The Roman (38 page)

284

plunge the State into civil war. It would be better to open one�s veins or take poison than allow such a thing to happen to the fatherland.� We were frightened by his words, drunk though we were. Several others took their farewells and left. The rest of us praised Nero and tried to explain that Britannicus had no hope against him. �First joint regent,� said Nero. �That�s what my mother threatens. Then civil war. Who knows what list Britannicus is now ruminating over in his quiet mind. Perhaps you yourselves are all on it.� The words alone were frightening. Nero was unpleasantly right, even if we did try to laugh and remind him that, as the Saturnalia king, he might jest as cruelly as he pleased. He returned to the games and began to assign outrageous tasks to us. Someone should get hold of one of the Vestal Virgins� shoes. Senecio was ordered to awaken and bring in the old noblewoman whose assistance had originally helped him to find a firm place on Palatine, despite his lowly origins. Tiring of these pranks, Nero then decided to try something even more impossible. Many left when he finally cried out, �My laurels to anyone who brings Locusta here.� The others seemed to know who Locusta was, but I asked in my innocence, �Who is Locusta?� No one wanted to tell me, but Nero said, �Locusta is a woman who has suffered a great deal and who can cook mushroom dishes for gods. Perhaps I feel like tasting food for the gods because I�ve been so hideously insulted tonight.� �Give me your laurels,� I cried, taking no particular notice of his words. �You�ve still not set me a task.� �Yes,� said Nero. �Yes, Minutus Lausus, my best friend, should be given the most difficult task. Minutus can be our Saturnalia hero.� �And after us, chaos,� said Otho. �No, chaos in our own time,� cried Nero. �Why should we leave it untried.� At that moment the old noblewoman came in, half naked and as drunk as a Bacchanean, strewing myrtle twigs about her, while Senecio hurriedly tried to stop her. This woman knew everything about Rome, so I asked her where I could find Locusta. She was not surprised by my question, but just tittered behind her hand

285

and told me to ask my way to the Coelius district. I left quickly. The city was well lit and I did not have to ask for long before I found myself at Locusta�s little house. When I knocked, the door was opened, to my surprise, by an angry Praetorian guardsman who would not let me in. Not until he saw my narrow red border did he change his tone. �The woman Locusta is under guard,� he explained, �accused of serious offenses. She may not see or speak to anyone. Because of her, I�ve had to miss all the Saturnalia celebrations.� I had to rush off as far as the Praetorians� camp to find his superior, who fortunately turned out to be Julius Pollio, brother to the friend of my youth, Lucius Polio. He was a tribune now in the Praetorian Guard, and did not oppose the command of the Saturnalian king. On the contrary, he took the opportunity to join the circle around Nero. �I am responsible for the woman,� he said. �So I�ll have to come with Locusta and keep an eye on her.� Locusta was not yet an old woman, but her face was like a death mask and one of her legs was so crippled by torture that we had to get a sedan to take her to Palatine. She said absolutely nothing on the way, but just stared straight ahead with a bitter expression on her face. There was something frightening and ominous about her. Nero had moved into the smaller reception room with his last remaining guests and had sent away all the slaves. To my surprise, Seneca and Burrus had both joined the company in the middle of the night. I don�t know if Nero himself had sent for them, or whether possibly Otho had done so, frightened by Nero�s mood. There was not a trace of the joy of Saturnalia left. Everyone seemed to be avoiding each other�s eyes, some anxiously. When Seneca caught sight of Locusta, he turned to Nero. �You are the Emperor,� he said. �The choice is yours. Fate has decided this. But allow me to leave.� He covered his head with a corner of his mantle and left. Burrus hesitated. �Am I to be weaker than my mother?� cried Nero. �Can�t I speak to my mother�s friend and ask her about food for the gods?� In my innocence, I thought that perhaps Locusta had formerly been one of the cooks in the Palace.

