The Confessions of Young Nero Read online

  “Completely?” That lovely city I was gazing upon—no more?

  “Completely,” said Anicetus. “But a Trojan man, Aeneas, escaped the burning city, carrying his aged father on his back, and eventually came to Italy and through his descendants founded Rome. So in that way Troy lives on.”

  I was now standing before the next painting in the series, which depicted Helen being recaptured by Menelaus. He grasped her wrists, dropping a nasty-looking sword to the ground. His eyes were focused not on her face but on her rather substantial breasts. “She isn’t so beautiful,” I said. Her face was not more lovely than others I saw often.

  “No artist can capture her beauty,” said Anicetus, defending the painting. “It is impossible. Besides, this person has never seen her, so how can he be equal to the task? This serves only as a stand-in, a substitute.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Homer does not describe her,” said Beryllus. “He only describes how others respond when they see her. That is enough.”

  “Do you know why?” Anicetus knelt down so he could speak directly to me at my level. “Listen. This is important. It is because each person has his own idea of what true beauty is. To describe beauty in detail is only to fall short in convincing another person. That is why Helen is queen of the mind. Of your mind, of your imagination.”

  “Besides, Homer never saw her, either,” said Beryllus.

  “Especially since he was blind,” said Anicetus, laughing.

  As we walked away, I kept looking back at the painting of Helen, willing her true image to appear, to let me glimpse her. But the painting stayed the same.

  The rest of the series showed the Greek and Trojan heroes I was later to know so well: Achilles, Agamemnon, Odysseus, Patroclus, Hector, Priam, Hecuba. And then there was a small panel showing a different sort of man. He wore trousers and a peaked hat and used a bow and arrow. It was the last painting on the wall.

  “That is Paris,” said Anicetus. “The cause of the whole thing!”

  I stepped closer to see better; the light from outside was weaker here in this corner. The man had a noble face; he was gazing straight out from the walls of Troy to the plain, pulling his arrow back, aiming for the enemy below. “No wonder Helen ran off with him,” I said.

  “Lucius!” said Beryllus. “Paris is not a noble character. In fact, he is a coward.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he does not fight as the others do, in manly duels with sword and spear. He hides safely behind the walls, killing from a distance.”

  “But if the object of war is to kill the enemy, what difference does it make how it is done? And is it not more sensible to kill from afar without endangering himself?”

  “Someday you will understand,” said Beryllus. “You are too young now.”

  “Who is he aiming at?” I asked. I could not see who the target of his arrow was going to be.

  “Achilles,” said Anicetus. “He aimed at the one spot where Achilles was vulnerable.”

  “He killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the coward killed the mightiest of the Greek warriors?”

  “Yes. So it often is in life. A lesson for you.”

  “No, the real lesson here is that being a keen archer is a valuable skill. And new ways of doing things can be better than the old.”

  Beryllus shook his head. “You are too young to understand.”

  VIII

  The seasons had turned again before an invitation came from the imperial residence. It was high summer, just before the Dog Star would rise and everyone would flee Rome for cooler places.

  “About time,” said Mother. “There is a message in this, of course. That bitch knows that I will now know she considers us the lowest on her horizon. The last guests before the exodus to the imperial villa in Baiae.”

  “Why would she feel that way?” Messalina was strange, but we had done nothing to make her dislike us.

  “We threaten her. Not by what we do but by who we are—we have the blood of the great Augustus himself, which they do not. And beyond that, we have the blood of Aeneas, and beyond that, Venus.”

  Aeneas! “Is that true? We really are descended from Aeneas?” I did not care about Augustus.

  “Yes, the Julian line comes from Aeneas. Long, long ago, of course. And Aeneas was the son of a mortal man and Venus herself.” We were sitting together on a couch and she pulled me closer to her. “Anchises was so handsome even the goddess was swept away with love for him. So you carry within yourself a bit of Venus herself, and you will be as handsome as Anchises when you grow up.” She then ran her hands over my back and lightly over my jaw, turning my face to hers. “Oh, so handsome,” she murmured, stroking my cheek.

