The Nero Prediction (24 page)

Nero had listened to my transcription of the meeting with rapt attention, broken only by his frequent glances into the mirror to see how his hair curling was coming on.

I’d guessed, of course, but I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. "I don't know, dominus."

Nero's fingertip patted the dab of paper on his chin that sealed a razor snick. "This savior of yours sounds like a rather dull person while I rather like the sound of your Beast. I simply must have him over for dinner before he's cast into that lake of everlasting fire. Bring me Julius Alexander. He's a Jew, at least he used to be. He might know where to reach him."

Tiberius Julius Alexander was waiting outside with the throng of dignitaries from everywhere in the empire who were attending Nero's morning reception. He'd been procurator of Judea six years previously and since his recent return from the Armenian front had been one of Nero's advisors on Jewish affairs.

His face was wreathed in smiles at the honor of being admitted into Nero’s dressing room. "Warmest salutations Augustus."

Nero opened his right hand in greeting. "Morning Alexander. I have a riddle for you. Tell him, Epaphroditus."

"It's a number that is also a name," I said. "The number is 666."

Alexander's quick eyes darted between my face and Nero's. "Allow me to suppose that the very fact that you have put this riddle to me first is a clue. Am I correct?"

Nero nodded. He was enjoying this little game. "Very astute, Alexander."

"How do I differ from the others paying you court this morning? Perhaps in that my background is Jewish."

"Right again."

Alexander pulled a comical face. "All to no avail, Caesar. I'm afraid I'm no Oedipus and I must now obediently go to my death."

Nero smiled mischievously. "Give him another clue, Epaphroditus."

"It's the name of an animal."

Alexander scratched his temple as he digested this. "An animal."

 I read from my transcript. "Whatever it is the Beast rejoices in, that you must avoid. For the Beast is the opposite of our savior. Where he is the Christ, the Beast is the Antichrist."

Alexander's lips crawled away from each other to reveal long yellow teeth. "Augustus, this riddle is an enigma wrapped in a paradox. The harder I reach for a solution, the further away it seems to go. Perhaps just one more clue?"

I looked for Nero's nod and got it.

"Beware that you do not share the Fate of the Beast and those who wear the mark of the Beast. Shun therefore all music other than hymns."

Alexander's eyes blinked repeatedly and after each blink they looked more frightened. He seemed to be doing some kind of calculation. "The number is 666?"

Nero had forgotten about his hairdresser. "You've got it?"

It was obvious from Alexander's face that he had, because it was turning the color of ash. "Caesar..."

Nero was on the edge of his chair. "C'mon man, out with it!"

Alexander turned up his hands. "Augustus, if I have the correct answer, which I doubt, it would seem to be an insult to the imperial dignity."

Nero waved his hairdresser away. "Spit it out. My imperial dignity gets insulted with impunity every day."

Alexander looked at me but I gave him no help. It was quite pleasant to see someone else sweat for a change. "Caesar, Hebrew letters have numerical values. Any number of words could add up to 666, but two of those that do..."

Nero hung on Alexander's lips. "Yes?" he whispered.

"Nero Caesar."

This answer to the riddle seemed to take Nero completely by surprise. "Me? Ha! How fascinating! So I'm a Beast for loving music, the theater and the circus! Oh, how perfectly cynical! This savior is not content just to spend the rest of his life in a barrel like the rest of the Cynics. He wants to put the whole world in a barrel! What ambition! What vision! At last Nero you have found an adversary worthy of yourself, someone who has set himself the task of undoing everything you plan to do!"

"Caesar, I might have got it wrong therefore-"

Nero cut Alexander short. "Wrong? Of course you haven't. Listen: 'Whatever it is the Beast rejoices in, that you must avoid.' What could be clearer than that? It's nothing less than a challenge! And not a dreary battle over land and loot. A battle for hearts and minds. What fun we're going to have! What an inspired finale to my Neronia!  On one side of the stage we'll have this Christ putting the Muses to flight as his fiery eyes reduce the world to ashes. On the other will be Nero welcoming them with open arms as he struggles to save the world with music and song." He raised his eyes in rapture, licking his lips as if the taste of his words was ambrosia. "Oh, I can see it now, the final act:
Nero verses the Antinero!"

