The Roman

Book VI

Troxobores, a brigand chieftain of the mountain people, made the most of the disturbances in Armenia which were occupying the Syrian legions, and sent an experienced expeditionary force into the hinterland of Cilicia and from there swept down to the coast, plundering the ports and dislocating the sea traffic. The old King of Cilicia, Antiochus, was powerless, for his own reinforcements were in Armenia. Finally the Cleitors began to besiege the harbor city of Anemurium itself. On my way from Ephesus to Antioch, I met a division of the Syrian cavalry, commantled by prefect Curtius Severus, hastening to the defense of Anemurium. Under the circumstances, I considered it my duty to join them.

We suffered a severe defeat outside the walls of Anemurium, where the terrain was more suited to Troxobores’ mountain dwellers than to our cavalry. Severus must take his share of the blame, for he thought he could frighten an inexperienced band of bandits into flight just by having the trumpets sounded and attacking at full gallop, without first finding out about the terrain and the strength of Troxobores’ forces.

I was wounded in the side, arm and foot. With a rope around my neck and my hands tied behind my back, I was taken up into the brigands’ inaccessible mountains. For two years I was kept as a hostage by Troxobores. My father’s freedmen in Antioch would have paid the ransom at any time, but Troxobores was a cunning and aggressive man and preferred to keep a few important Romans as hostages rather than hoard money in his hideouts.

The Syrian Proconsul and King Antiochus belittled this rebellion as much as possible, saying they could crush it with their own forces. They were afraid, with some justification, of Claudius’ anger, should he learn the truth.

“No amount of gold will buy my life when my back is against the wall,” said Troxobores. “But you, oh Roman blight, I can always crucify you to acquire a handsome escort to the underworld.”

He treated us hostages capriciously, sometimes well and sometimes not. He might invite us to his crude banquets, give us food and drink and tearfully and drunkenly call us friends. But afterwards he might shut us in a filthy cave, have the entrance walled up and have us fed through a fist-size hole with the minimum of bread to keep us alive in our own excrement. During this imprisonment, two men took their own lives by opening their veins with sharp stones.

My wounds became infected and tormented me. Pus oozed from them and I thought I would die. During those two ySars, I learned to live in utter degradation, constandy prepared to be tortured or to die. My son Julius, my only son, when you read this after my death, remember that certain ineradicable scars which I bear on my face and which when you were small you thought came from my service in Britain, vain as I was, were not the work of Britons. I received them many years before you were born, in a dark Cilician cave, where I learned patience, and shamefully battered my face against the rough stone wall. Think of that when you so eagerly criticize your miserly, old-fashioned and now dead father.

For all the men Troxobores collected around him and trained as warriors during his successful days, he lost just as many after his first defeat. Intoxicated by his success, he made the mistake of becoming involved in field battles and this kind of warfare his ill-disciplined troops could not master.

King Antiochus treated his prisoners kindly, released them and sent them up into the mountains to promise mercy to all those who deserted Troxobores. Most of Troxobores’ men considered that having collected sufficient loot, they had had enough of the game, and fled back to their villages to spend the rest of their lives as wealthy men, by Cilician standards. Troxobores had these deserters followed and killed, thus causing bad blood between his own tribal friends.

Finally, even the men nearest to him tired of his cruelties and whims, and took him prisoner-to gain mercy for themselves. This happened just in time, for King Antiochus’ army was approaching, slaves were tearing down the walls in front of the cave, and the poles for our execution were on the ground outside. My fellow prisoners asked that Troxobores should be crucified instead of us. But King Antiochus swifty had him beheaded, to put an end to a painful episode.

I and my fellow prisoners parted without regrets, for in the darkness, hunger and misery of the cave, we had become bitterly sick of one another’s company. While they returned to Antioch, I went on board a R. oman warship in Anemurium which was going to Ephesus. King An-tiochus compensated us generously for the sufferings we had had to endure, in order to keep us quiet.

In Ephesus, I was well received by the then Proconsul of Asia, Junius Silanus, who invited me to his country estate outside the city and had his own physician treat me. Silanus was about fifty, rather slow but so unimpeachable in character that Emperor Gaius in his day had described him as a gilded numbskull, because of his incalculable wealth.

When I mentioned Agrippina and Nero to Silanus, he forbade me to utter a single word about Claudius’ stomach trouble to him. A couple of prominent men had recently been banished from Rome just because they had asked an astrologist about the Emperor’s life-span. After that, the Senate had passed a bill exiling all Chaldeans.

Silanus seemed to think that Agrippina had in some way been responsible for the death of his brother Lucius, just as he thought that Messalina in her day had brought disaster to Appius Silanus by dreaming evil dreams about him. His insane suspiciousness made me angry.

“How can you think that of the first lady of Rome?” I said furiously. “Agrippina is a noble woman. Her brother Gaius was Emperor, and she herself is the wife of an Emperor and is descended from the god Augustus.”

Silanus smiled stupidly.

“Not even the most unimpeachable origins,” he remarked, “seem to protect anyone in Rome any longer. You must remember Domitia Lepida, Nero’s aunt, who brought Nero up out of kindness when Agrippina was banished for open lewdness and high treason. Domitia had always cared for Nero when he suffered from Agrippina’s severity. Quite recently she was condemned to death because she was said to have tried to harm Agrippina by witchcraft and because she had not kept her slaves in Calabria under control. Domitia too was descended from Augustus.

“And,” went on Silanus, “if time does eventually overtake Claudius, even if we may not discuss it aloud, then I too am descended from the god Augustus. I should not be surprised if the Senate in Rome preferred an older man to a half-grown boy. My reputation is without stain and I have no enemies.”

He was right in that, for Silanus was considered to be so stupid that no one could hate him. But of course I was surprised by his insane conceit.

“Are you seriously considering becoming Emperor?” I asked in amazement.

Junius Silanus blushed shyly.

“You mustn’t spread that idea abroad,” he said. “It is the Senate that decides. But between ourselves, I cannot honestly support Nero. His father was so feared and cruel that once in the forum, he gouged out the eye of a Roman knight who did not make way for him sufficiently respectfully.”

Because of his wealth, Silanus lived like a king in Asia. He also told me that Proconsul Gallio, after serving out his term of office, had fallen victim of hereditary tuberculosis and had returned to Rome to settle his affairs before going to the drier climate of Egypt to regain his health.

I suspected that he had other business in Egypt besides caring for his health. But I could not write to him to tell him of Silanus’ astounding expectations, and on the other hand I felt bound to report that Nero evidently did not have the support in the provinces that his mother and Seneca believed.

After much consideration, I finally wrote directly to Seneca and told him about my imprisonment.

Proconsul Junius Silanus has shown me generous hospitality [I wrote at the end] and does not wish me to go home until my wounds are completely healed. They are still suppurating. I am distressed that he does not think so highly of Agrippina and Nero as I do, but boasts of being a descendant of Augustus and believes implicitly that he has many friends in the Senate. I await your advice as to whether I should return to Rome or stay here for the time being.

Imprisonment had both dulled and enervated me. I let time run through my fingers with no thought for anything. I went with Silanus to the races and did well with bets on his team. There was also an excellent theater in Ephesus. And if there was nothing else to do, one could always go to the temple, which is one of the wonders of the world.

Gradually my strength returned to me, thanks to the good food, a comfortable bed and skillful treatment. I began riding again and joined in the boar hunts which Silanus’ tribunes organized.

Silanus’ Greek physician had been trained in Cos, and when I asked him about his remuneration, he laughed.

