Nero

4

Dion, my aspiring editor, tells me that before we go any further I must introduce you to Seneca: philosopher, statesman, speculator and (this not least) hack tragedian.

First a warning. I didn't like the man (surprise!), so you must, as archers say, allow for the wind. Though Aeolus knows the old fart was full of wind in his own right, both literally and metaphorically, so…

All right, Dion! All right, point taken, that was cheap, and not really fair. He did his best, I admit, according to his lights, and the material he had to work with wasn't too promising. But I'm not all that sure these disgustingly gory tragedies of his weren't at least partly responsible for shaking poor Lucius's beans loose. And the man was a hypocrite and a crawler of the first order, you can't get past that, my boy.

Dion disagrees. Dion, bless his little cotton drawers, has the greatest respect for Seneca, both as a philosopher and as an all-round sincere human being. Serapis knows why, but there you are. I much preferred Paullus myself (we'll come to him eventually, if I live that long). The old Jew may have been barking mad but at least he was honest and, so far as I'm aware, practised what he preached, whereas that pious canting fraud was nine-tenths humbug.

A potted biography, to bring us up to date and because he really is important, as you'll see. Seneca was a provincial, born at Cordova. Having pursued a frighteningly thorough course of education he came at last to Rome where he bored the pants off everyone in the courts. Exiled to Corsica after Caligula's death for furkling one of the imperial sisters, he spent the next eight years composing grovelling philosophical exhortations to anyone and everyone he thought could arrange his recall. Fortunately no one did. Finally, the year of the imperial nuptials, he was brought back by Agrippina as tutor to the young Lucius. The rest, as they say, is history, although…

Dion's pen has snapped (good secretary that he is, he carries a replacement behind his ear). He objects to the furkling, saying it was a trumped-up charge, and to the inclusion of the word grovelling. All I can say is that I knew Seneca, and he didn't, and that you may form your own conclusions.

The appointment was political, of course. Seneca was an academic high-flyer who had no love for Claudius, and Agrippina expected, reasonably enough, that he would be pathetically grateful; more, that a fifty-three-year-old furkler would be more than susceptible to his benefactress's abundant physical charms. With him providing the brain, and Burrus the brawn, behind her devoted young princeling, Agrippina must have reckoned she was on to a winner. Especially since she'd already pulled the bones out of the opposition and stitched the Idiot up so tight he couldn't so much as scratch himself without her permission.

Ah, well. To paraphrase the playwright, whom the gods wish to destroy they first make smug bitches. Enough, for the present, about Seneca.

The sun has gone, and Xanthus is lighting the lamps. Heigh ho, Petronius,you garrulous oaf, at this rate you'll never reach Lucius's principate, and no doubt the Praetorians will be hammering on your door at dawn to make sure you're decently stiff. Get on with it, skip the next three years and let Claudius tuck into his dish of mushrooms without further ado.

Agrippina went from bad to worse. Among others whose deaths she arranged was that of her sister-in-law Lepida. Lepida was accused of attempting the empress's life by magic and of allowing the gangs of slave-workers on her Calabrian estate to run riot; a neat touch this, and designed to frighten the wollocks off the timid Claudius. So the Idiot signed the warrant for her execution, which was duly carried out. Unfortunately for him, when informed of Lepida's death he was foolish enough to pass a comment to the effect that Agrippina's own days were numbered. A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse and, to mix metaphors, the Idiot's goose was cooked. Agrippina availed herself of the services of a certain Locusta, who provided her with a subtle poison which she added to a dish of mushrooms served that evening to Claudius at dinner.

The Idiot was saved by an involuntary bowel movement. On the pretext of making him vomit, his doctor Xenophon (who was also in the plot) administered a faster-acting poison. In moments Claudius was bereft of life, his family of a loving husband and father, and the Roman state (ah,me!) of its chiefest ornament.

Hail, Nero. Xanthus, the basin, please.