By this time Alexander had recovered his nerve. "Brilliant, Caesar. Who could fail to be enraptured by a concept of such transcendental scope? My only fear is that this messiah, because that's what he would be called if he were a Jew, fails to be worthy of your genius. Wouldn’t it be wise to find the man and see if he’s fit to appear on the same stage as an artist like yourself?"

It took several moments for Nero to come back to earth. "You're right of course. The man may turn out to have the voice of a cricket. Oh dear, I hope he doesn't turn out to be a big disappointment."

"He's dead," said Tigellinus.

Since Jews, unlike the Romans, are fanatics almost to a man and hate heretics more than they hate pork, the Praetorian Prefect's men had found a dossier on Christ at one of the Jewish Synagogues.

Nero gave a perfectly convincing impression of being horrified. "What?"

"Pontius Pilate crucified him in Jerusalem thirty years ago."

He gazed uncomprehendingly at Tigellinus. "That's impossible. He's about to throw me into a lake of fire and brimstone."

Tigellinus smiled. "The rumor is that somehow he’s risen from the dead and he’s about to conquer Rome with a heavenly host and then hand the empire to his followers."

Nero clapped his hands with joy. "Oh, he is a wonder, isn't he! When’s this going to happen? We’re going to have to do the programs you know."

Tigellinus gave me the cue to speak. “I think Balbillus knows,” I said. “He’s waiting outside.”

“Bring him in!”

This time it was the astrologer who was annoyed by having been kept waiting, perhaps only I saw that in the pinch of his frown, because he wouldn’t allow such a base emotion to ruffle his dignity.

“Well Balbillus, what do you have for us?”

“Augustus you must not be in Rome during the anniversary of the Gallic defeat.”

“Of course not, I never am. That’s July 18. The city’s a furnace then. As usual I’ll be on the beach at Antium. Unless…”

“Caesar?”

“Unless Christ decides to make his debut. If he breathes fire perhaps he doesn’t mind a bit of hot weather.”

Tigellinus, flashing a smile at the joke, said. “Caesar, Rome is only a couple of hours from Antium. Should you wish to return quickly - ”

Nero cut him short. He said to Balbillus, “What’s suddenly so very unlucky about this anniversary of the Gallic defeat? How many of them have passed safely since it happened? More than four hundred, surely?”

“It’s the Moon, Augustus. She is perfectly full on the seventeenth. The next day, the anniversary of the Gallic defeat, she begins to wane and therefore becomes vindictive. Sirius reappears in the east at dawn the following day, July 19, the anniversary of the day the Gauls set Rome on fire. The midday Moon of that ancient, ill-omened day is conjunct your Moon. On the coming July 19 the midday Gallic fire Moon and yours are both also conjunct transit Saturn who is of course your ruling star, a most unfortunate configuration. Further, July 19 is the anniversary of the marriage of Isis and Osiris. I’ve heard that many Egyptian Christians identify their Messiah with Osiris because Osiris also rose from the dead. They identify their Messiah’s mother Mary with Isis. These are the same people who are calling you the Antichrist.”

Nero’s eyes were wide as a child’s. His head seemed to be spinning around with this barrage of facts and figures, mine certainly was. Tigellinus took his opportunity. “Caesar, I don’t believe for a second that anyone or anything is going to ride down from heaven on clouds of glory. But religious fanatics are dangerous. They welcome death because they believe it guarantees them eternal life. If you stay in Rome during these unlucky days you could be struck at from any direction.”

Nero picked up his kithara and strummed it disconsolately. “I’m much more afraid of the mosquitoes and the flies than your Christians,” he said. “But I am afraid of the Moon. If it weren’t for Epaphroditus she would have killed me for Mother’s sake. Ah well, sea breezes never fail to inspire me. When we get to Antium, Tigellinus, you make sure you have a fast chariot standing by night and day in case I’m given my cue.”

That afternoon Rachel knocked on my door when I was having my siesta but ignored my invitation to join me in bed. "Someone has agreed to speak to you," she said.