“Ephesus is the most wretched place in the world to practice the art of healing,” he said. “The priests of Artemis practice faith-healing and there are also hundreds of magicians from different countries here. The most fashionable one at the moment is a Jew who can cure the sick and calm the insane just by laying on his hands. His sweat-cloths and aprons are sold all round the country as cures for most things. But he’s not content with that either. He has rented Tyrannus’ school to teach his craft to others. He’s jealous of his colleagues too, and speaks contemptuously of books of magic and healing idols.”

“The Jews are the cause of all disturbances,” I said bitterly, “because they are no longer content with worshiping their own god among themselves under the protection of their special rights, but have to infect the Greeks as well.”

The Ionian autumn is mild. Junius Silanus’ freedman Helius, who administered his estate in Asia, looked after me in every way, had plays and mimes performed at mealtimes and sometimes sent a beautiful slave-girl to my bed if I looked bored. The golden days and the dark blue nights melted away. I thought that I no longer desired anything but the everyday life of human beings. That was sufficient hope and future for me. I became hardened and numb.

At the beginning of the winter, a swift Roman ship arrived, bringing to Ephesus an elderly knight called Publius Celer. He came with the message that Claudius had died of his stomach disorder, as had long been expected. Aphranius Burrus, the Prefect of the Praetorians, had had Nero borne to the Praetorians’ camp where Nero had made a speech and promised the men the customary gift of money. Amidst general acclamation, he had been declared Emperor, and the Senate had unanimously confirmed the decision.

Proconsul Junius Silanus carefully scrutinized the orders and credentials Celer had brought with him. Publius Celer was a powerful man, despite his age, and seemed to know what he wanted. A sword cut had left him with a scar in one corner of his mouth which made it crooked, so that he always looked scornful.

He had a message for me from Seneca, who thanked me for my letter and urged me to return to Rome, for Nero was missing his true friends as he was introducing his new liberal regime. The crimes, quarrels and mistakes of the past were forgotten and forgiven. Exiles could return to Rome. Supported by the fathers in the Senate, Nero hoped to be able to develop into a bearer of good fortune to humanity.

The necessary official measures were taken. Asia’s rulers decided to commission a portrait of Nero from the most famous sculptor in Home. But despite his wealth, Junius Silanus did not arrange a special banquet in honor of Nero, as he should have done, but invited only his closest friends to his country estate. In this way, we were no more than thirty at table.

After making an offering to Emperor Claudius, now proclaimed a god by the Senate, Junius Silanus turned his fat face to Celer and said venomously, “Let us drop all this chatter. Tell us what really happened in Rome.”

Publius Celer raised his eyebrows and smiled crookedly.

“Are you overcome by the strain of your duties?” he said. “Why are you so excited? Your age and your physique will not stand unnecessary emotion.”

Junius Silanus was indeed breathing heavily and behaving very badly, as disappointed men are apt to do. But Publius Celer tried to gloss over it all in a jocular tone of voice.

“On the way to Claudius’ funeral,” he said, “Nero, as his son, made the customary funeral oration at the forum. Whether he himself had prepared it or whether he had had help from Seneca, I could not say. Despite his youth, Nero has shown evidence of poetic talent of his own. Anyhow, he spoke in clear tones and with graceful gestures. The fathers, the knights and the people all listened attentively while Nero praised Claudius’ famous family and the consulates and triumphs of his ancestors, his own learned interests and his regime’s freedom from external strife. Then Nero skillfully changed his tone and began, as if forced by custom, to praise the wisdom, genius and statesmanship of Claudius. No one could help laughing, and gusts of laughter con-standy interrupted Nero’s memorial speech. They even laughed when he complained of his own irreplaceable loss, his grief and heaviness of heart. The funeral procession became nothing but a farce. No one tried to hide his enormous relief that Rome was at last rid of a cruel, pleasure-loving and feebleminded old dodderer.”

Junius Silanus crashed his gold goblet down on the edge of the couch so violendy that he splashed wine in my face.

“Claudius was my contemporary,” he snarled, “and I cannot allow his memory to be insulted. When the fathers of the Senate come to their senses, they’ll see that the seventeen-year-old son of a power-mad woman cannot rule over the world.”

But Celer was not annoyed.

“Claudius has been proclaimed a god,” he said. “Who can speak ill of a god? In the Elysian fields, Claudius stands divinely above criticism and insults to his person. You should know that, Proconsul. Seneca’s brother Gallio remarked, presumably in jest, that Claudius was hauled up to heaven with a hook in his jaw, in the same way we usually drag a traitor’s body from Tullianum to the Tiber. But that kind of joke only goes to show that once again we may laugh freely in Rome.”

While Junius Silanus was still spluttering with fury, Publius changed his tone and said with a warning note in his voice, “It would be better if you drank a toast to the Emperor and forgot your rancor, Proconsul.”

At his behest, Helius brought another gold goblet and handed it to Celer and Celer mixed the wine before us all, raised the goblet to his own lips and then passed it to Silanus, as he had dented his. Silanus emptied the goblet in two draughts, as usual, for he could not refuse to drink to the Emperor.

After setting the goblet to one side, he was about to continue on the same theme when all at once the veins in his temples swelled, and clutching his throat, he groaned, unable to say a word, his face darkening and turning blue. We stared in terror at him. Before anyone had time to move, he fell to the floor, his fat body jerking once or twice before he let out his last rattling breath there in front of our eyes.

We had all leapt to our feet in fright, quite incapable of speech, and only Publius Celer kept his head.

“I warned him not to get so excited,” he said. “He was overstrained as a result of this unexpected news and took much too hot a bath before the meal. But let us regard this heart attack as a good omen rather than a bad one. You all heard with what rancor he spoke of the Emperor and his mother. His younger brother Lucius took his own life in almost the same way in his day, just to spoil the wedding day of Claudius and Agrippina, when Claudius had broken off his betrothal to Octavia.”

We all began to talk at once of how the heart of an overweight man can burst from too much excitement, and how the face suddenly darkens. Helius fetched Silanus’ physician, who had already retired to bed in accordance with the Cos people’s healthy rules of life. He arrived looking frightened, turned the body over, asked for more light and looked distrustfully down Silanus’ throat. Then he covered his head with his mantle without a word.

When Publius Celer questioned him, he admitted in a broken voice that he had often warned his master against gorging himself with good food, and confirmed that all the signs pointed to a heart attack.

“This unfortunate episode should be recorded on a physician’s certificate,” said Publius Celer, “and also in an official document which we shall all sign as witnesses. An unexpected death causes evil tongues to wag when it is a question of a well-known person. So it should be noted down that I myself tasted the wine before passing it on to him.”

We looked at one another in confusion. It had certainly looked as if Celer had first raised the goblet to his lips, but on the other hand he could quite easily have pretended to do so if the goblet had contained poison. I have described here exactly what happened, because afterwards it was said that Agrippina had sent Celer with the specific task of poisoning Silanus. Certainly his death occurred at a very convenient moment.

Gossip maintained that Celer had bribed both Helius and the physician, and my name was also dragged into the case with a malicious reference to my friendship with Nero. The trial of Celer, which at the request of the Senate was held to investigate the matter thoroughly, was postponed year after year and was finally shelved when Celer died of old age. I should have been glad to have stood witness on his behalf. Helius was later given a prominent position in Nero’s service.

The Proconsul’s sudden death naturally attracted considerable attention in Ephesus as well as in the whole province of Asia. There was no big funeral, so as not to cause anxiety among the people, and his body was cremated in his own beloved garden at his country property. When the pyre had burned down, we collected the ashes and put them in a fine urn which was sent to the Silanus family’s rapidly filled mausoleum in Rome. Publius Celer took over the Proconsulate until the Senate had time to choose a new Proconsul for Asia from those who were waiting their turn. Silanus’ term of. office was soon to have come to an end anyhow.

