The Splendor Before the Dark Read online

  ALSO BY MARGARET GEORGE

  The Confessions of Young Nero

  Elizabeth I

  Helen of Troy

  Mary, Called Magdalene

  The Memoirs of Cleopatra

  Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

  The Autobiography of Henry VIII

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Margaret George

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Poetry from Sappho and the Greek Lyric Poets, translated by Willis Barnstone, used with permission from Willis Barnstone.

  Translation of Octavia by E. F. Watling.

  To quote the lines from Sappho, by kind permission of the translator Tony Kline.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: George, Margaret, 1943– author.

  Title: The splendor before the dark: a novel of the Emperor Nero / Margaret George.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017060014 | ISBN 9780399584619 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780399584633 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Nero, Emperor of Rome, 37–68—Fiction. | Rome—History—Nero, 54–68—Fiction. | Emperors—Rome—Fiction. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction. | Historical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3557.E49 S68 2018 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017060014

  First Edition: November 2018

  Cover images: Photograph of The Burning of Rome by Hubert Robert by Erich Lessing / Art Resource, NY; Nero coin by Luso / iStock / Getty Images Plus; Gold laurel wreath by Nick Kinney / Shutterstock

  Cover design by Emily Osborne

  Genealogy chart created by JoAnne T. Croft, designed by Laura K. Corless

  Maps by Laura Hartman Maestro, based on sketches by Margaret George

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To Lydia Margaret

  Granddaughter Extraordinaire

  MY THANKS

  One of the best things about researching a historical novel is the people I have met along the way who have unstintingly and generously helped me and shared my enthusiasm for Nero. My heartfelt thanks to Bob Feibel, a classics lover, who first suggested Nero as a subject; to classics professors Barry B. Powell and William Aylward at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, who translate Greek and Latin for me and keep me informed about new publications and upcoming lectures; to Bela Sandor, professor emeritus of engineering physics at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, a world expert in the mechanics of ancient racing chariots; to Silvia Prosperi, a true “Friend in Rome,” who arranged for me to see sites special to Nero’s life—Antium, Lake Nemi, Sublaqueum, Portus—that are off the beaten track; to Dr. Ernst R. Tamm and Rosanna Tamm, who translated German texts about Nero for me and helped in the project. Richard Campbell, a Roman enthusiast whose reenactment and Facebook groups, “Roman Army Talk” and “Women in Roman and Ancient Reenacting,” has been a font of information on many arcane Roman subjects.

  I am also grateful to my enthusiastic, supportive, thoughtful, and discerning editor, Claire Zion; her editorial assistant, Lily Choi; and the whiz publicity and media team at Berkley, especially Lauren Burnstein, Jin Yu, and Jessica Mangicaro, for their excitement and ideas for Nero’s story. I appreciate all that Carol Fitzgerald and her team at AuthorsOnTheWeb have done to make mine a world-class website. As always, to my forever agent in the United States, Jacques de Spoelberch, and to my UK agent, Andrew Nurnberg of Andrew Nurnberg Associates International, my deepest thanks. And to all at Pan Macmillan in the UK, who have published all my novels, my appreciation for our happy partnership over the years.

  And finally, last but far from least, to my patient family, who have put up with having Nero as a long-term houseguest, my infinite thanks.

  CONTENTS

  Also by Margaret George

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  My Thanks

  The Genealogy of the Imperial House

  Maps

  Chapter I: NERO

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI: LOCUSTA

  Chapter VII: NERO

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX: ACTE

  Chapter X: NERO

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX: ACTE

  Chapter XXI: NERO

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX: LOCUSTA

  Chapter XXXI: ACTE

  Chapter XXXII: NERO

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chapter XL: LOCUSTA

  Chapter XLI: ACTE

  Chapter XLII: NERO

  Chapter XLIII

  Chapter XLIV

  Chapter XLV

  Chapter XLVI

  Chapter XLVII: ACTE

  Chapter XLVIII: NERO

  Chapter XLIX

  Chapter L

  Chapter LI

  Chapter LII

  Chapter LIII

  Chapter LIV: ACTE

  Chapter LV: NERO

  Chapter LVI

  Chapter LVII

  Chapter LVIII

  Chapter LIX

  Chapter LX

  Chapter LXI

  Chapter LXII

  Chapter LXIII

  Chapter LXIV

  Chapter LXV: ACTE

  Chapter LXVI: NERO

  Chapter LXVII

  Chapter LXVIII

  Chapter LXIX

  Chapter LXX

  Chapter LXXI: LOCUSTA

  Chapter LXXII: NERO

 
Chapter LXXIII

  Chapter LXXIV: ACTE

  Chapter LXXV: LOCUSTA

  Chapter LXXVI: ACTE

  Afterword

  Readers Guide

  About the Author

  I

  NERO

  I awoke in the milky dawn, that opalescent hour outside time. For an instant I did not know where I was. Thus it must feel to be newborn, unclaimed.

