The Confessions of Young Nero
Margaret George
ALSO BY MARGARET GEORGE
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
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Copyright © 2017 by Margaret George
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Poetry from Sappho and the Greek Lyric Poets, translated by Willis Barnstone, used with permission from Willis Barnstone.
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 confessions of young Nero / Margaret George.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Berkley Books, [2017]
Identifiers: LCCN 2016024945 (print) | LCCN 2016031052 (ebook) | ISBN 9780451473387 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780698184763 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Nero, Emperor of Rome, 37–68—Fiction. | Rome—History—Nero, 54–68—Fiction. | Emperors—Rome—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Historical. | FICTION / Biographical. | FICTION / Literary. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction. | Historical fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3557.E49 C66 2017 (print) | LCC PS3557.E49 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016024945
First Edition: March 2017
Cover design by Emily Osborne
Cover imagery: The Consummation of Empire from The Course of the Empire by Thomas Cole, 1836; The Remorse of Nero After the Murder of His Mother by John William Waterhouse, 1878; Coin, Nero and Agrippina, Roman Empire, AD 54 © The Trustees of the British Museum / Art Resource, NY; Smoke © BortN66/Shutterstock; Mosaic border © ariy/Shutterstock; Gold laurel wreath © Nick Kinney / Shutterstock
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 my granddaughter
Lydia Margaret
who is (I like to believe) descended from the great warrior queen Boudicca
CONTENTS
Also by Margaret George
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Genealogy Chart
Nero’s Rome Map
Greater Roman Area Map
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV
Chapter XLVI
Chapter XLVII
Chapter XLVIII
Chapter XLIX
Chapter L
Chapter LI
Chapter LII
Chapter LIII
Chapter LIV
Chapter LV
Chapter LVI
Chapter LVII
Chapter LVIII
Chapter LIX
Chapter LX
Chapter LXI
Chapter LXII
Chapter LXIII
Chapter LXIV
Chapter LXV
Chapter LXVI
Chapter LXVII
Chapter LXVIII
Chapter LXIX
Chapter LXX
Chapter LXXI
Chapter LXXII
Chapter LXXIII
Chapter LXXIV
Chapter LXXV
Chapter LXXVI
Afterword
Readers Guide
About the Author
MY THANKS
To Bob Feibel, who many years ago made a suggestion: “Have you thought about the emperor Nero?” and to classics professors Barry B. Powell and William Aylward at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, who translate, advise, and help me keep company with Nero.
To Claire Zion, my insightful editor, and Jacques de Spoelberch, my forever agent, for their excitement and wholehearted support of the idea of telling Nero’s story.
I
LOCUSTA
This is not the first time I have been imprisoned. So I am hopeful that this is a sham and that the new emperor, Galba, will soon need my unique services and quietly send for me and once again I shall be treading the palace halls. I feel at home there, and why shouldn’t I? I have provided my timely services for those in power for many years.
By trade I am a poisoner. There, why not say it? And not any old poisoner, but the acknowledged expert and leader in my profession. So many others want to be another Locusta, another me. So I founded an academy to pass on my knowledge and train the next generation, for Rome will always be in need of poisoners. I should lament that, should say what a pity that Rome must descend to that, but that would be hypocritical of me. Besides, I am not convinced that poison is not the best way to die. Think of all the other ways a person may die at the hands of Rome: being torn by beasts in the arena, being strangled in the Tullianum prison, and, most insipid of all, being ordered to open your veins and bleed yourself to death, like a sacrificial animal. Bah. Give me a good poison anytime. Did not Cleopatra embrace the asp and its poison, leaving her beautiful and stretched out upon her couch?
I first met the late emperor Nero when he was still a child, still Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, the name he was born with. I saw him at the low poin
t in his life, when he was an abandoned child at the mercy of his uncle Caligula. (Now, that was someone who gave me a lively string of business!) His father was dead, his mother, Agrippina, had been banished when he was not even three years old, and his uncle liked to toy with him.