The change of regime itself had aroused considerable unrest in Ephesus, and the death of the Proconsul worsened the situation. The city’s innumerable fortunetellers, miracle workers, sellers of black magic books, and first and foremost the silversmiths, who sold small models of the temple of Artemis as souvenirs, took advantage of this opportunity to cause disturbances in the streets and to ill-treat the Jews.

Paul, of course, was the cause of this. I now found out that he had been sowing discord in Ephesus for two years, and it was of him that Silanus’ physician had spoken, although I did not realize it at the time.

Paul had persuaded his followers to collect all their astrological calendars and books of dreams, worth a hundred or so sesterces, and burn them publicly in the forum as a demonstration against their rivals. The bonfire of books had aroused the ire of the superstitious people of Ephesus, and even the educated people did not like books being burned, although they themselves did not bother much with the good and evil days of horoscopes or the interpretation of dreams. But they feared that philosophy and poetry might be next to land in the fire.

I was seized with fury when I once again heard Paul named as a disturber of the peace. I should have liked to leave Ephesus at once, but Publius Celer feared more uprisings and asked me to take over the command of the city cavalry and the Roman garrison.

It was not long before the city council sent an anxious message to say that great crowds were on their way along the streets leading to the Greek theater, where an illegal meeting was to be held. The silversmiths had seized two of Paul’s companions in the street, but his other disciples had forcibly prevented Paul from going to the theater. The city fathers also sent a warning to Paul, appealing to him not to mix with the crowd in case it led to murder.

When it became evident that the city council was not in control of the situation, Publius Celer ordered me to call out the cavalry and he himself placed a cohort of infantrymen at the entrance to the theater. He smiled, his eyes cold and his mouth crooked, and assured me that he had been looking forward to a suitable opportunity of this kind to give these unruly people a few lessons in Roman discipline and order.

With a trumpeter and a cohort commantler, I went into the theater to be able to give the signal if the crowd turned violent. The people were noisy and restless in the huge theater; many obviously did not know what it was all about and had, in the Greek way, simply come to shout as loudly as they could. No one seemed to be armed. I could imagine the panic that would ensue if the theater had to be cleared forcibly.

The senior elder of the silversmiths tried to quiet the crowd so that he could speak, but he had already roused them to such an extent that his voice was hoarse and cracked completely when he started to speak. Even so, I managed to make out that he was accusing Paul the Jew of misleading the people, not only in Ephesus but all over Asia, into believing that handmade idols were not gods.

“We are threatened with the danger,” he shouted in his cracked voice, “of the great temple of Artemis losing all respect and she herself her power. She who is worshiped by the whole of Asia and all over the world.”

The huge crowd began to shout on the tops of their voices: “Great is Artemis of Ephesus!”

The continuous roar lasted so long that my trumpeter became anxious and tried to raise his instrument to his lips, but I knocked it away again.

A group of tasseled Jews was standing huddled nearby, and they pushed a coppersmith forward, crying, “Let Alexander speak.”

As far as I could make out, this Alexander wished to explain that the faithful Jews were not followers of Paul and that Paul did not even have the complete confidence of all the Christians in Ephesus.

But when the crowd saw from his clothes that he was a Jew, they did not want to let him speak, and they were right, inasmuch as the faithful Jews did not approve of idols or handmade images of such things. To stop him from speaking, the crowd broke out again with the cry: “Great is Artemis of Ephesus!” This time the roar lasted without exaggeration for two full lines on the water clock.

Publius Celer appeared beside me with his sword drawn.

“Why don’t you give the signal?” he snarled. “We can disperse the whole meeting in no time.”

“Several hundred people would be trampled underfoot,” I warned him.

The thought seemed to please Celer. So I added hastily: “They’re only praising their own Artemis. It would be both blasphemy and political foolishness to disperse a crowd for that reason.”

When the City Chancellor saw us standing hesitandy at one of the entrances, he signaled desperately for us to wait. He even had sufficient authority to quiet the crowd gradually as he stepped up to speak.

Now the Christians were thrust forward. They had been beaten and their clothes torn, but nothing worse had happened to them. To show what they thought, the Jews spat at them, but the Chancellor told the crowd not to act rashly, and reminded them that the city of Ephesus had been chosen to care for Artemis’ idol which had fallen from heaven. According to him, Paul’s disciples were neither temple defilers nor blasphemers.

The more sensible people in the crowd began to glance at my red plumes and at the cavalry trumpeter and then make their way out of the theater. For a moment everything hung in balance. Publius Celer ground his teeth, for if he had found reason to attack, then in the traditional Roman way he could have set fire to and plundered the silversmiths’ shops. The educated members of the crowd fortunately remembered the frightening events of the past and hurried away. As an outlet for his disappointment, Celer let his soldiers besiege the theater and beat a few of the remaining rebels and Jews. But nothing worse occurred.

Afterwards he reproached me bitterly, saying, “Both of us would have been enormously wealthy men now, if you hadn’t been so indecisive. Suppressing a rebellion would have taken us to the top of the roll of knights. We could have put the cause of the uprising down to Silanus’ lax rule. One must seize the opportunity as it arises, otherwise one loses it forever.”

Paul remained in hiding for a while and then had to flee the city. After I had by devious routes sent him a serious warning, we heard that he had gone to Macedonia. Then calm gradually descended again and the Jews found other things to think about Among them were many exiled Roman craftsmen intending to return to Rome in the spring.

The winter storms were now at their worst and in the harbor there was not a single ship due to sail to Italy. But Publius Celer had taken a dislike to me and, to avoid quarreling with him, I at last found a small ship loaded with goddess idols, which would risk the journey to Corinth under the protection of Artemis. We were fortunate enough to miss the northern storms, but several times had to shelter in island harbors on the way.

In Corinth, Hierex Lausius had been mourning me as lost, after hearing nothing from me for so long. He had grown fatter than ever and went about with his chin in the air, talking in a droning voice. He had married his Greek widow and taken two orphan boys into the house to look after their education and property. He proudly showed me his own meat shop which was kept cool in the summer with spring water from the mountain. He had also acquired shares in ships and bought skilled slaves to use in his own bronze foundry.

When I told him about the disturbances in Ephesus, he shook his head knowingly.

“We’ve had trouble here too,” he said. “You remember that Paul went from here to Jerusalem to consult the elders. They considered his teaching too involved and he was not met with complete approval, we gather. No wonder he preaches even more fervently in his vexation. He must have a share of the spirit of Christ, as he has succeeded with faith-healing, but the more moderate Christians prefer to keep away from him.”

“So you’re still a Christian, then?” I said in surprise.

“I think I’m a better Christian than before,” said Hierex. “My soul is at peace, I have a good wife and my affairs are going well. A messenger called Apollus came here to Corinth. He had studied the Jewish scripts in Alexandria and received instruction from Aquila and Prisca in Ephesus. He’s a compelling speaker and soon had many followers. So we have an Apollo sect which holds special meetings, eats together and keeps away from the other Christians. On Prisca’s advice, he was received unnecessarily warmly here, before we had any idea of his ambitions for power. Fortunately we are visited by Cephas, the most important of the disciples of Jesus of Nazareth. He has traveled in many places to calm his mind and intends to go to Rome in the spring to prevent the old quarrels there being repeated when the exiled Jews return. I believe in him more than anyone else, for his teaching comes straight from the mouth of Jesus of Nazareth.”

Hierex spoke so respectfully of Cephas that I decided to seek him out, although I was already heartily sick of both Jews and Christians. This Cephas was originally a Galilean fisherman whom Jesus of Nazareth, about twenty-five years earlier, before I was born, had taught to fish for people. It had no doubt been difficult, for Cephas was an ignorant man of the people and could speak hardly a word of Greek so that he had to have an interpreter with him on his travels. But I thought I had every reason to meet a man who had been able to make Hierex pious, for even Paul with all his Jewish wisdom and faith had not been able to perform such a miracle.

