rome, that Fortune had abandoned the Emperor. The previous night, while he was dining in a villa at Subiacum, the lightning had overthrown the table and broken the cup in his hands. A few minutes later a comet appeared in the sky—without any doubt, the omen of a change on the throne. The people, superstitious in the manner of a people no longer possessing any real faith, considered Nero already dethroned. But who would be his successor? Public rumour hinted at Rubellius Plautus, a Senator who, through his mother, could claim Julian descent. He was the very opposite of Nero. A man of grave mien, austere and reserved. His ancestors came from Tivoli, where the lightning had struck the Emperor’s table—what surer sign could one wish for? In a few hours Senator Rubellius found himself surrounded by a potential Court.

Nero felt the danger, but acted with much tact. He returned to Rome without delay and treated the rumour as a joke. Sending for Rubellius he advised him to retire to the East before the foolish attempts of a clique should place him in a false situation and force the Emperor to treat him as an enemy, which was far from his mind.

Rubellius agreed that the Emperor was more than right, and being a wealthy man, decided to start on an explorative journey to open up business in the Near East. At a farewell dinner the Emperor was heard to say: “There is not a single Senator of note whose astrologer has not predicted the Throne for him.”

At that dinner, it was noted, the Emperor had invited two of the stoutest Liberals of the day, the orator Domitius Afer and the historian Marcus Servilius. Afer, greatly admired by Tacitus, had achieved fame because, his talents apart, he was the very antithesis of the great jurists of the day. Famous lawyers were accustomed in the Courts to make a theatrical show of their haranguing, always arriving escorted by a long queue of clients acting as a claque, and speaking with emphatic gestures, gesticu­lating with well-cared-for hands upon which rings with precious stones glittered. Afer despised those artificialities and spurned rhetorical mannerism. Servilius, on the other hand, prided himself on his rigid sense of honour. His only foible was to wear around his neck two letters of the Greek alphabet written upon a piece of parchment and wrapped in a small piece of linen. He said that they would preserve him from weak eyes in old age. Servilius and Afer were two characters in Rome, serious to a degree, and acting their parts of old die-hards with the utmost composure. Indeed, they would never admit that it flattered them to be treated with great respect by the Emperor, but Nero knew it.

Soon after, the news went round that General Burrus was very ill. Eyebrows were raised; heads meaningfully shaken. It was known that Burrus was utterly against a marriage between Nero and Poppaea.

Burrus had begun his service under Caligula. He had fought in many battles and won reputation as a brave soldier. But in peace time the soldier was bound to stumble over a multitude of impediments. Heroism was an irrelevant virtue amid the complications and intrigues of a Court. Of recent times, he loved to mount his horse and ride into the Praetorians’ camp; and there he watched the Centurions reading the order for the next day, and in the stables the magnificent horses being fed, and the soldiers passing by, many of whom he knew by name, strong men, splendid warriors. It was but a few years ago that he had brought the young Emperor to this very camp, vainly seeking to arouse in him an interest in the army. Now he had given it up. He was descended from a great military family. He had kept intact the military spirit of his ancestors. What would become of Rome with an Emperor who was not interested in the army? An Emperor who had no higher ambition than to sing on the stage?

The Emperor was informed that the old soldier was ill with laryngitis. Nero appeared extremely grieved and anxious: “I will send him my own doctor.” He sent indeed to Burrus the specialist who looked after the Imperial throat, with orders to paint the General’s tonsils with an infallible drug. But when the Emperor himself went to visit him, Burrus turned his face to the wall. “How do you feel?” the Emperor asked. Immensely glad to die,” replied the old soldier.

Thus the rumour went, and Burrus’s death remained a complete mystery. There was no motive whatever for a dark deed, Burrus was loyal and faithful, and he had upheld the Emperor in the dark hours of his mother’s assassination. There is no word anywhere that points to a murder. On the other hand, no one has registered Nero’s regret at losing his faithful friend. All that is certain is that there was no delay and no hesitation in appointing a successor. Indeed, the successor was already chosen. The command of the Praetorian Guards was divided between Foenius Rufus, who would assure the Emperor of the loyalty of the plebs, and Tigellinus, who deserved a sign of his master’s gratitude for all his efforts to keep the fun going.