I remember he was a likable child—well, he remained likable all his life; it was a gift—but timorous. Many things frightened him, especially loud noises and being sent for unexpectedly. Caligula had a habit of that—sending for people in the middle of the night. He once forced me to watch a nocturnal theatrical performance in the palace, featuring himself as Jupiter. Sometimes it was harmless, like the playacting; other times it ended with the death of the helpless person he had sent for. So, Nero—let us call him that to avoid confusion, just as I call Caligula Caligula rather than Gaius Caesar Germanicus—was precocious in recognizing the danger of the serpent in his uncle.
Ah, such memories! Here in my cell I find myself returning to them, helping the hours to pass, until that moment when Galba sends for me with a task. I know he will!
II
NERO
The moon was round and full. It shone on the flat surface of the lake, which was also round, making it appear that the moon itself had expanded and enlarged itself there. It rose golden from the encircling hills but soon was a bright white ball high above.
It illuminated the wide deck of the ship. I was to sit beside my uncle and listen to him intoning praise to the goddess Diana, whose sanctuary was on the shore of the lake and to whom the lake itself was sacred.
I remember the flame of the torches that threw a flickering red light on the faces around me, in contrast to the clear bluish-white moonlight bathing the wider scene. My uncle’s face looked not like a human’s but like a demon’s, with a burning hue.
These are all impressions, memories that swirl without being attached to anything. The reflection on the water—the torches—the thin, reedy voice of my uncle—the nervous laughter around me—the chill in the air—
I was only three years old, so it is no wonder my memories are disconnected.
Then his face shoved up into mine, his silky voice saying, “What shall I do with the bitch’s whelp?”
More nervous laughter. His rough hands grabbed my shoulders and hauled me up, my legs dangling helplessly.
“I shall sacrifice him to the goddess!” He strode over to the rail and held me over the rippling water. I can still see the undulation of the reflected moonlight, waiting for me. “She wants a human sacrifice, and what more worthy than this kin of mine, descendant of the divine Augustus? Only the best for Diana, and perhaps a propitiation for the lapse of Augustus, who preferred to worship her brother Apollo. There you go!”
And I was flung out over the water, landing with a splash, cold, cold, and I sank, unable to swim or even cry out. Then strong hands grasped me, pulled me mercifully out of the water, and I could breathe. I was hauled onto the deck, where my uncle stood, hands on hips, laughing.
“Better luck next time, eh, Chaerea? You are too softhearted, to rescue such flotsam. Anything born of my sister can come to no good.”
III
As I sat shivering next to Chaerea I could see down the whole length of the huge boat, see the light dancing on the mosaic-covered deck, the moonlight shining on the white marble cabin. The madman who had thrown me in the water now paced up and down, laughing. Not until I was older did I hear such a laugh again, and it was from a captive hyena, whining and mewling in its cage.
Let me off, let me off, let me off this boat, I prayed, to what god I knew not, just whatever god was listening.
“Come, lad,” said Chaerea, putting his huge arm around my shoulders. “You should walk, warm up.” He pulled me up and marched me up and down the deck, until feeling returned to my numb feet. We passed the rowers, whose heads turned as if on stalks to see us as we passed. One or two smiled. The others looked like the statues that were placed here and there on the deck.
“The shore is close,” said Chaerea, holding me up and pointing to it. “Soon we will be back on it.”
• • •
How I got back and when I got back I do not know. I have told you, my memories are wispy from this early age and do not join together to make a whole; rather, they are like pieces of cloud drifting through the sky of my mind, each portion separate and contained. But the horrible memory of the boat ride is burned into my mind.
• • •
My little bed in my aunt’s home, where I lived, was narrow and hard; I can feel the rough linen when I think about it, but cannot see what else is in the room. I know the place was in the country because I heard roosters crow in the morning and I remember gathering eggs, still warm, from a bed of straw. I also remember many kinds of butterflies, and flowers on tall stalks, although I know now those were weeds.
I called my aunt Butterfly because one of her names was Lepida, which means elegant and graceful, and she was very pretty. Her hair was the reddish color of copper with a bit of dust on it, not the bright shiny copper that has just been polished. She was my father’s younger sister and told me stories about him—he who had died before I could know him—and about their ancestors. When I told her how the sun made her hair glow, she laughed and said, “Bronze hair is in our family. I can see little glints of it in yours, too, even though it’s mainly blond. Shall I tell you the story about how it came to be that color?”