Cephas lived with one of the Jews who recognized Christ, a man who traded in fish preserved in oil and who was by no means wealthy. When I went into his house, to which Hierex had taken me, I had to screw up my nose at the smell of fish and the grating sand which the many visitors had left behind them on the floor. It was a cramped and dimly lit room, and Cephas’ Jewish landlord greeted us uneasily, as if he were afraid my presence would sully his house.

He evidently belonged to the group of Jews who had chosen Christ but still tried to follow the Jewish laws, avoiding contact with un-circumcised Christian Greeks. His position was more difficult than that of the Greeks, for the faithful Jews especially hated him as a deserter, and because of his laws, his conscience was never at rest.

Cephas the Jew wore a cloak with tassels at the corners. He was a big man with a thick growth of hair and gray streaks in his beard, and one could see from his broad hands that he had been used to manual labor in his day. His bearing was calm and unafraid, but I thought I saw a glimpse of some kind of peasant shrewdness in his eyes as he looked at me. He seemed to radiate a sense of security.

I must admit that I do not remember much of our conversation. Hierex did most of the talking, in an ingratiating way, and we were troubled by the interpreter, a slim Jew called Marcus who was considerably younger than Cephas. Cephas spoke labored Aramaic, in short sentences. My childhood memories of Antioch came back to me as I listened to him, and I tried to understand what he was saying before the interpreter translated. This confused me too. And in fact, what Cephas had to say did not strike me as particularly memorable in itself. The best thing about him was the conciliatory warmth he spread around him.

Cephas tried, somewhat childishly, to demonstrate his learning by quoting the Jews’ holy scripts. He brushed aside Hierex* flattery and urged him to praise only God, the father of Jesus Christ, who in his mercy had allowed Hierex to be reborn into eternal hope.

Hierex became tearful and admitted honestly that although he had noticed a kind of rebirth in his heart, his body was still subject to selfish demands. Cephas did not judge him, but just looked at him, his eyes both mild and clever at the same time, as if he had seen through all human weakness but at the same time recognized a scrap of true searching for goodness in this wretched slave’s soul.

Hierex eagerly asked Cephas to tell us how he had saved himself from King Herod, and about the miracles he had performed in the name of Jesus Christ. But Cephas had turned to look at me attentively and did not wish to boast of his miracles. Instead he gently made fun of himself by telling me how little he had understood Jesus of Nazareth when he had followed him before the crucifixion. He also described how he had not even been able to keep awake while Jesus was praying on his last night on earth. When Jesus had been captured, he had gone too, and around the fire in the prison yard he had denied knowing Jesus three times, just as Jesus had foretold when Cephas had boasted that he was prepared to share his sufferings.

I sensed that Cephas’ strength lay in this kind of simple story, which he had repeated so often year after year, that he knew them all by heart. In the simple and illiterate way of a fisherman, he well remembered Jesus’ own words and teachings, and with his humility, he tried to set an example to other Christians, who like Hierex could swell like toads in the name of Christ.

No, Cephas was not an unattractive man, but I sensed that he could be frightening should he become angry. He did not make any attempt to convert me either, after looking at me steadily for a while, which offended me slightly.

On our way home, Hierex expounded his own views to me.

“We Christians,” he said, “regard each other as brothers. But as all people are different, so are we Christians different. Thus we have Paul’s side, Apollus’ side, Cephas’ side and then we who simply like Christ and do as we think right. So we are always at each other’s throats because of our internal strife and envy. The newly converted are the worst at squabbling and the first to reproach the quieter ones for their way of life. Since meeting Cephas, I on my part have tried to appear no more excellent or blameless than any other man.”

My enforced delay in Corinth unsettled me and I did not feel at home in my own house. I bought a beautifully carved ivory team of horses as a present for Nero. I remembered his playing with a similar one as a child when his mother would not allow him to go to the races.

The feast of Saturnalia had long since passed when I eventually, after a stormy passage, returned to Rome via Puteoli.

Aunt Laelia was bowed and quarrelsome and reproached me for not writing to her for three whole years. Barbus alone was genuinely pleased to see me and told me that when he had had a bad dream about me, he had paid for the sacrifice of a whole bull to Mithras for my welfare. When he heard about my experiences, he seemed to be convinced that this sacrifice had saved me from my imprisonment in Cilicia.

The first thing I wanted to do was to go to Viminalis to see my father, to whom I felt a stranger. But Aunt Laelia, who had by then calmed down, took me to one side.

“You’d better not go anywhere,” she said, “until you know what has happened in Rome.”

Seething with malicious excitement, she then told me how Emperor Claudius had decided to give the man-toga to Britannicus, despite his youth, and had then in a drunken moment rashly mentioned Agrippina’s lust for power. So Agrippina had given him poisonous mushrooms. This was being spoken of all over Rome quite openly, and Nero knew about it. He was said to have declared that mushroom stew could make a man into a god. Claudius had been proclaimed a god, and

Agrippina was having a temple built for her deceased husband, but few people had applied for the priesthood.

“So Rome is the same old hotbed of gossip as before,” I said bitterly. ‘We’ve known for two years that Claudius suffered from stomach cancer, although he wouldn’t admit it himself. Why do you deliberately try to spoil my happiness? I know Agrippina personally and I am a friend of Nero’s. How can I possibly believe such terrible things of them?”

“Narcissus too was given a push into Hades,” Aunt Laelia went on, without even having heard what I had said. “To his credit, it must be said that he did burn all Claudius’ secret records before committing suicide. Agrippina had wanted those at any price. In that way, he saved the lives of a great many men. Agrippina had to be content with a hundred million sesterces which she demantled from his estate. Believe it or not, but I know there would have been a blood bath if Agrippina had had her way. Fortunately Seneca and Prefect Burrus are sensible men and they succeeded in stopping her. Seneca was chosen as Consul after writing a malicious satire on Claudius to please the Senate. Now no one can hear Claudius called god without laughing. It was really simple revenge for his exile. But we who know about things in Rome are aware that he deserved it after the scandal over Agrippina’s sister. The poor girl lost her life too, in the end. I don’t know what we can expect when an eloquent philosopher makes decisions in State affairs. Things are not what they used to be. The young people even go about indecently dressed like Greeks, now that Claudius is no longer here to make them wear togas.”

Aunt Laelia gabbled on for some time before I could get away from her. As I hurried to my father’s house on Viminalis, I noticed that die atmosphere in Rome had become freer than before. People dared to laugh. The innumerable statues in the forum were covered with jokes which were read aloud for everyone’s amusement. No one bothered to scrape them off, and although it was only afternoon, I saw in the streets quite a number of drunken cittern-playing youths with long hair.

Tullia’s atrium was filled as before with a crowd of people seeking audience or some favor, and clients, and also-to my sorrow-Jews, whom my father would never be rid of. Tullia stopped talking to two well-known old gossips and to my astonishment came up to me and embraced me warmly. Her plump fingers glittered with rings and she had tried to hide the loose skin at her neck with a many-tiered necklace of jewels.

“It’s high time you returned to Rome from your travels, Minutus,” she cried. “When your father heard you had disappeared he was ill with worry, although I reminded him of his own conduct in his youth. I can see that you are quite well, you bad boy. Did you get involved in a drunken brawl in Asia, that you’ve got such ugly scars on your face? I was afraid your father would grieve to death over you.”