But soon afterwards the Court turned against Seneca. After all, he was an old bore, and a hypocrite and a hum­bug. And who could deny it? His riches, it was said, were greater than the Emperor’s. Most unbecoming for a philosopher preaching austerity! What did he want to buy with his wealth?

Others whispered to Nero, “This Spanish rhetorician does not want to admit that our Divine Caesar’s genius is putting to shame his outworn talents. He has announced that he is going to publish a book of poems! Soon he will step on the stage too, with a harp in his hands.” And someone else said, “With Seneca at your side, you look like a pupil under an unending tutelage.”

Certain it was that close to Nero sat Seneca, all-important in his vast riches, his position and his selfishness; more important still for his talents and for his reputation as an austere philosopher. His houses and gardens were almost as splendid as the Emperor’s. He had accumulated wealth, accepting the Emperor’s generous gifts of other people’s confiscated estates. He was all-powerful in Rome, perhaps more powerful than the Emperor, and now he spent his spare time composing poetry. It was reported to the Emperor that Seneca, who publicly compared Neto’s voice to that of Apollo, in private had laughed at Caesar the Singer, and Caesar the Poet, and Caesar the Charioteer. Moreover, it was Seneca who had urged his nephew Lucan to compose the poem Pharsalia in which Cato was glorified at the expense of Julius Caesar, when he, Seneca, knew that on the name of Julius Caesar rested the glory and power of his very master. And Seneca was professing the greatest admiration for Demetrius the Cynic, who had dared to criticize the Emperor, and on being called to the Palace and pointed out the danger to which his insolence exposed him, had replied to Nero: “You may threaten me with death. So does Nature threaten you.” And Seneca, the Augustals said in their falsetto voices, had praised at the Baths the courage and wit of this reply Seneca, who was informed of all this by his own spies, decided it was time to beg the Emperor to exempt him from public duties and allow him to retire. He asked for an audience, and in a well-prepared speech begged the Emperor to allow him to quit public life: he would place in the Emperor’s hands all he had received from him—honours, riches, everything. He was now too old to manage public affairs and opulence did not suit his philosophical mood.

It was a clever speech. Nero sensed the trick that was prompting such a request, for he knew his old tutor only too well. He answered with another speech. He repeated his friendship for his Mentor and Prime Minister, and voiced his regret at the idea of losing his company and his services. But nevertheless, Seneca’s request left the Emperor nonplussed. Prime Minister Seneca was a bore; more than that, he was at times vexing and embarrassing, with his attitude of an old tutor, almost forgetting that the Emperor was no longer his young pupil. But nevertheless he was a good standby. One could trust him with the conduct of public affairs; if not devoted or loyal, and certainly not affectionate, he was able. He knew all the correct answers. He could be relied upon to give the right advice to his Sovereign. And although the Emperor knew only too well that he was greedy to a degree, he had a knack of appearing a superior person, an honest philosopher. But now he wanted to leave.

The Emperor felt annoyed, almost angry. Especially as the old man gave no plausible reason, only the transparent excuse of old age and ill-health, and the desire to withdraw to his studies and writings.

The Emperor eyed Seneca for a long time. He knew that no inducement would make the old man change his mind. There was nothing else but to give way graciously, and try afterwards to discover the real cause. But it looked like desertion. And no one had a right to desert the Emperor.

VIII

After Seneca’s departure, Nero wondered whether there was some fatality in his life. They were Seneca’s words. Nero recalled to his mind the subtle teaching of Seneca and the speech his tutor had trained him to deliver before the Senate on the day of his accession. And the message that Seneca had drafted for him after the murder of his mother. And the wise way that his old Prime Minister had found to justify the Emperor’s whim of acting on the stage. And the hint that the Prime Minister had given him to spare Rubellius Plautus and make a show of magnanimity. And now Prime Minister Seneca wanted to retire. What was behind it all?

Seneca kept away from the Palace and took to living a life of frugal austerity in his luxurious house. He closed his door to all clients and proteges and he ceased to go out. He let it be known that he was ill and deep in study, writing, correcting his works, fortifying them with new truths.