  Whenever she did this I felt both a melting inside and acute embarrassment. I twisted away. “I will be glad to see Great-Uncle Claudius again,” I said, sliding off the couch.

  Mother smoothed her hair. “Don’t talk too much when we are there. Let me do the talking.”

  • • •

  This time the trip to the imperial residence was a short one, as we were already on the Palatine. It was thick with houses on the slopes; the top was reserved for the rulers and for the gods. Augustus and Livia had had their dwelling here, next to the Temple of Apollo. Nearby, the cave where Romulus and Remus were taken in by the she-wolf was honored. But Tiberius had not been content with such humble quarters, so he’d built the sprawling Domus Tiberiana, which survived more or less intact, if looking old-fashioned.

  “Stand straight!” said Mother, pushing the small of my back as we approached the entrance. “Stand tall like the son of Aeneas!”

  I threw my shoulders back and marched in beside her.

  “Ah, the lady Agrippina,” said the slave ushering us into the imperial presence. “Welcome. And welcome to young Lucius.”

  “Agrippina!” There was a rustle, and Claudius shuffled into sight. He held out his hands to Mother, and she gripped them, bowing low.

  “Up, up! I am the same uncle who h-held you as a child,” said Claudius.

  She rose. “Oh, I remember, Uncle. I remember.”

  Together they went into the chamber, me following. It was not the same one I had been in with Aunt. This one was smaller, its wall paintings duller, and it faced in the opposite direction from the Circus Maximus. In fact, it did not even have a balcony, but it did have a large window opening onto gardens blooming with stately white lilies, tall blue larkspur, and clear yellow crown daisies hugging the ground. In the middle was a score of rosebushes, and their sweet scent stole through the window.

  “Things have changed for us all,” Mother said. “Your change elevated you to the purple. And so you were able to bring me home again. For that I should fall at your feet and cover them with kisses.”

  “P-please d-don’t,” said Claudius. “I could not do it fast enough. I have been r-reversing all the deeds of Caligula that were wrong. Bringing home the exiles. Rescuing the leaking t-treasury. And a h-hundred other things.”

  “And soon my extraordinary husband will be a conqueror.” Messalina had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and slid to Claudius’s side. She looked at us, murmured a hasty welcome, then said, “Did he not tell you? He plans to invade Britain. To finish what Julius Caesar started.” She gazed on him adoringly.

  “Is this true?” said Mother. She could barely keep the shock out of her voice. How could crippled old Claudius command troops?

  “Indeed it is,” said Claudius.

  “I have urged him to it,” said Messalina. “The brother of Germanicus can do anything.”

  “N-not anything, my dear,” said Claudius. “But I h-have good generals and I can leave the hard part to them.”

  “As long as you return safely to me,” purred Messalina. “Dear Agrippina,” she said, “welcome back to Rome. I
trust you have quite recovered from your years in the wilds of Pontia?”

  “One never recovers from a false accusation—or, I should say, forgives it. But as for the island itself, yes. I had the ghosts of other unfortunate ladies to keep me company, and the cape that bears the name of the enchantress Circe is not far away.”

  “All the ladies who perished there had a touch of the enchantress about them, to be sure. Pity she did not save them,” said Messalina. “But we must celebrate your rescue!” She clapped her hands and a slave appeared with a tray of gold goblets. “Only the finest wine, diluted with melted snow.”

  She clapped her hands again and a nurse brought in the two children. They were bigger now—Tiberius Claudius was walking, although unsteadily, and Octavia was taller and looked more solemn. “My darlings,” said Messalina, shepherding them toward Claudius. “And here are your dear cousins—Agrippina and Lucius. Do you remember Lucius?”

  What a stupid question. They could hardly remember me. But they nodded dutifully.

  “We invited you here today so you could be the first to see the honor being bestowed on Tiberius Claudius,” said Messalina. “Dear Claudius, show them.”