My father had aged, but in his capacity as senator, he bore himself with even greater dignity than before. When I looked at him after this long time, I noticed that his eyes were the most sorrowful I had ever seen on any man. We could not talk easily to one another, however glad he was to see me. I was content to tell him about my experiences and I belittled my imprisonment. Finally I asked him, mostly in jest, what the Jews still wanted of him.

“The Procurator in Judaea is now Felix, the brother of the treasurer Pallas,” said my father. “You must know him, the man who married a granddaughter to Cleopatra. Owing to his cupidity, complaints have been pouring in. Or rather, the Jews are eternal troublemakers for whom no one is good enough, and now someone has again gone and killed someone else somewhere. I think the whole of Judaea is in the hands of a band of brigands. Plundering and burning are going on there and Felix obviously cannot maintain order. The Jews are trying to take the matter to the Senate. But which of us wants to become involved in such things? Pallas is much too powerful to offend. And the Senate has genuine troubles in Armenia and Britain to contend with.

‘We meet at the Palace now,” my father went on. “Agrippina wants to listen behind a curtain to the discussions in the Senate. It’s certainly more comfortable there than in that fearful Curia, where some of us have to stand, if by some miraculous chance all of us happen to be there at the same time. You get frostbite in your feet there in the winter.”

“And Nero?” I asked eagerly. “What do you think of him?”

“I know that Nero wished he had never learned to write, the day he had to sign a death warrant for the first time,” said my father. “Perhaps one day he really will be the hope of mankind, as many genuinely believe. In any case, he has handed back part of the jurisdiction to the Consuls and the Senate. Whether this is a show of respect for the city fathers or to avoid having to go to trials in order to attend more pleasant amusements, I could not even guess.”

My father was obviously talking just for the sake of talking. He frowned, looked absently beyond me and did not seem to have the slightest interest in affairs of State. Suddenly he looked straight at me.

“Minutus, my only son,” he said, “what are you going to do with your life?”

“For two years I have lived in a dark cave,” I said, “humiliated and more wretched than a slave. A whim of the Goddess of Fortune has taken away two years of my life. If I were even capable of a constructive thought, then it would be that one day I shall retrieve those two years and be glad to be alive as a man, without moping unnecessarily and denying the bounties of life.”

My father gestured toward the room’s polished walls, as if including in the gesture all the pomp and grandeur of Tullia’s house.

“Perhaps I too live in a dark cave,” he said with deep melancholy in his voice. “I submit to duties for which I have not asked. But you are flesh of your mother’s flesh and must not be lost. Do you still have her wooden goblet?”

“It was only a wooden mug and the brigands in Cilicia didn’t even bother to take it away from me,” I said. “When we were given no water for several days and my tongue filled my mouth and our breath smelled like the breath of wild animals, sometimes I pretended to drink out of the goblet, imagining that it was full. But it wasn’t. It was only delirium.”

I was careful not to tell my father about Paul and Cephas, because I wanted to forget them as completely as if I had never met them. But my father said, “I wish I were a slave, poor and insignificant, so that I could begin my life all over again. But it is too late for me. The chains have already grown into my flesh.”

I was not attracted by this philosophical dream of a simple life. Seneca had eloquently described the blessings of poverty and peace of mind, but in reality he preferred to be bewitched by power, honors and wealth, explaining that they could not alter a wise man, just as poverty and exile had not been able to.

We ended by talking about financial matters. After consulting Tullia, who also had plans for my life, my father decided to transfer a million sesterces over to me at first, so that I could live as I should, giving banquets and making useful connections. He promised me more when I needed it, for he himself could not possibly spend all his money, however much he tried.

“Your father lacks an interest which would satisfy him at his age and fill his life,” complained Tullia. “He doesn’t even bother to go to lectures anymore, although I had a special auditorium built in the house, for I thought you would perhaps continue in a literary career. He could collect old musical instruments or Greek paintings and become famous for it. Some people breed special fish in their pools, others train gladiators, and he could even afford to keep racehorses. That’s the most expensive and the finest leisure occupation a middle-aged man can have. But no, he’s so stubborn. Either he frees a slave, or hands out gifts to useless people. Well, I suppose he could have worse amusements. With concessions on both sides, we’ve managed to find a way of life which satisfies us.”

They wanted me to stay for the evening meal, but I thought I ought to report to the Palace as soon as possible, before the news of my arrival reached there by other means. The guards did in fact let me in without searching me for weapons. The times had changed that much. But I was amazed to see how many knights were sitting in the arcades, waiting for an audience. I reported to several court officials, but Seneca was so weighed down with his enormous burden of work that he could not possibly receive me, and Emperor Nero himself had shut himself in his workroom to write poems. One was not allowed to disturb him when he was consulting the muses.

I was depressed when I realized how many people were striving in so many ways for the favors of the young Emperor. Just as I was about to leave, one of Pallas’ innumerable secretaries came up to me and showed me to Agrippina’s room. She was striding restlessly up and down, bumping into stools and kicking the valuable Oriental rugs to one side.

“Why didn’t you report straightaway to me,” she said angrily, “or have you too lost all respect for me? Ingratitude is one’s reward. I don’t think any mother has sacrificed so much for her own son and his friends.”

“Augusta, Mother of the Fatherland,” I cried, although I knew she had no right to these titles of honor. Officially she was only priestess to the god Claudius. “How can you reproach me for ingratitude? I dared not even dream of disturbing you in your widow’s grief with my insignificant affairs.”

Agrippina seized my hand, pressed my arm in her full bosom and breathed the scent of violets into my face.

“It’s good that you’ve come back, Minutus Lausus,” she said. “You’re a lighthearted man, despite your past mistakes, and that was sheer inexperience. At this moment, Nero needs his real friends most of all. The boy is indecisive and much too easily led. Perhaps I have been too strict with him. He seems to be beginning to avoid me deliberately, although at first he sat beside me in the same sedan or politely followed behind it. Perhaps you know the Senate has given me the right to ride all the way up to the Capitoline if I want to. Nero wastes insane sums of money on friends who are unworthy of him, cittern players, actors, racing men and various authors of works of homage, just as if he had no idea of the value of money. Pallas is very worried. Thanks to him, there was at least some order in the State finances during poor Claudius’ time when the Imperial treasury was kept strictly apart from the State treasury. Nero doesn’t understand the difference. And now Nero has become infatuated with a slave-girl. Can you imagine? He prefers meeting a white-skinned slip of a girl to his own mother. That’s no way for an Emperor to behave. And appalling friends egg him on to all kinds of immoral acts.”

Agrippina, strong-willed and beautiful, who usually behaved with the dignity of a goddess, was so upset that she was airing her grievances to me in a way which put too great a reliance on my friendship.

“Seneca has betrayed my confidence,” she cried. “The cursed slippery-tongued hypocrite! I was the one who brought him back from exile. I was the one to appoint him as Nero’s tutor. He has no one but me to thank for his success. You know there is trouble in Armenia now. When Nero was to receive an envoy from there, I went into the room to sit in my rightful place by his side. Seneca sent Nero to me to lead me out again, with a filial piety, of course. But it was a public insult. Women should not interfere in State affairs, but there is one woman who made Nero into an Emperor.”

I could only imagine what the Armenian envoy would have thought if he had seen a woman appearing in public at the Emperor’s side, and I thought Nero had shown better judgment in this matter than Agrippina. But of course I could not say so. I looked at her in terror, in the way one gazes at a wounded lioness, and I realized that I had arrived just in time to witness a decisive stage in the power struggle over who should rule Rome, Agrippina or Nero’s advisers. This I could not even have imagined, for I knew how completely Nero had been dependent on his mother before.

In my confusion I tried to tell her of my own adventures, but Agrip-pina had not the patience to listen. Not until I mentioned Silanus’ heart attack did she pay any attention.