  A sweet breeze was stealing across me as I lay quietly. A sea breeze. I was on a shore somewhere. I raised my head, and at once I was back in the world I knew. I was at Antium. I was in my villa bedroom that opened out onto the sea itself.

  In the stillness, I arose and left Poppaea sleeping, her lips curved in a smile as she dreamed of something pleasurable. Pleasurable . . . our stay here in Antium had been pleasurable. Far enough from Rome to put thoughts of it aside, to live secluded here by the sea. For a brief time.

  Quietly I walked over to the window and pushed back the filmy curtains. The horizon outside was white, making it impossible to see where the sky ended and the sea began. A pale moon was sinking, caught in the clouds. Last night it had been bright, penetrating, high. Now, still full but setting, it faded and became indistinct.

  Last night . . . how exultant I had been, performing at last my epic on the Fall of Troy, on the stage here. The hard work of composing it had taken over a year, but with a furious burst the last few days, and now it had shown its face to the world, and I had all the joy of an artist who has birthed a creation after a very long labor.

  It was fitting that it had taken place here in Antium, where I myself had been born twenty-six years ago. And after a likewise long and difficult labor, for I had been born feet first—an evil omen, some said. At the same time there had been other favorable omens, so which to heed? Clearly the favorable ones had prevailed, for I had been emperor now for nine years, having assumed the purple at an absurdly young age. There had been significant achievements in my reign already, most notably a peace settlement with Parthia, our historic enemy, achieved finally through diplomacy rather than arms. I had gifted the city of Rome with magnificent baths, a theater, and a covered market, and I had instituted engineering works that improved harbors and aimed to protect shipping routes. What I most wanted, though, was to give Rome the greatest gift of all—a conversion to the Greek sensibilities and aesthetics. That was much harder than building buildings and digging canals. But it was coming. I knew it.

  The audience last night was proof of that. Many people had traveled from Rome to hear me perform on the cithara. It is a virtuoso instrument, from Greece. Apollo himself played it. Yes! Their eyes would be opened, and they would learn to embrace these cultural treasures.

  I looked fondly at my cithara, now propped up against the wall, resting from its labors last night. It was, of course, the finest that could be made, and I had the finest instructor, Terpnus, who had borne with me and taught me patiently. I was always reluctant to leave him behind in Rome, and knowing I was returning to him made it easier to go back.

  Rome. In the growing light, I saw the message cylinders resting on the table. They had been delivered yesterday, sent by my trusted right-hand man and Praetorian prefect, Tigellinus. But I could not bring myself to look at them then. The day was too perfect to spoil with petty business about import duties or aqueduct repairs or cart traffic in the city. If you imagine that everything an emperor has to deal with is lofty and critical, I can assure you that it is not. It is a hundred tax questions to one diplomatic treaty or one war strategy decision.

  I would look at the messages a little later. I had to. But this morning would be for relaxation and for planning the inevitable return to Rome.

  I had retreated here to escape the hot days in the city, but duty required me to preside over the Feriae Augusti in two weeks, the celebration beginning on August first that culminated on the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth, commemorating Roman victories over Dalmatia, Actium, and Egypt. As the celebrations featured horse races, the only bright spot was that perhaps then I would be cleared by my trainers to do something I had longed to do: race chariots competitively.

  Oh, I had driven chariots, but never in a real public race. It was deemed too dangerous, and it is true, chariot racing has a high accident rate. But it was also the most exciting thing a person could do. My grandfather had been a successful chariot racer, and I liked to believe I had inherited his skill.

  “Begging your pardon, Caesar,” my trainer had said, “if a celebrated charioteer dies in a race, his family and fans mourn him. But if an emperor dies in one, the entire empire is bereft.”

  Tigellinus was more blunt. “It’s irresponsible of you to think of taking such chances.” He paused. “Especially as you have no heir. Do you want to spark a civil war, like we had after Julius Caesar was killed?”

  No heir. Oh, the pain of that. I had had a daughter, but she died a baby. And none since.