“Oh, yes!” I settled in next to her, hoping it would be a long story.
“Well, long ago one of our ancestors saw two tall and handsome young men standing in the road.”
“Were they gods?” I guessed. Whenever tall strangers appeared out of nowhere, they were gods.
“Indeed they were—the twin gods Castor and Pollux. They told our ancestor that the Romans had won a great battle, and to go to Rome and tell everyone. To prove that they were gods and telling the truth, they reached out and touched his beard, and it turned instantly from black to red. So from then on the family was called Ahenobarbus—Bronze Beard.”
“Did my father have a red beard?” I wanted to know more about him. I wanted to hear that he was a hero and famous and that his death had been tragic. I later found out he was none of the above.
“Oh, yes. He was a true Ahenobarbus. Another unusual thing about our family is that all the men have only two personal names—Lucius and Gnaeus. Your father was a Gnaeus and you are a Lucius. Your grandfather, also a Lucius, was a consul but also a chariot racer. A famous one, too.”
I had little ivory play chariots, and I loved racing them against one another on the floor. “When can I drive a chariot?”
Aunt Butterfly cocked her head, smiling. “Not for a while yet. You have to be very strong to race chariots. The horses pull the reins from your hands unless you hold very tight, and the chariot bounces and you have to be careful not to fall out, which is very dangerous.”
“Maybe I could have a little chariot, pulled by ponies?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But you are still too young even for that.”
• • •
I do remember this conversation about the chariots and the red beards. But why I was living with Aunt Butterfly, and what had happened to my mother and father, I still did not know. I knew my father was dead, but I did not know about my mother. All I knew was that she was not there.
• • •
Aunt gave me two teachers. One was named Paris and he was an actor and a dancer. The other was named Castor and he was a barber. He shaved the beard of Aunt’s husband (who did not have a bronze beard but a regular brown one) and sewed up cuts and did other handy things. Paris was only for fun. I could not see that he did anything but act and pretend to be someone else. First he would tell a story—usually it was about a Greek, because they seemed to have the best stories—and then he would pretend to be those people. In real life, he was dark and not very tall. But when he played Apo
llo, I swear he grew tall before my eyes and his hair lightened.
“No, little one,” he would say, laughing. “That is only your imagination. It is the actor’s job to make you see and hear things inside your own head.”
“Does an actor do magic?”
He glanced around; a frightened look flitted over his eyes. “Of course not! The magic happens only in your own thoughts.”
It was not long before I learned that practicing magic was forbidden, and that there was just such practice going on in that household.
• • •
In some ways it was odd to be the only child in the household. I did not have anyone to play with except Paris—who was childlike in many ways but still an adult—and the children who were slaves. Aunt did not like my playing with them but she could not be watching all the time, and what did she expect me to do? Let me say it: I was lonely. Lonely as in alone, as in solitary, as in set apart. Aunt kept stressing that being set apart was a special thing, a glorious thing, but it only felt like a punishment to me. So I found freedom in playing with the slave children my own age, and freedom in acting out the parts Paris taught me. Sometimes I was a god; sometimes I was a girl (I would be Persephone to his Hades—and we always used the proper Greek names, not the Roman ones of Proserpine and Pluto); sometimes I was an adult. On the stage—in actuality just the courtyard—I could be anyone. In real life, as Aunt kept reminding me, I was the descendant of the divine Augustus and must remember this at all times. But, as Paris informed me, I was also the descendant of his adversary Marc Antony, and Marc Antony was a lot more fun than the stolid and dull divine Augustus.
“Antony went to the east, to the lands that speak Greek, and to Egypt, and reveled in music, flowers, wine, and the Mysteries of Dionysus. He commanded a great fleet of ships and had a wife named Cleopatra, queen of Egypt. He—”
“Ruined himself, and disgraced himself as a Roman,” cut in a sharp voice. We turned to see Aunt’s husband, Silanus, standing in the doorway. It was doubly frightening because he was rarely at home. He stepped over to me, bent down, and looked me in the eyes. “Let Paris tell you the whole story, then. Go on, Paris!” He jerked his head up toward the trembling tutor.