Nero told his friends, “When one carefully considers Seneca, one finds that he does not honestly love anything or anyone, neither his Prince nor what he calls his virtue.” And Tigellinus added venomously: “Seneca’s poverty is a kind of audacity. His inactivity is a manoeuvre that will give him time to await his opportunity.”

One day the Emperor was told that Seneca had upheld Thrasea in the affair of Praetor Antistius. It was merely a strange and somewhat unimportant tangle upon the interpretation of ancient laws. Praetor Antistius, who had made himself obnoxious by turbulent behaviour dur­ing his period of office as a Tribune, had gone so far as to compose a satire against the Emperor and read it at a dinner-party at Ostorius Scapula’s. Tigellinus’s son-in-law Capito happened to be amongst the guests, and soon afterwards Tigellinus brought a charge of the majesty before the Senate against Antistius. The crime was proven, and the Consul Marullus, the first to speak, ex­pressed the view that the accused, deprived of his office, should be punished according to the Twelve Tables. According to the formal text of those ancient laws, Antistius should have been strangled in prison, for honour was esteemed so highly in ancient Rome that he who besmirched the honour of another man was considered to have committed a crime as great as an attempt at assassination.

But public opinion believed that in that affair of the Antistius trial the real intention was not so much to punish a culprit as to find an opportunity for the Emperor to make a grand show of clemency. Indeed, the law of lèse majesté had been set aside by Nero at the beginning of his reign. Should the Senate apply to Antistius the severity of the ancient laws, Nero would use his power to show mercy to the condemned. But that plan, which Nero had actually discussed with his Cabinet, was unexpectedly frustrated in the Senate by Senator Thrasea Peto who thwarted the Emperor’s intention and stole from him the glory and pleasure of an act of clemency.

In his speech Thrasea made a great show of praising the Emperor, and as he passed for an opposition Liberal, his speech of praise for the Emperor won the Senators over to his point of view. The Senate, therefore, merely sentenced Antistius to be banished and his private estate confiscated. Before putting the sentence on record, the Consuls informed the Emperor of the Senate’s vote. Nero was stunned to find that the Senate had thought fit to anticipate his personal clemency. But he held his hand, and replied that notwithstanding the terrible insult of Antistius, he would not oppose the Senate’s indulgence; in fact, the Senate might even discharge him, the Emperor would not object.

Yet, why had Senator Thrasea thwarted the Emperor’s desire for clemency? And why should public opinion now whisper that Seneca was ranging himself on the side of Thrasea?

But the Emperor was young! Young and temperamental, and inclined to lighter things. Seneca’s defection was soon put out of mind. Tigellinus took great care to make the Emperor forget it. For Tigellinus enjoyed the Emperor’s confidence by contrast. Seneca was as much the false embodiment of virtue as Tigellinus was the personification of everything vile and depraved. He was a bosom friend of the Emperor, and he realized that the surest way to retain this friendship was to foster all the Imperial whims, the worst even more than the best. He did not even ask for gifts or for a salary. He smiled at Poppaea and pulled a face behind Seneca’s back. And even now, he had a way of sighing that made Nero laugh; and the Emperor, alas, was bored.

IX

Poppaea was pressing the Emperor to marry her, to regularize, she said, her position at Court: “Why don’t you get rid of Octavia? She has given you no children, no heir.”

This was true, and sterility could be an excellent reason for repudiating a wife. It was equally true that Octavia had a very good defence—Nero had never been her husband. But that was another matter, for Nero had always felt a strange, inexplicable repugnance to approach the virtuous Octavia.

The idea of repudiating her had long been in Nero’s mind. Once he had mentioned it to Burrus, and Burrus had answered with his usual soldierly frankness, “If you want to repudiate Octavia, you must give her back her dowry.” But the dowry that Octavia had brought at her wedding was the Throne.

Now the Throne was his and there was Poppaea—and Poppaea was with child. The secret gave Nero an incomparable happiness. He dreamed of the heir he was going to have; it was urgent to avoid at any price the risk that the child should be born with the stigma of illegitimacy.

