Empire (22 page)

Titus’s gaze returned to the youth who was donning the toga of manhood that day. He found Nero to quite charming and surprisingly self-possessed for his age. At fourteen, he was a connoisseur of painting and sculpture, wrote poetry, and loved horses. He was tall but had an ungainly physique. A boy’s long-sleeved tunic had not been flattering to Nero’s thick neck, stocky trunk, and bony legs; he looked better in his purple-and-gold toga. His blond hair glinted in the sunlight, and his flashing blue eyes were wide, taking in the scene. Nero enjoyed being the center of attention.

Standing beside him was the young man’s adoptive father. Claudius looked more decrepit than ever. The poor fellow had never been the same after his discovery of Messalina’s bigamy and the bloodbath that followed. Titus still felt a chill when he remembered how Claudius had expected Messalina at dinner on the very night that he ordered her death. And on the morning that followed, Claudius sent messages to some of the executed men inviting them to play dice, and complained when they didn’t come. He sent petulant messages accusing them of staying abed and being too lazy to reply. “Sleepy-heads,” he called them, forgetting that by his order they had lost their heads altogether.

On the other side of Nero stood his tutor, Lucius Annaeus Seneca, a bearded man in his forties, wearing a senator’s purple-bordered toga. Seneca was an accomplished man of letters, famous for his many books and plays. Messalina had talked Claudius into exiling Seneca, but Agrippina had arranged for his return, and had charged Seneca with giving Nero the most refined education possible.

The ceremony commenced. When the time arrived for the taking of the auspices, all eyes turned to Titus. He began with a short speech about the subject of his augury, whose full name, since his adoption by the emperor, was Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus.

“As many of you know, the name Nero comes from an old Sabine word meaning ‘strong and valiant,’ and those who have seen this young man perform on horseback and wield arms in the Troy Pageant know that he is worthy of his name,” said Titus. The appreciative applause for this pretty turn of phrase was cut short by a sudden outburst of crying from Vespasian’s
newborn. Titus frowned. The baby’s wailing grew louder, until at last his mother carried little Domitian away. Vespasian, who seemed unperturbed by the interruption, wriggled his fingers at the departing infant.

Titus loudly cleared his throat and proceeded.

With his lituus he marked a segment of the sky. At midwinter, with few birds in Roma, patience might be required for the observation, but almost at once Titus saw a pair of vultures. They were quite far away, circling above the private racetrack Caligula had built for himself beyond the Tiber on the Vatican Hill. Titus waited, hoping to see more, but eventually he felt the crowd grow restive. He declared the auspices well and truly taken and announced that they were very good. In fact, the auspices had been only mildly favorable, almost noncommittal. Claudius, standing behind him and able to see what Titus saw, would have known this, had he been watching; but when Titus glanced over his shoulder, he saw the emperor staring at the ground.

There were more speeches, and then Nero was called on to parade before the assembly wearing his toga. He did so with a swagger that was almost comical. (Titus was reminded of Messalina’s derisive comment: “What a little showman!”) No one laughed, though it seemed to Titus that Vespasian might have smirked; with his expression of perpetual constipation, it was hard to tell. At last the company retired to the imperial residence for the banquet, passing the armor of the Divine Augustus in the forecourt and the ancient laurel trees that flanked the massive bronze doors.

“Just how old is the emperor?” Chrysanthe asked Titus, after they had settled onto their couches and been served the first course of olives stuffed with anchovies. She was gazing at Claudius, who shared a couch with Agrippina across the room.

Titus calculated in his head. “Sixty-one, I think. Why do you ask?”

“When we first came to Roma ten years ago, I thought he was old then, but he was so much more alive. Remember how excited he was to show us the city? Now he seems withered, like a tree that’s had its roots cut and might fall at any moment.”

“All his drinking doesn’t help,” noted Titus as he watched a serving boy refill the emperor’s cup. Chrysanthe was right. His cousin was more doddering than ever. What a contrast Agrippina presented. She was positively effervescent, smiling and laughing and entertaining everyone in earshot
with a very witty anecdote, to judge by the laughter she elicited. Nero reclined on his own couch nearby and gazed at his mother adoringly.

While Titus watched, Agrippina gestured to Nero. Obeying her request, the young man pulled back a fold of his purple toga to bare his right arm. Coiled like a snake around his biceps was a golden bracelet. Agrippina’s listeners nodded and made appreciative sounds.