“It was the best thing that could have happened,” she said. “Otherwise one day we’d have been forced to prosecute him for treason. That family have shown themselves to be snakes in the grass.”

Just then a servant hurried in and reported that Nero had begun his meal, late as usual. Agrippina gave me a push.

“Run, stupid,” she said. “Go to him now. Don’t let anyone stop you.”

I was so much under her influence that I did in fact half run and told the servants who tried to stop me that I had been invited to the Emperor’s evening meal. Nero was entertaining in the smaller dining hall, which held only about fifty guests. It was already so full that there were not enough couches, even though there were three people to each one, and several guests had to be content with stools. Nero was animated and carelessly dressed, but his pleasant youthful face radiated happiness. At first he stared at me, but then he embraced and kissed me, ordering a chair for me to be placed beside his own place of honor.

“The muses have been kindly disposed toward me,” he cried, and then he leaned forward and whispered in my ear: “Minutus, Minutus, have you ever experienced what it is to love with the whole of one’s soul? Love and be loved. What more can a human being wish for?”

He ate greedily and swiftly as he gave instructions to Terpnus, who was dressed in his full-length musician’s cloak, and who I did not even know was the most famous cittern player of our time until I was told about him. I was still so ignorant then. During the meal, Terpnus composed an accompaniment to the love poems Nero had written during the afternoon and then sang them to the guests as they sat in breathless silence.

I lis voice was well trained and so powerful that it seemed to penetrate right through one, and after his song, sung to the cittern, we all applauded vigorously. I do not know how artistic Nero’s poems were, or to what extent they were derivative of other poets’ works, but with Terpnus’ performance they made a deep impression, and I am not particularly musical either. With feigned shyness, Nero thanked everyone for the applause, took the instrument from Terpnus and plucked at it longingly, but did not dare try singing, although many asked him to.

“One day I shall sing,” Nero said simply, “when Terpnus has had time to train and strengthen my voice with the necessary exercises. I know my voice has certain possibilities, and if I ever do sing, I want to compete with only the best voices. That’s my sole ambition.”

He asked Terpnus to sing again and again, never tiring of listening, and glaring at those who had had enough of the music and were beginning to talk quietly together over their goblets.

I myself finally found it difficult to suppress my yawns. I looked at my fellow guests and could see that Nero did not choose his friends with any exaggerated reference to their descent or rank, but followed his own persona] tastes.

The noblest of the guests was Marcus Otho, who, like my father, was descended from the Etruscan kings and to whose father the Senate had erected a statue in Palatine. But he had such a reputation for recklessness and extravagance that I remembered hearing that his father had often beaten him long after he had received the man-toga. Claudius Senecio was also among the guests although his father had been nothing but one of Emperor Gaius’ freedmen. Both were handsome young men who could behave well when they felt like it. Another of the guests was Seneca’s wealthy relative, Annaeus Serenus, to whom Nero whispered in the moments when Terpnus was silent, soothing his voice with an egg drink.

When Nero was listening to the music, he fell into a reverie, like a marble Endymion with his handsome features and his reddish hair. Finally he sent away most of his guests, retaining only about ten, and I also stayed as he did not ask me to leave. In his youthful love of life, he had not yet had enough and suggested we dress up and go out a back way into the city to enjoy ourselves.

He himself put on slave costume and covered his head with a hood. We were all sufficiently drunk that anything seemed amusing to us, so laughing and shouting, we tumbled down the steep street to the forum and shushed at each other as we passed the Vestal Virgins’ dwelling. Otho said something obscene about them, which showed his total god-lessness.

At the goldsmiths’ street, we met a drunken Roman knight complaining that he had lost his companions. Nero provoked a quarrel with him and knocked him down when he tried to fight. Nero was very strong for his eighteen years. Otho took off his cloak and we laughingly flung the man up into the air with it. In the end, Senecio pushed him into a sewer opening, but we pulled him out again so that he would not drown. Shouting noisily, thumping on the shop shutters and tearing down the signs as tokens of triumph, we finally reached the stinking alleys of Subura.

There we roughly cleared a little inn of its customers and forced the landlord to give us wine. The wine was wretched, as one might have imagined, so we broke his jars, spilling the wine all over the floor and out onto the street. Serenus promised to compensate the landlord for the damage when he wept over his helplessness. Nero was very proud of a cut he had received on one cheek and would not allow us to punish the drover from Latium who had hit him, but called the coarse-limbed lout a man of honor.

Senecio wanted us to go to a brothel but Nero said sadly that he was not permitted to keep even the very best prostitute company because of his mother’s strictness. Then Serenus, looking secretive, swore us all to secrecy, and took us to a handsome house on the slopes of Palatine. He said he had bought it and equipped it for the most beautiful woman in the world. Nero was confused and shy and several times asked, “Dare we disturb her so late?” and “Do you think I could read a poem to her?”

All this was mostly just talk, for in the house lived the freedwoman Acte, who had been a Greek slave, and who was in fact the very girl with whom Nero had fallen head-over-heels in love. Serenus only pretended to be her lover in order that in his name he could give her Nero’s innumerable presents. I must admit that Acte was extremely beautiful. Presumably she must have been very much in love too, for she was delighted to be wakened in the early hours of the morning to meet the drunken Nero and his reveling companions.

Nero swore that Acte was descended from King Attalus and that he intended to prove this to the world one day. On my part, I did not approve that he felt it necessary to show us the girl naked, and boast about her incredibly snow-white skin. The girl seemed well brought up and entirely agreeable, but Nero only enjoyed seeing her blushes as he explained that he could not refuse his friends anything. They themselves must see that he was the happiest and most enviable youth in the world.

In this way my new life in Rome began, and it was not a very honorable life. Some time later, Nero offered me his favor if there were any particular oflicc I should like to have. He was even prepared to recommend me for a cohort command in the Praetorian Guard. I declined and said that I wished only to be his friend and companion, to learn the art of living. This pleased him, and he said, “You choose wisely, Minutus. There is no office insignificant enough not to waste a man’s time.”

In Nero’s favor, I must say that on those occasions when he was forced to sit in judgment on cases which he could not turn over to the City Prefect or Prefect Burrus, he judged fairly and considerately, limiting the lawyers’ verbiage and demanding written verdicts from the other judges to avoid ingratiation. After reading the three separate verdicts, he himself pronounced judgment the following day, according to his own opinion. Despite his youth, he could conduct himself with dignity in public, even though otherwise he dressed with artistic carelessness and wore his hair long.

I did not envy him his lot. It is difficult at seventeen to be exalted to the position of Emperor of Rome and rule over the world, constantly distressed by a jealous mother with a desire for power. I think that only Nero’s passionate love for Acte saved him from Agrippina’s influence and drew them apart, however bitter it was for Nero. But he could not endure his mother’s wounding words about Acte, and he could have made a worse choice, for Acte never mixed in State affairs and did not even angle for presents from him, although she was naturally pleased with what she received.

In unnoticeable ways, Acte also succeeded in subduing the Domitian wildness in Nero. She had great respect for Seneca, who secretly approved of the relationship since he considered it would have been much more dangerous if Nero had fallen in love with some noble Roman maiden or young matron. Nero’s marriage to Octavia was a mere formality, and they had not even slept together yet, for Octavia was still too young. And then, too, Nero loathed her because she was sister to Britannicus. To be honest, Octavia did not have many attractive features. She was a withdrawn, supercilious girl with whom it was difficult to talk seriously, and who unfortunately had not inherited the beauty and charm of her mother, Messalina.