Octavia was therefore officially repudiated. Maybe she was glad to be rid of it all, to get away from that crazy Court where everybody treated her with contempt and neglect. Her life had been dull and grey. Nero’s indifference for her had turned into a mutual feeling of revulsion. He cringed whenever Octavia came near him. Her black hair was combed back smoothly, like the hair of a virgin, and there was something alien in her face that stifled any effort to feel affection or passion for her. When her changeless blue eyes looked straight at the Emperor’s face, a feeling of physical discomfort seized him. Since her brother’s death Octavia had never appeared at the dinner-table. Whenever she made an appearance in the drawing-room, she seemed to look fearfully around to make sure that no one was behind her. After her mar­riage to Nero she had lived in the Palace, not daring to stir out of its high, gloomy walls. Half-woman, half­child, in daytime she played with her dolls; but at night she would sit in her room with her old nurse Lalage, her little dark head pressed between her hands. At times she would say: “He doesn’t love me.” Or she would ask: “Why doesn’t he love me?” The great-grandchild of Augustus would then stand up for her nurse’s appraisal. She was very small, but delicately made and graceful. The old nurse would answer, “You are beautiful, my Empress, you are very beautiful.” “But still he doesn’t love me.” From her apartment on the ground floor she could see into the portico and the gardens beyond, shrouded in darkness. From somewhere in the night came the sound of a flute. Occasionally she would meet the Emperor, but Nero would avoid her very glance. That timid, fearful child-wife, whose eyes were always red with weeping, whose hands and feet were always cold, wearied him. He had come to think that Octavia was a hostile influence on his poetical inspiration. They rarely exchanged more than a word of formal greeting: “Empress...” “Emperor...” At the last feast of the Lupercalia, when sterile women submitted to flagellation, Octavia had the High Priest himself touch her loins with the whip—but the Emperor remained more distant than ever. Yes, in a life of utter disenchantment, it was better to part. Away from the Court she would find a new life; after all, she was not yet seventeen.

Twelve days later Nero married Poppaea with the full ceremony of traditional marriage—the young brides­maids singing the bridal hymns, the escorting of the bridegroom to the bride’s chamber, the draperies raised for an instant so that relatives and friends could see the newly-wed pair lying in the same bed, then the draperies fell back again, the servants put out the lamps, the departing guests murmured the customary good wishes for the happiness of Nero and Poppaea…, Like a farce on the stage, whispered someone. But Nero was really happy, for he was deeply in love with Poppaea. And she already carried in her womb his future heir.

But the repudiation of Octavia—or was it the marriage with Poppaea?—caused public protests. The people, who had accepted in silence the poisoning of Britannicus, the assassination of Agrippina, the “liquidation” of Burrus, rebelled at the idea of the poor innocent Octavia being chased away by her Imperial husband and supplanted by the hateful Poppaea. To Seneca, who had come to offer his belated congratulations, Nero expressed his surprise. The old Mentor replied: “Sometimes the people can be hurt by a simple injustice. The soul of the people always retains some spark of innocence and sense of equity.” The old humbug, Nero thought with annoyance, always these moralizings”

The fact was that Poppaea upset public opinion. She was too haughty, too disdainful, her very beauty was too unreal, almost un-Roman. And her mixing with the Jews caused much criticism. On the day of the nuptial ceremony and the formal proclamation of Poppaea as Empress, there were demonstrations in front of the Palace. The populace asked forgiveness for Octavia and insults were hurled at the new Empress. The crowd had to be chased away by the Guards with the flat of their swords.

It was, therefore, decided to make public the reasons^ for Octavia’s repudiation. Agents were sent out in the City with this kind of tale. The repudiation had a very serious reason, which the Emperor, out of kindness and consideration for Octavia’s youth had preferred to keep quiet. But Octavia had a lover, a man of low caste, almost a slave, a flute-player from Egypt. Everything had been discovered, even the name of the lover was known—Eukeros.