As arranged, I presented myself at sunset outside a bookshop in Subura. I made sure that trained men guarded me who knew how to keep out of sight. I was met by a young man with a thin, suspicious face who’d walked past me several times in a clumsy attempt to find out whether or not I was on my own.

"Epaphroditus?" he squeaked nervously.

"Yes."

"Come with me."

He led me through a narrow, crowded maze of streets until I was completely lost, which no doubt was his intention. Every now and then he looked over his shoulder to see if he was being followed, a useless exercise. My guards were too well trained.

We ended our circuitous journey in a squalid tenement. A curtained door dimmed the noise of yapping dogs and bawling children. An old man was reclining on a couch dictating a letter in Hebrew. I did my best to hide my surprise. He was Peter, the man Mark the Lion was translating for in Alexandria sixteen years ago. There was nothing special about the eyes that rose to meet mine. They certainly didn't flash with fire. Nor did they seem to recognize me. My guide suggested I sit on the empty couch facing Peter. I did so. While he continued his dictation in a calm, unhurried voice he examined me. Gradually at first, without my really being aware of it, I felt my gravity levitate. Soon I felt as light and as a feather but for some reason I wasn't alarmed.

Peter stopped dictating. He said something to his secretary.

The secretary smiled. "He says that Mark was right. You have been chosen." He’d recognized me, after all.

Peter looked at me as he spoke, his words slow and deliberate. The secretary translated. "However what have you been chosen for? That is the question."

Up and down went my head. I was nodding.

Still holding me with his eyes, Peter took a deep breath. I found myself following his example. He exhaled slowly. So did I. Soon my breathing was regular.

The secretary was bending over me, extending his hand. It was soft and warm. "Greetings, I'm John. What do you seek?"

"Christ," I said. "Is he alive or dead?”

Peter appeared to understand what I said. Mark translated. "Should you sincerely want to meet Christ, you shall."

I felt my pulse quicken with excitement. “Then he is alive?”

“He is more alive than any of us.”

I fought to control my growing excitement. "Can I meet him?"

Again John translated. "We can't set up the meeting. Only you and he can."

"What do you mean?"

"When you have returned good for evil he will come to you."

I was determined not to go back to Nero empty handed. "Can you tell me something about Christ? What's his name? What does he look like? Does he live here in Rome?"

Although Peter’s expression if anything became sweeter, during that instant he discovered why I'd come. From now on, I knew, all that I would get out of him was his good for my evil. "He appears to different people in different forms. He's present wherever two or three gather together in his name."

“So he is dead.”

“He is with his father in heaven.”

I decided that I had nothing to lose by getting to the point. "Is the comet a sign of his return?"

"That he will return soon, that we know."

"How soon?"

"Before he went away, he said that he would return in the lifetimes of some of us, his apostles. There are not many of us left."

"Is it true that he's going to throw down the great and exalt the humble?"

The old man fell silent for a moment. Then John translated, "Peter asks to be excused. There are others waiting to meet him.”

My young guide waited for me in the street. He was even more anxious than when I'd first seen him outside the bookshop. For good reason. This was a dangerous part of Rome, more dangerous after sunset.

However I was so preoccupied with weighing whether or not it was worth mentioning my interview to Nero that it must have been several moments before I realized I was alone. I stopped and turned, but the narrow lane, dark except for the light that struggled down from the windows of the surrounding tenements, appeared to be deserted. I couldn’t even see my guards, was suddenly afraid that I had lost them.

Two figures moved out of a doorway into the lane ahead of me. I turned. There were now also men behind, coming closer.

The voice was as gruff as a bear's growl. "Epaphroditus!"

I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands to force the fear out of my voice. "Who are you?"

"Servants of he who is to come. We need to speak with you."

"I've just spoken to your leader."

"We have no leader, except for Christ and it is he who has ordered us to speak with you."

So he was alive, after all!

My courtly air, which was just about to desert me, slunk back. "I'm very interested in meeting Christ. Is he in Rome?"

The man doing the talking had a dark beard and a shiny beak of a nose. "With your help, he'll be here soon."

It seemed that at last I was getting somewhere. "I'll do anything I can."

He stuck the beak into my face. "Why should you? Do you believe?"