286

�You are the Emperor,� said Burrus sadly. �You know best what you are doing.� He too left the company with his head bowed and his wounded arm hanging loosely at his side. Nero looked about him, his eyes round and protruding. �Go away, all of you,� he commanded, �and leave me alone with my mother�s dear friend. We have many matters on the art of 4 cooking to discuss.� I politely showed Julius Pollio into the great empty room and offered him some wine and some of the leftover food. �What is Locusta accused of?� I asked. �What has she to do with Agrippina?� Julius looked at me in amazement. �Don�t you know that Locusta is the most skillful blender of poisons in Rome?� he said. �She would have been sentenced years ago according to lex Julia, but thanks to Agrippina, she has never been prosecuted. After the examination by torture which is usual for poison-blenders, she was just put under house arrest instead. I think she had so much to tell that the interrogators were frightened.� I was astounded and could say nothing. Julius Polio winked at me, took a drink and said, �Haven�t you even heard about the mushroom dish which made Claudius into a god? The whole of Rome knows that Nero has the clever cooperation between his mother and Locusta to thank for the fact that he is Emperor.� �I was traveling in the provinces and didn�t believe all the gossip from Rome,� I exclaimed, thoughts racing through my head. At first I thought Nero wanted some poison to put an end to his life, as he had threatened to do, but then I saw things more clearly. I thought I understood Seneca�s and Burrus� presence if it were true that Nero, offended by Britannicus� defiant behavior, wished to interrogate Locusta himself, perhaps to accuse his mother of poisoning Claudius. If he threatened Agrippina with this, perhaps he could force her into silence, or even, after a secret trial, have her banished from Rome. Certainly he could not accuse his mother publicly. The thought calmed me, for I still could not believe that Agrippina had had Claudius killed. I had, after all, heard about his cancer of the stomach two years before he died.

287

�I should think it would be best,� I said, after thinking about it all for a moment, �if we both kept our mouths shut about what has happened tonight.� Julius Pollio laughed. �That won�t be difficult for me,� he said. �A soldier obeys orders without talk.� I slept badly that night and had ill-omened dreams. The next day I went out to my father�s country estate near Caere, taking only Barbus with me. It was icy cold and the darkest time of the year, but in the peace and quiet of life in the country, I hoped to realize a plan which I had long had in mind: to write a book on my experiences in Cilicia. I was no poet; this I had noticed. I could not give a historic account of the Cleitors� rebellion without putting the King of Cilicia and the Proconsul of Syria in a bad light. I remembered the Greek adventure stories I had read to pass the time at Silanus� house and decided to write a similar brigand story, in a coarse amusing style, in which I exaggerated the foolish side of my imprisonment and belittled the difficulties. For several days I buried myself in this work so completely that I forgot both time and place. I think I succeeded in writing myself free of the misery of my imprisonment by joking about it in this way. As I wrote down the last lines, the ink spluttering from my pen, I received an astounding message from Rome to say that Britannicus, in the middle of a conciliatory meal of the Imperial family, had had a severe attack of epilepsy. He had been carried to his bed and shortly afterwards had died, much to everyone�s dismay, for he usually recovered from his attacks very quickly. In accordance with the custom of his forefathers of concealing painful events, Nero had Britannicus� body cremated that same night on Mars field in pouring wintry rain, and then had his bones taken, with no funeral oration or public procession, to the mausoleum of the god Augustus. In his speech to the Senate and the people on the subject, Nero appealed to his fatherland, whose support was his only hope for the future, as he had so unexpectedly lost his brother�s support and help in ruling the Empire. People are glad to believe what they hope is true, so my first thought was one of enormous relief. The sudden death of Britannicus solved in my mind all the political conflicts in a way that

288

was best both for Nero and for Rome. Agrippina could no longer point to Britannicus when she reproached her son for ingratitude. The ghost of a threatened civil war faded away. But at the root of my thoughts, a secret doubt still gnawed, even though I did not wish to be aware of it. I wiled away the time in Caere, with no desire to return to Rome. I heard that Nero had shared out the large fortune he had inherited from Britannicus among his friends and the influential members of the Senate. He seemed to have strewn enormous gifts about, as if to buy everyone�s favor. I had no wish to receive a share of Britannicus� fortune. When I finally returned to Rome in the early spring, Nero had stripped Agrippina of her guard of honor and ordered her to move out of Palatine to the derelict house of old Antonia, Claudius� dead mother. There Nero occasionally went to see her, but always in the presence of witnesses to force her to control her temper. Agrippina had been having a temple built to Claudius on the hill of Coelius, but Nero had it all pulled down, saying he needed the site for his own purposes. He had great plans to enlarge the Palace. In this way Agrippina�s position as a Claudius priestess also lost all meaning. From Aunt Laelia I heard that Agrippina was again as lonely as she had been during the difficult times when Messalina was still alive. Vespasian�s son Titus, friend and companion to Britannicus, had been ill ever since the meal at which Britannicus had had his fatal attack. I decided to visit him, as I knew his father so well, even f I had avoided Titus since I had joined Nero�s circle. Titus was still thin and pale from his illness and he looked at me distrustfully when I arrived so unexpectedly with gifts for him. One could see the Etruscan ancestry of the Flavius family in his square face, his chin and nose, much more clearly than in his father. One had only to compare him for a moment with some Etruscan statue, and for me, recently returned from Caere, the likeness was amazingly clear. �I�ve been in Caere ever since the Saturnalia celebrations,� I said, �and I�ve written an adventure story which I can perhaps make into a play. So I don�t know what�s been happening in Rome, although I�ve heard evil rumors. My name has also been mentioned in connection with Britannicus� sudden death. You must