“What’s that about?” asked Titus.

“He’s showing off his snake bracelet,” explained Chrysanthe. “Half the children in the city wear a bracelet like that now, though not made of solid gold. Inside that bracelet is the snakeskin that scared off an assassin sent by Messalina when Nero was in his crib. He wears the bracelet to show gratitude and devotion to his mother, and they say the snakeskin still protects him. Do you think we should have such a bracelet make for little Lucius?” Their son was in another room with his nurse, eating with the other children.

“Perhaps,” said Titus, though it occurred to him that a more appropriate talisman for his son would be the fascinum of their ancestors. Why had he allowed Kaeso to take it? Titus realized that he was clenching his teeth. He drove thoughts of his brother from his mind, refusing to let them spoil such a joyous occasion.

As the meal progressed and more wine flowed, guests began to move about the room, standing in small groups or sharing couches while they conversed. Titus worked his way to Nero’s couch. Agrippina stood nearby, as did Seneca. Standing next to Seneca was a woman about half his age, his wife, Pompeia Paulina.

“Teach my son all the poetry and rhetoric and history you want, I told Seneca, but no philosophy!” Agrippina was saying. “All those notions about Fate and free will and the slippery nature of reality—perhaps they’re amusing for people who have nothing better to think about, but they can be nothing but a handicap to a person like my son, who must be ready to assume such a heavy burden of responsibility.”

“It’s true,” said Seneca. He had grown a beard in exile and kept it on his return; it made him look more like a philosopher than a senator. “Poetry gives consolation to the powerful—”

“While philosophy gives consolation to the powerless?” said Titus.

Seneca smiled. “Greeting, Titus Pinarius. Though I suppose I should address you as Senator Pinarius now.”

“Or address him as augur; that’s Pinarius’s special calling, and the one he performed today was splendid,” said Agrippina. “But you must excuse me while I attend to another matter. There’s to be an entertainment later, and I’m told the flute player and the dancing girl have both gone missing.”

Titus watched her leave, then turned to Seneca and his wife. “Speaking of entertainment, is it true that Nero will be singing a song which he composed especially for the occasion?”

“Of course not!” Seneca made a face. “Nero composed a song, to be sure; it’s a meditation on the virtues of his great-great-grandfather, the Divine Augustus, entirely appropriate for the occasion. But the song will be sung by a young freedman, a trained performer.”

“Is Nero a poor singer, then?”

Seneca and his young wife exchanged glances. He had married Paulina when she was very young and she had shared the years of his exile. Having no other student at hand, it was said that Seneca had taught his wife philosophy. Despite her youth, Paulina was probably the best-educated woman in Roma.

“Nero’s voice is not . . . unpleasant,” said Paulina. She was evidently being generous.

“But his talent as a singer is irrelevant,” added Seneca. “It would never do for a son of the emperor to perform as a mere actor before an audience. The very idea is vulgar.”

“Then I suppose I shall never have the pleasure of hearing Nero sing,” said Titus. “Still, I’ll look forward to hearing his composition. When it comes to writing, he certainly couldn’t ask for a better teacher than you. I was present at the recent gathering where your play about Oedipus was read aloud. Such powerful language! Such unforgettable images!”

“Thank you, Senator Pinarius.” Seneca beamed. “Nero also appreciated that play. His tastes are quite sophisticated. But he still requires instruction in matters of . . . propriety. The boy wanted to recite the role of Oedipus, if you can imagine that. The son of an emperor, playing the role of an incestuous parricide! I’ve tried to explain to him that emperors simply cannot be actors, yet he still talks about taking a part in the new play
I’m working on, about Thyestes. I hope to have it ready for a recitation during the upcoming festivities attending Nero’s election to the consulship.”

“Doesn’t a consul have to be at least twenty years old?”

“Yes, but there is no law that says a man cannot be elected at fourteen and enjoy the privileges of a consul-elect until he reaches the age of twenty. I’m sure we can count on your vote to ratify his selection, Senator Pinarius?”

Titus nodded, acquiescing to this slippery bit of constitutional logic. Seneca was a politician after all, not just a philosopher.

“Anyway,” Seneca went on, “during the play to celebrate his election, I can assure you the consul-elect will be in the audience,
not
on the stage.”

Titus nodded. “A play about Thyestes, you say? Wasn’t he the Greek king tricked into eating his own sons?”