Agrippina was wise and finally realized that her complaints and outbursts of rage only increased the distance between herself and Nero. So she reverted to the gentle mother, devoting herself to caressing and kissing him passionately and offering to share her bedroom with him so that she alone could be his best and nearest confidante. As a result, Nero was tormented by his guilty conscience. Once when he was choosing a gift for Acte in Palatine’s gown and jewel store, he innocently put aside a piece of jewelry for Agrippina, driven by a twinge of conscience. But Agrippina was livid with anger and pointed out that the valuables in the Palace were already hers, inherited from

Claudius, and that it was only thanks to her that Nero had access to them.

I, too, came up against Agrippina’s rage when, according to her, I did not report to her on Nero’s and his friends’ pranks and political opinions. It was as if this woman, for so long reserved and now corroded by her bitter experiences, had suddenly completely lost control of herself when she had begun to realize that she was not going to be allowed to rule over Rome through her son. Her face was twisted into frightening ugliness, her eyes glared like Medusa’s and her language became so obscene that it was difficult to listen to her. I no longer thought well of her.

I think the deepest cause of the rift between Nero and Agrippina was really that he loved his mother so much, more than was right for a son, and Agrippina had quite deliberately seduced him. So he was both drawn to his mother and repelled by her at the same time, and he fled from her into Acte’s arms, or found outlet for his hatred in alley fights at night in the streets of Rome. On the other hand, Seneca’s moral teaching kept his inner being in control, for Nero at least tried to appear outwardly as a worthy pupil. Agrippina, in her insane jealousy, made the great mistake of losing control of herself.

Agrippina’s only support, an extremely powerful one at that, was the Greek freedman Pallas, who considered himself a descendant of the mythical Arcadian kings and who, after serving the State under three Emperors, had developed such cunning that he never spoke to his slaves so that no one could then twist his words, but gave all his orders in writing. To me, the gossip about Agrippina’s relationship with him seemed unimportant. In any case, it had been Pallas who had first advised Claudius to marry her. Naturally the friendship the first lady of Rome openly showed to an ex-slave flattered him.

Pallas always regarded Nero as if he were a silly boy and took every opportunity to show how indispensable his own experience was to the care of the State finances. When Nero wished to lower the taxes to please the people and the provinces, Pallas pretended to agree willingly, but then asked acidly where the Emperor thought he was going to find the money the State needed, demonstrating with clear figures that the State would go bankrupt if taxes were lowered. However talented Nero was in other ways, he had no head for figures and regarded calculations as work for slaves and not worthy of an Emperor.

Personally, Pallas was a courageous man. It had been he who, a quarter of a century before, had risked his life by going to Capri to expose Sejanus’ conspiracy to Emperor Tiberius. His wealth was immense, reputed to be three hundred million sesterces, and his influence as great. He respected Britannicus and Octavia for their position as children of Claudius, and he had not been directly involved in Messalina’s wretched death. When he had agreed to take over the State finances, he had extracted a promise from Claudius that he need never account for the measures he adopted. He had demantled the same promise of Nero on the first day he came to power, when he had paid out from the State treasury the gifts Nero had promised the Praetorians.

But he was an aging, tired man and the administration of the State monies had not kept up with the huge development of Rome, but had become rigid in the old traditions. This I heard said in many quarters. But he still considered himself indispensable. During disputes with Nero, he always threatened to resign from his post, thus bringing chaos to the State finances.

“Ask your mother about it, if you don’t believe me,” he would add.

Seneca, who feared his own position might be affected, now made a determining decision on Nero’s behalf. With the help of the cleverest bankers in Rome, he drew up a detailed plan for the care of the State finances and a thorough reorganization of the tax collections, to the advantage of the State in the spirit of the day. After consulting Burrus, he had the Praetorians occupy Palatine and guard the forum.

“Are you the Emperor or not?” he said to Nero. “Summon Pallas and tell him he must go,”

Nero feared and respected Pallas so much that he did not wish to do this.

“Couldn’t I send him a written order,” he asked, “just as he always does?”

But Seneca wanted to harden Nero, however difficult it was for Nero to look Pallas straight in the eye, Pallas had of course heard rumors about this new order, but he despised Seneca the philosopher and schoolmaster too much to take it seriously. And since Nero wished to be surrounded by his friends, to have their moral support and approval when he appeared as Emperor, I also witnessed this unpleasant event.

When Pallas received the message from Nero, he was already under guard to prevent his sending a message to Agrippina. But it must be admitted that he appeared before Nero like a prince, not a flicker on his lined old face, as Nero, with delicate gestures, made an impassioned speech in his honor, not forgetting the Arcadian kings, and thanking him deeply for all his services to the State.

“I can no longer bear to see you becoming old before your time and being broken by the weight of your great burden of responsibilities, as you yourself have often complained about,” said Nero finally. “As a special favor, I shall permit you to retire immediately to your country estate, of whose excellence and luxury we all know, so that to the end of your days you can enjoy the wealth you have accumulated without the slightest mistrust or fault spotting your reputation.”

“I hope you will permit me, before I leave, to undergo the cleansing oath of the Capitoline, as is due to my position,” was all that Pallas could say in reply.

Nero remarked that in accordance with his oath, he could not demand such an oath of such a faithful and reliable servant of the State, but that if Pallas himself wished it, to lighten his conscience, then of course Nero had no objection. On the contrary. The oath would put an end to all the endless gossip which was circulating.

We expressed our approval with vigorous clapping, laughter and cries. Nero puffed up like a cockerel and smiled to himself in satisfaction as he stood there in his purple Imperial robe. Pallas contented himself with looking coldly at each of us in turn. I shall never forget his look, so full of icy contempt for us, Nero’s best friends. Since then, I have had to admit that a fortune of three hundred million sesterces is by no means disproportionate compensation for looking after the gigantic finances of the Roman Empire for twenty-five years. Seneca accumulated just as much in five years as compensation for his exile, not to mention my own fortune, whose size you will one day discover, Julius, after I am gone. I myself have not for many years bothered to find out even approximately how much it amounts to.

The presence of the Praetorians in the forum and in other public places soon attracted crowds of people, and the news that Pallas had fallen from favor aroused general pleasure. What delights a crowd more than when a rich and influential man falls from his pedestal? Soon the wandering jesters were imitating Pallas on the street corners and competing with malicious songs.

But when Pallas walked down from Palatine, followed by his eight hundred freedmen and assistants, the crowd fell silent and made way for his dignified procession. Pallas left his office like an Oriental king, his following glittering with valuable costumes, gold, silver and jewels.

Who is more ostentatious in his clothing than an ex-slave? So Pallas had ordered them all to come in their best clothes.

He himself was wearing a simple white tunic as he went up to the Capitoline, first to the mint in the temple of Juno Moneta and from there to the State Treasury, the temple of Saturn. In front of each idol, he took the cleansing oath and confirmed it again in the temple of Jupiter.

Hoping to throw the State finances into confusion, Pallas had taken with him all his freedmen who over the years had been trained for different tasks, hoping that Nero would be forced to recall him in a few days’ time. But Seneca was prepared for this. Five hundred skilled slaves lent by the bankers were immediately placed in Pallas’ building in Palatine. And several of Pallas’ subordinates abandoned him as soon as he had left the city, and returned willingly to their old occupations. Seneca himself took over the right to decide on financial issues at a high level and formed a kind of State bank which lent out huge sums to Egypt and the tribal kings of Britain. The money did not lie idle, but earned dividends for Seneca.

For several days Nero did not dare face his mother. Agrippina, for her part, considered that she had been mortally insulted, shut herself in her rooms on Palatine and called Britannicus in to her with his suite and tutor, in order to show to whom she would in future devote her attentions. Vespasian’s son, Titus, was one of Britannicus’ companions, as was Seneca’s nephew, Annaeus Lucanus, who despite his youth was too clever a poet to appeal very much to Nero. For while Nero liked the company of poets and artists and arranged competitions in the art of poetry, he did not like admitting that anyone could better him.