  Now it was Claudius’s turn to call for an attendant, and his secretary Pallas came in, bearing a rosewood box. “Here you are, Imperator,” he said, handing the box to Claudius.

  Claudius flipped the lid off and took out a shiny new coin. “I am issuing a sestertius in Tiberius Claudius’s honor,” he said, holding it up. “I name him here ‘Spes Augusta.’”

  “‘The hope of the imperial family,’” said Messalina. “He will carry on our line.”

  The object of this honor paid no attention and stumbled against a stool. Everyone laughed. “What an adorable child,” said Mother.

  • • •

  I had found the time only boring; I was disappointed not to hear cithara music again or be invited to the Circus. It had grown hot in the room as the sun reached the middle of the sky, and I was glad to leave. But we were scarcely out of earshot on the path back to our house when Mother let loose a stream of venom.

  “‘The hope of the imperial family,’” she hissed. “We shall see about that! We shall see! There have been many ‘hopes of the imperial family,’ but none succeeded to the purple. That baby will have to live a charmed life.”

  “I am sure they will take good care of him,” I said, eager to change the subject. “Do you think Great-Uncle will let me watch the Circus from his balcony someday?”

  “If he does, do not stand too close to the edge,” she muttered. “Not if Messalina is nearby.”

  • • •

  We passed the steamy month named for Augustus, then passed his birthday the next month, a date when the cooler weather came in—traditionally ascribed to his benevolence. The breezes that came in our windows were refreshing rather than wilting, and at last we could sleep well, after weeks of tossing and turning on damp sheets.

  Lying in my bed I could see the sickle shape of the moon, caught on a spear of cypress tree outside. A soft wind was caressing me, passing over the bed. I had had a good lesson that day with Anicetus, learning about Egypt and the pyramids and the Nile, whose source was unknown. Crocodiles . . . there were crocodiles lurking there, in the papyrus marshes . . . I wanted to see a crocodile . . . were they ever brought to Rome?

  I was riding on the back of one. It was bumpy and slimy, and it was hard to hold on. It glided through tall reeds. It turned its head to speak to me, showing its teeth. I could not understand its language.

  The language . . . someone was whispering. I came awake suddenly. The breeze had fallen; the moon had disappeared. It was utterly still in my room, dark except for one oil lamp in the corner.

  Now there was movement. Two shadowy shapes came toward me. I lay rigid, stifling my breath. Closer, closer. One was bending over me, his hands reaching for me. Under my pillow there was a scratching sound, a wriggling, then a scaly thing sliding. It felt like the crocodile. But that was a dream—or was this a dream?

  A hiss. A slither. Then the lash of a tail that caught me in the face. I rolled off the bed and saw the men scrambling away, waving their arms, flailing at the apparition. Then they fled, knocking over a lampstand.

  At the sound, Mother rushed into the room. “Guards, guards!” she yelled. “Cut off the entrances. Let no one escape!” She turned to me. “Lucius, what happened? Light!” she ordered two slaves who had followed her in.

  They brought lamps and held them up over the bed. “Look!” Mother said, holding up a long, crinkled, milky tube. “A snake was here. It scared away those assassins.” She stroked the snakeskin. “I will have this made into a protective bracelet that you must wear always. For surely as the gods live, this creature was sent by them to protect you from those intruders.”

  “But why were they here?” I did not understand.

  “To make sure you will never be Spes Augusta. For you have more right to it than anyone else. As long as you live, that is.”

  Her face was set like flint. “Now the duel is set. But, my lady Messalina, no one has ever bested Agrippina. No one. And no one ever will.”

  She frightened me more than the men. I knew even then that to be her enemy was to perish—and that being her son would not exempt me.

  IX

  As soon as it was daylight, slaves came into the room and began gathering things up. They stripped my couch of its linens and blankets, carried out the chest with my clothes, and threw my toys into a basket.

  “We leave immediately,” said Mother, bustling into the room. “We are not safe here.”