Seneca was about to bite into a pastry, but lowered the delicacy from his lips. “Yes. Thyestes’ brother, King Atreus, baked the boys in a pie, fed them to their unsuspecting father, then showed their heads to poor Thyestes. But Thyestes exacted a terrible revenge.”

“As they always do in these Greek tales,” added his wife. Paulina gave Titus a quizzical look. “Thyestes and Atreus were twins, they say. You have a twin brother, don’t you, Senator Pinarius?”

Titus frowned. After a long spell of not thinking about Kaeso, twice within an hour his brother had been called to his mind. He changed the subject back to Seneca’s work. “Oedipus and Thyestes—such grim stories.”

“I draw inspiration from the old Greek playwrights, especially Euripides. Despite the antiquity of his subject matter, his outlook is remarkably modern; the darkness and violence of his stories resonate with present-day Romans. Then there is my own experience of life, which has not been without tribulation. I was forced into a premature retirement by Caligula, thanks to his insane suspicions. I was brought back to favor by Claudius, and then sent into exile again for eight years, thanks to Messalina’s scheming. Now I’m back again, thanks to Agrippina, and I’ve been welcomed in the very heart of the imperial household. Agrippina is my deus ex machina, my Athena appearing at the last moment in the play, descending from the sky to restore harmony to the cosmos.”

“The empress is your muse, then?”

“My savior, certainly.” Seneca cocked his head. “And then, of course, there are dreams.”

“Dreams?”

“As a source of inspiration. Do you not dream, Titus Pinarius?”

Titus shrugged. “Hardly ever.”

“Perhaps that’s a blessing. My dreams are very vivid, full of noise and blood and violence—louder and brighter and more startling than anything in the waking world. Sometimes I can scarcely stand my dreams. I wake in a cold sweat, then reach for the wax tablet at my bedside and scribble notes for a scene—Oedipus tripping blindly over the body of his mother, or Thyestes agape at the sight of his son’s severed heads.”

Seneca raised an eyebrow. “Do you know, a dream has just come back to me. I’d forgotten it until this moment. I had it the night after Claudius told me I would have the honor of tutoring Nero. Odd, how one can forget a dream completely, and then it suddenly comes back. I dreamed I appeared at the imperial house, in this very room, ready for my first day, but when my young pupil turned to face me—it was Caligula! What a shock! And so nonsensical, since Nero is nothing like his uncle. Caligula was raised in army boots and had hardly any education, while Nero loves learning.” Seneca shivered. “Did you ever meet Caligula face-to-face?”

“Only once,” said Titus.

“Lucky you!”

Vespasian strolled over to join them. His wife, Domitilla, was beside him, still carrying the newborn Domitian, who had quieted down. Paulina left her husband’s side to have a closer look at the baby.

“Did I hear you mention the departed Caligula?” Vespasian said.

Seneca eyed the general condescendingly. “Yes, I was telling Senator Pinarius a story about—”

“Who doesn’t have a Caligula story to tell?” said Vespasian. The general was more used to talking than to listening. “I suppose my tale is pretty harmless compared to most. Caligula was emperor; I couldn’t have been more than thirty—that’s right, because my Titus had just been born—and I’d just been elected aedile. One of my responsibilities was keeping the city clean. I thought I was doing a pretty good job, until one day Caligula summoned me to meet him on a muddy little back road on the far side of the Aventine—not a paved road, mind you, but a narrow dirt alley behind
some warehouses. He asked me why the street was so dirty. ‘Because it’s made of dirt?’ I said.” Vespasian laughed. “Caligula was not amused. He was furious. By Hercules, it’s a miracle I didn’t lose my head on the spot! He ordered his lictors to scoop up handfuls of mud and to cram it inside my toga, until I was covered all over with mud and loaded with the stuff like a bursting wineskin. Then Caligula laughed until he wept, and off he went. Mind you, later, a soothsayer told me the incident was actually a good omen, something about the very soil of my homeland being next to my skin and under the protection of my toga. Ha! But these soothsayers can turn anything to a fellow’s advantage, can’t they?” He laughed, then stopped himself. “Oh dear, is that a rude thing to say to an augur?” He laughed again, louder. “Ah, but have you met my son Titus, Senator Pinarius? He was just here, with his friend Britannicus—oh, there they are, having a laugh with Nero.”