However cleverly Nero thought he had played his part in Pallas’ dismissal, he was still very uneasy when he thought about his mother. As a kind of penance, he devoted his time to training his voice under the supervision of Terpnus. He fasted and lay on his back for long periods with a plate of lead on his chest. His exercises were monotonous to listen to, and to tell the truth, we were ashamed of them and tried to make sure that no old senator or visiting envoy heard them.

The good news which arrived from Armenia just then increased Nero’s self-confidence to some extent. On the advice of Seneca and Burrus, Nero had summoned Rome’s greatest commantler, Corbulo, from Germany to quell the disturbances in Armenia, for the fact that this buffer state had been occupied by the Parthians was sufficient reason for war, according to Roman political tradition.

In the internal struggle for the supreme command, Corbulo and the Proconsul of Syria, by successful forced marches, had managed to occupy the banks of the Euphrates, and then had shown such resolution that the Parthians had thought it best to leave Armenia again without declaring war. The Senate decided on a feast of thanksgiving in Rome, gave Nero the right to a triumph and had wreaths put on his lictor’s fasces.

These measures were taken to calm the general unrest, for many people had feared that Nero’s resolution would lead to war with Par-thia. Business life in Rome was upset by the rumors of war, and the decrease in activity in the temple of Mercury did harm to all tradesmen.

At the end of the year, the Saturnalia were celebrated for four days, more wildly than ever before. People vied with each other at sending expensive gifts and the older and more miserly, who wished to adhere to tradition and exchange only clay figures and festive bread, were ridiculed. On Palatine, one huge room was filled with gifts sent to Nero, for the rich noblemen in the provinces had exercised their inventive powers in good time to find extravagant gifts for him. The Chancery was kept busy listing the gifts, their value and their donors, for Nero considered that his position demantled that every gift should be reciprocated with an even more expensive one.

Jesters’ processions wandered through the streets, citterns were played everywhere, people sang and shouted, slaves strutted about in their masters’ clothes and their lords humbly served festive meals and obeyed their orders during these days of the year when Saturnus made slaves and masters equal.

Nero held the customary banquet on Palatine for the noblest youths of Rome. At the drawing of lots, he became the Saturnalia king and had the power to command us to commit any foolishness he wished. We had already drunk so much wine that the weakest had vomited on the walls, when Nero took it into his head that Britannicus should sing for us. The intention was to humiliate him, and Britannicus was forced to obey the festival king, although his mouth began to tremble. We were prepared for a good laugh, but to our surprise Britannicus took up the cittern and sang movingly the most melancholy of all songs, the one that begins: “Oh, Father, oh, Fatherland, Oh, Kingdom of Priam.”

We could do nothing but listen attentively, avoiding one another’s eyes, and when Britannicus finished singing this song about the dying

Troy, a melancholy silence hung in the huge banqueting hall. We could not applaud him, for with his lament he had clearly demonstrated that he considered he had been illegally robbed of power. But neither could we laugh, so great was the grief his song had expressed.

Britannicus’ fine voice and successful performance was an unpleasant surprise for Nero, but he hid his feelings and praised Britannicus’ talent with great eloquence. A little later Britannicus left, complaining that he did not feel well. I think he was afraid he might have an attack of epilepsy because of his agitated state. His companions went with him too, and several strictly brought up youths took this opportunity to leave at the same time. With or without cause, Nero interpreted their behavior as a demonstration against him and was furious.

“That song meant civil war,” he cried. “Remember Pompey was only eighteen and the god Augustus only nineteen when they commantled legions in civil wars. You won’t have to wait all that long. But if Rome prefers a bad-tempered epileptic as ruler to me, then I’ll renounce my rule and go to Rhodes. I shall never 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 Bacchaean, 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 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 Pollio. 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.

“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 commantled, “and leave me alone with my mother’s dear friend. We have many matters on the art of 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 Pollio 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 6ilence, 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.

“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 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 whiled 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 if 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 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 III 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 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 cupbearer. 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.

“Oh well, then I didn’t do your eye any harm after all,” she said. “Had I been more experienced, I’d have put my thumb in it. I hope you got a black eye from my fist, anyhow.”

“Did you fight as children then?” asked Titus, who had been listening in amazement.

“No, I lived in Antioch when I was a child,” I answered absently.

Hut suddenly a memory glimmered which made me burn with shame. Sabina looked straight at me, enjoying my confusion.

“Aha, so you remember then,” she cried. “You were drunk and quite mad, together with a crowd of slaves and rogues. It was in the middle of the night and you were fooling about in the streets. We found out who you were and Father didn’t want to bring you to court for reasons you yourself. know only too well.”

I remembered only too well. Some time in the autumn, on one of Nero’s night escapades, I had tried to catch a girl coming toward me, but had received such a blow in my eye from her little fist that I had fallen over backwards. My eye had been black-and-blue for a week. Her companion had attacked us and Otho had received burns in the face from a lighted torch. I was so drunk at the time that I had not been able to remember much afterwards.

“I didn’t hurt you,” I said, trying to excuse myself. “I only clung to you when we collided in the dark. If I’d known who you were, naturally I’d have at once hurried to apologize to you the next day.”

“You’re lying,” she said. “And don’t try clinging to me again. It might be worse for you next time.”

“I’d* never dare,” I said, trying to make light of it all. “From now on I’ll take to my heels whenever I see you. You treated me roughly.”

Yet I did not take to my heels, but in fact accompanied Sabina back to the Prefect’s house. Her greenish eyes were full of laughter and her bare arm was as smooth as marble. A week later, my father and his following of two hundred clients and slaves were taken to Flavius Sabinus’ house to present my proposal.

Tullia and Aunt Laelia had other ideas in mind, but this betrothal was by no means a bad one. The Flavius family was poor, but my father’s fortune balanced this.

At Sabina’s request, we were married according to the longer form, although I had no intention of entering a College of any kind. But Sabina said she wanted to be married for life and did not want a divorce, and naturally I did as she wished. We had not been married all that long before I noticed that I let her have her own way in many more ways than that.

But our wedding feast was a fine one. At my father’s expense and in the name of the City Prefect, all the people were invited to a free meal, not only the Senate and the knights. Nero came to the feast himself and appeared in the wedding procession as well as singing an indecent wedding hymn he himself had composed to the music of a flute.

Finally he politely turned his torch upside down and left without fuss.

I took the scarlet veil from Sabina’s head and lifted the yellow mantle from her shoulders. But when I wanted to untie the two hard knots in her linen girdle, she sat down, her green eyes flashing, and cried, “I am a Sabine woman. Take me as the Sabine women were taken.”

But I did not even have a horse, nor was I good at the kind of plundering she wished for. I did not even understand what she wanted, for in my love for Claudia, I had become used to tenderness and mutual concessions.

Sabina was disappointed, but she closed her eyes and clenched her fists and let me do what I wanted and what the red veil obliged me to do. Finally she flung her strong arms around my neck, gave me a swift kiss and turned her back on me to go to sleep. I persuaded myself that we were both as happy as two wedding-tired people can be and fell asleep with a sigh of contentment.

Not until much later did I discover what Sabina had hoped for in physical love. The scars on my face had made her think I was quite different from what I am. Our first meeting in the street at night had made her dream that I could do to her what she wanted, but in that she was mistaken.

I bear her no grudge. She became even more disappointed in me than I in her. How and why she became what she did, I cannot explain. Venus is a capricious and often cruel goddess. Juno is more trustworthy from a family point of view, but in other matters of marriage, dull in the long run.