289

know me well enough to believe no ill of me. Tell me the truth. How did Britannicus die?� Titus looked at me without fear. �Britannicus was my best and only friend,� he said. �One day I�ll give him a golden statue among the gods in the Capitoline. As soon as I�m well enough, I�ll go to my father in Britain. At that meal, I sat beside Britannicus. Nero did not permit us boys to lie at the table. It was a chilly evening and we had hot drinks. Britannicus� cup-bearer deliberately offered him such a hot goblet that he himself burned his tongue when he tasted it. Britannicus asked for cold water in his goblet, drank and at once lost his power of speech and his sight. I snatched the goblet and took a sip from it. At once I felt dizzy and everything swam in front of my eyes. Fortunately I was only made violently ill. I have been sick ever since. Perhaps I would have died too, if I hadn�t vomited.� �Then you think he really was poisoned and that you yourself drank some of the poison?� I asked, hardly able to believe my ears. Titus looked at me seriously, boy that he was. �I don�t think it,� he said. �I know it. Don�t ask me who the culprit is. It wasn�t Agrippina, anyhow, for she was appalled when it happened.� �If that is true,� I said, �then I could believe that she poisoned Claudius, as rumor still persists she did.� Titus stared pityingly at me with his almond-shaped eyes. �Didn�t you even know that?� he said. �Even the dogs of Rome howled around Agrippina when she went down to the forum after the Praetorians had proclaimed Nero Emperor.� �Then power is a more terrible thing than I had thought,� I said. �Power is far too great to be borne by a single man, however skillful an adviser he may be,� said Titus. �None of Rome�s rulers has sustained it without being destroyed. I�ve had plenty of time to think about these things during my illness, and yet I still prefer to think well of people rather than evil. I think well of you too, for honorably coming here to ask me to tell you the truth. I know the Almighty creates actors, but I don�t think you are here to find out for Nero what I think about the death of my best friend. I know Nero too. He thinks now that he has bribed his

290

friends to forget and he would prefer to forget it himself. But I had a knife ready, should you have come to injure me.� He drew a dagger from under his pillow and threw it away, as if to show his complete confidence in me. But I did not think he trusted me absolutely. He spoke so deliberately and with such experience. We both jumped guiltily when a beautifully dressed young woman unexpectedly came into the room, followed by a slave-girl carrying a basket. The girl was as slim and broad- shouldered as Diana, her features fine but hard, and her hair was done in the Greek way in short curls. She looked inquiringly at me with her greenish eyes, and they seemed so familiar that I stared stupidly back. �Don�t you know my cousin, Flavia Sabina?� asked Titus. �She visits me every day with the food the doctor prescribes and she herself supervises the cooking of it. Won�t you join me, as my friend?� I realized that the girl was the daughter of the Prefect of Rome, Flavius Sabinus, the elder brother of Vespasian. Perhaps I had seen her at some large banquet or in a festive procession, as she looked so familiar. I greeted her respectfully, but my tongue dried up in my mouth and I stared at her broad face as if bewitched. Without looking in any way disturbed, she laid out a Spartan meal with her own hands. There was not even a jar of wine in the basket. I ate out of courtesy, but the food stuck in my throat as I looked at her, and I thought that no other woman had ever made such an impression on me at first sight. I could not understand the reason for this. She showed no interest in me whatsoever; on the contrary, she was cool and hard, withdrawn into herself, silent but conscious of her position as daughter of the City Prefect. During the meal I was more and more tormented with the feeling that it was all a dream, and though we drank nothing but water, I felt slightly intoxicated. �Why aren�t you eating anything yourself?� I asked finally. �I have prepared the food,� she said mockingly. �I�m not your cup-bearer. And I�ve no cause to share my bread and salt with you, Minutus Manilianus. I know you.� �How can you know me when I don�t know you?� I protested. Flavia Sabina stretched out her slim forefinger without ceremony and felt my left eye.