To give some semblance of authenticity to the story, a mock trial was staged. Senators were called to the Palace to sit as Justices and Tribunes, Army Chiefs, all the usual advisers of the Emperor. Poppaea, veiled as Agrippina used to be, sat on a throne next to the Emperor. Tigellinus, his arms crossed upon his glittering breastplate, stood like a sinister buffoon behind the Imperial pair. The Chief hangman with his assistant in a corner of the room, prepared the pincers, the levers, the thumbscrews, all the instruments of torture. Octavia’s maids were introduced to be questioned, naked, while the executioners advanced towards them holding red-hot irons. With the hot irons almost touching their breasts, or upon the “horse” with their legs outstretched and the wooden peg splitting them apart, the girls confessed to anything. Some courageously shouted that their Imperial mistress was as innocent as a dove. The executioners tortured them, rather blandly, as in a play. The number of confessions extorted was more than enough. Tigellinus asked of one: “Confess that Octavia gave herself to anybody. All the world says so!” The poor girl answered, “If one had to believe all the filthy things that are said about you, you should be hanged and quartered!” The Court laughed. A little humour accorded well with the merciful spirit of theEmperor. Octavia was merely banished to Campania.

But again the people protested at the exile. Nero was much perturbed.

In the peculiar Roman life, there was, between the people and the Emperor, a kind of daily intimacy that made any friction intolerable for the Emperor. Notwithstanding the great powers of the Throne, the people had retained unimpaired certain rights of control and criticism. The Senate was servile yet obstructive. The people were devoted yet insolent. This was because for the people the Emperor was merely a crowned Tribune, whose job and duty was to feed and amuse them with Circus shows. Every day the Emperor must preside over the Games at the Circus, give justice in the Forum, offer sacrifices in the temples, and the crowd acclaimed him, spoke to him. It was a continuous communing of life between the Throne and the People. Hence the necessity for the Emperor to be forever popular, and the impossibility of living in Rome without continuous ovations.

How could Poppaea show herself in the Imperial Box at the Circus if one hundred thousand spectators threw at her the name of Octavia? Nero was frightened by this popular emotion. Orders were issued to bring Octavia back. The news was at once circulated in all districts of the City and announced in the Acta Diurna.

The news provoked an explosion of joy that was equally immoderate and dangerous. The people marched en masse to the Capitol to render thanks to the Supreme God Jupiter. Crowns of roses were laid upon the busts of Octavia, such a homage of flowers that the head of the exiled Empress seemed to bloom out of fragrant petals. And, what was worse, several effigies of Poppaea were smashed. To crown it all, the crowd went again to the Palace to acclaim the generosity of the Emperor. But the felicitations were mingled with insults for the new Empress. It looked like a sedition. Once more the Guards that Tigellinus and Foenius kept in readiness in the Royal Gardens had to be called out. The crowd backed away leaving on the Palace Square many wounded and dead.

But the outburst had doomed Octavia. In a few days Poppaea’s friends hinted to the Emperor that Octavia was not only a nuisance to the Empress, but a danger to the Emperor himself. In a city where the Emperor’s liberal policy permitted such public licence, two or three hundred thousand citizens, without reckoning the slaves and freedmen, could suddenly rise, prompted by the same sentiment or pretext; and ten thousand Praetorian Guards would no longer be able to quell the revolt. And who could say whether behind these demonstrations there was not lurking the ambition of someone waiting to be proclaimed?

Poppaea threw herself at Nero’s feet, giving her anguish a touching theatrical turn. If her absent rival had such power over the crowd, what would happen when she returned to Rome? Let her return indeed, and bring into the Imperial Family the breed of an Egyptian flute­player! Let her come back. If the Emperor hesitated to take back Claudius’s daughter, the people would find for her a new husband and proclaim him Emperor!

Behind Poppaea was Tigellinus. Octavia’s end was decided. Poppaea departed for Anzio, to await the birth of her child.

Two days later an incredible confession was placarded all over Rome. Anicetus, the sailor who had proved so useful in the “liquidation” of Agrippina, had confessed to being the secret lover of Octavia. Anicetus was already on the high seas towards his new Governorship of Sardinia. People were flabbergasted. Who would have imagined it! Poppaea and Tigellinus lost no time and Octavia was despatched to the Island of Pandataria. It was equal to a sentence of death.

A few days later the actual order was issued. A detachment of Praetorian Guards arrived on the island bringing to the former Empress the order to commit suicide. Terrified, the young girl cried: “I have not done anything! Have pity on me!” But the Centurion had his orders and an eye on promotion. He nodded to his men. Octavia was seized. They gagged her to stop her screams, and her wrists were cut. Then, as she wriggled on the ground, they threw her into a cauldron of boiling water and pushed her down. Her head was brought on a salver to Poppaea.