  “No,” I admitted. I would not make Rome endure such agony again. But I still wanted to race chariots, calling upon the gods to protect me. Had they not done that so far?

  But then there was the nagging thought of a disturbing prophecy I had been given by the sibyl I had visited at Cumae. Fire will be your undoing, she had said. When pressed further, she had added, Flames will consume your dreams, and your dreams are yourself. But there were no fires at chariot races. So did that assure me that I was safe to embark on that activity?

  As for fires, we had a very capable fire brigade in Rome. But perhaps the fire she spoke of was somewhere else? Or it was a metaphorical fire? People spoke of the fire of anger, the fire of lust, the fire of ambition. I was on fire about my art. Did she mean that would destroy me?

  I shook my head. Put it out of your thoughts, I told myself. Think only of this fair day before you, a day to walk beside the water, to drink chilled juice of Persian peaches with the wife who is the dearest thing under heaven to you, to wait for the moon to rise upon you once again.

  I left her to sleep while I walked outside to see the pearly sky lighten, promising a fair, tranquil day.

  * * *

  • • •

  It was late morning before Poppaea stirred. I had finished reading the Rome dispatches—they were as dull as I had feared—and reread a portion of my Troy epic with a mind to revisions, when she rose from the bed, trailing silk behind her like clouds of glory. Encircling her neck was the glittering gold collar I had gifted her with last night. She had worn it to bed, and now she ran her hands over it lovingly.

  “They say cold metal is a sad thing to lavish love on,” I said. “But on you it looks worthy of love.” It was studded with gems betokening the planets, moon, and sun, crafted from an Indian design I had commissioned.

  “Gold is easy to sleep with,” she said. “In fact, it helped me to dream.”

  “Ah, such dreams as gold gives.” I rose and embraced her, the body-warmed gold indistinguishable from her own temperature. “And it is cold no longer.”

  The sun was midway in the sky, burnishing the waves outside the window.

  “Shall we go to the grotto today? We haven’t visited it yet.” The ancient grotto, down at the far end of the quays, was a large one extending quite far into the hillside. Grottoes held a fascination for me, as so many stories of the gods placed them there. They reeked of the supernatural.

  She stretched, raising her arms over her head, shaking her shining amber hair. “I suppose we should. We do not have that much more time here.” But she did not sound enthusiastic. “But in the late afternoon,” she said. “How do you have the energy, after last night?”

  I could never explain to her that performing invigorated me; it was idleness that drained me. “I will meet you on the terrace,” I said. I was eager to get outside, to breathe in the fresh air.

  Later that day, we sat out on the shaded terrace and watc
hed the horizon. It was soothing and still. And I relished the mindlessness. No thinking. No thinking. Just sit with closed eyes and drift, reliving the night before.

  Attendants brought us food, placing the trays down on a stand—platters of cold ham and mullet, sage honey from Crete, bread, eggs, olives, and cherries, with juice or Tarentinum wine to wash it down. Lazily I reached out and took a handful of cherries.

  Under her scarf Poppaea still wore the necklace. “For I can’t take it off just yet,” she admitted.

  If only the other people I showered with gifts showed their appreciation so openly, I thought.

  I was just passing her the platter of eggs and olives when our idyll was interrupted by a panting, dusty, sweaty messenger who hurried out to us, flanked by two of the villa guards. His face was set in a grimace, matched by the expression on the guards’ faces. I stood up, the perfect day suddenly shattered.

  “Caesar, Caesar!” he cried, falling to his knees and clasping his hands piteously. “I come from Rome, from Tigellinus.” His voice was a croak.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “Rome is on fire! Rome is on fire!” he shrieked. “It is burning out of control!”

  I was unable to take in his words. “On fire?”

  “Yes, yes! It started in the Circus Maximus, in one of the shops at the far end.”

  “When?”

  By this time, my wife had risen, too, and out of the corner of my eye I saw her gripping the gold necklace, but no longer languidly. I could sense the alarm and dread that was filling me transferring itself to her as she stared at the messenger.

  “Night before last—and the northerly wind fanned the flames so they swept fast, down the length of the Circus. Then it started climbing the hills around it.”

  Rome was a fire trap, and we had had many fires in our history. To guard against this, Augustus had created his fire brigade of seven thousand men, the Vigiles Urbani, now under the command of Nymphidius Sabinus, a man bearing a striking resemblance to Caligula in looks. Whether true or a coincidence, this allowed him to claim he was Caligula’s natural son. But what mattered that now?