  “Yes, Mother,” was all I could say. I had just begun to get used to the Palatine house, to relish the shaded view out of my window, to anticipate how the light slanted in at different times of day.

  “The household gods! The shrine. Don’t forget them!” she barked at the slaves.

  By noon we were trundling south toward Antium, where Mother’s villa lay. The land lay quiet and golden; harvest was almost over. Towering above the trees, graceful and soaring, were the arched stone aqueducts that brought Rome its lifesaving water.

  “Don’t look so downcast,” said Mother. “You will love the villa.”

  • • •

  It was growing dark before we pulled up in front of an opulent colonnaded building. As I climbed out of the carriage, I could hear the crash and roar of the sea below a nearby cliff. Slaves threw open the bronze doors, and we entered an imposing vestibule, then an even greater atrium. This was no mere country home; it was more like the imperial residence of Claudius. In fact, it was an imperial villa. Many members of the ruling families had stayed here.

  “Guards—I want guards stationed all around the villa,” said Mother. “And bring us some food!” The slaves scurried off to do her bidding.

  We sat alone before a round table of polished marble, with bronze feet shaped like lions’ paws. Several oil lamps flickered from the lampstand nearby, and Mother picked at the grapes heaped on the platter the slaves set before us.

  “Decent,” she said. “Sweet enough.”

  I was eating them eagerly; I was so hungry and thirsty anything would have seemed delicious. There were cheeses and bread and a bowl of figs and apples; the fruit was sweet and fresh. There were also cold pork slices and pickles.

  The room around us felt cavernous. The meager light from the five-lamp lampstand did not reach into the corners of the room, and we were surrounded by gloom. Only one side of Mother’s face was illuminated, making her look like an unfinished statue.

  “Mother,” I said, “I feel like we are in Hades!”

  “Whatever do you mean, you odd child?”

  “It’s chilly and dark and the only light comes from flickering flames,” I said. “I always thought that Persephone and Hades sat at a table like this, alone in their black palace, with the flames jumping and
glowing around them.”

  She laughed. She laughed so seldom that it was a surprise to hear it. “At least we have food and you needn’t worry that if you eat any of it you can never leave. Poor Persephone—if I were to barter my future, it would not be for mean little pomegranate seeds.”

  “What would you barter it for?”

  She looked thoughtful. “An astrologer gave me that choice once, so I know my price. Sometime I will tell you of my decision. But now I must speak of other things. We have come here to escape Rome. After what happened last night, we are not safe there, not until we have a powerful protector. I can get one, but it may take time. In the meantime, there is this beautiful villa. I will give you the room, the very room, in which you were born.” She put down the grape cluster and took a drink from her wine goblet. “Let me tell you of your birth.” Her face grew dreamy, her voice faraway. “You were born feetfirst,” she said. “It was a difficult birth and a bad omen. But the rest was favorable—more than favorable—blessed. It was just dawn, and although no ray of sun had yet fallen into the room, as you were held up, a glow surrounded you. The sunlight struck you and bathed you in gold. It was an omen, a miraculous sign, that the sun touched you before it touched the earth. I knew then that your destiny was the highest there could be.”

  I was holding my breath. It was like one of those legends that Anicetus told, from a world filled with divine signs and prophecies and omens. But . . . perhaps we only imagine them in our own world, or try to fit them into a story we have heard.

  I had not had any such signs—or had I? What of the snake the night before?

  “First I must grow up,” I said.

  “Yes. That is our first duty—to make sure of that.” Speaking as softly as she was, the sound echoed feebly and died away in the dark corners of the room.

  • • •

  The bright morning light stole into my sleeping chamber, setting the night to flight and banishing the image of Hades and the underworld. In the daylight the room was cheerful and colorful. Before long Mother sought me out and took me through the rooms where we would be living. There were many more, closed and shuttered, beyond what we would need for now. She ushered me into a spacious, light-filled room with a balcony that faced east. “This room is yours, Lucius. It is where you first came into this world, and it is where you will live now.”