The Splendor Before the Dark: A Novel of the Emperor Nero - Hardcover

Chapter I

Nero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, what is it?”

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

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

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

“When?”

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

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

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

“What of the firefighters? Are they out?”

“Yes, but helpless to stop it. The fire is spreading faster than they can contain it. The sparks jump over roofs and fields and flare up in new places. It was starting to climb the Palatine when I left!”

I turned to Poppaea. I felt numb, not even able to truly believe what I was hearing. “I must go,” I said. Then I turned to the messenger. “We’ll ride together. A fresh horse for you.”

It was midday when we set out, trailed by two guards, but darkness had fallen before we approached Rome. All along the ride I felt myself becoming more and more agitated, hoping that the messenger had exaggerated, or that the fire was already contained, or that it had not destroyed much besides the shops in the Circus.

Calm, calm, Nero, you must keep calm, think clearly.

But inside another picture was emerging—of Rome destroyed, people dead or destitute, historical treasures lost forever, all when I was emperor, all happening while I was responsible for the safety of my people.

Rome was ruined under Nero, the city incinerated, nothing left but ashes.

As we neared the top of a hill near Rome, before we could see the city itself, a lurid color stained the night sky, orange and red and yellow, ugly fingers reaching up into the heavens, pulsating. Then we crested the hill and I gazed down on the city aflame. Clouds of smoke roiled upward, and spurts of color, clouds of sparks, and bursts of exploding stone and wood punctuated the darkness. The brisk wind blew ashes in my face, carrying the stench of burning cloth, garbage, and things unnamable.

It was true, all true.

“It’s worse!” the messenger cried. “It’s still spreading! It’s much bigger than when I left. Look, it’s engulfed the hills!”

Rome was being devoured. Suddenly I remembered the time when I had visited the Temple of Vesta and been overcome with a strange weakness and trembling, and rendered helpless. I was puzzled by it then, but now I knew it meant I was powerless to protect the sacred flame of Rome. And I understood the meaning of the sibyl and her prophecy that fire would be my doom.

I stood at the turning point of my life. This was my battlefield, the battlefield I had wondered if I would ever face. My ancestor Antony had faced his twice: at the battle of Philippi, when he crushed the assassins of Caesar, and the battle of Actium, when he himself was crushed by Octavian.

Either Rome and I perished together, or we survived together.

But no matter the outcome, there was only one choice: to go forward, to wade into battle.

“Come,” I said, urging my horse forward. “Rome awaits.”

And we descended the hill, heading into the maelstrom.

Chapter II

The hill was not steep but it was treacherous with winding paths, rocks and tree roots studded everywhere. The moonlight made it possible for us to see, and the increasing glow from the fire added more illumination.

My heart was thudding as if I had just run a stadion, and my head was swirling. The air was hot, muggy, and stifling, and the acrid smell of fire made it torture to breathe. We should have been attacked by swarms of insects, but the smoke and soot had banished them. The fire was still too far away for us to feel the heat directly, but I imagined I could anyway. From this distance the city looked as if it were just one mass; I could not discern the individual areas yet.

I stopped. “You say it is bigger now?” I asked the messenger.

“Yes! When I left, it was contained in one area, and from a distance, looked like one campfire. Now it has ignited new sites all around itself.”

“It will be light before we get there,” I said. And by then, who knew what we would see?

We continued our ride downhill, picking our way slowly. Ahead of us, the demonic glow drew closer.

Fire. What did I know about fire? Very little, to be honest. I had never personally experienced one, not even a house fire; the only fire I knew was the imaginary one at Troy hundreds of years ago. But I had been generous in equipping the Vigiles with whatever they needed, and it was expensive: horse-drawn fire wagons with water pumps, hundreds of buckets, picks, axes, hooks, and even catapults for knocking down houses to create fire breaks. Surely such a trained and equipped force could contain the fire.

But if that was so, why was it spreading? If they could not put it out when it was small, what chance did they have of stopping it as it grew larger?

The wind suddenly shifted, and as it did, I saw a burst of fire in a new place as it ignited there. A column shot up toward the sky, sending embers swirling in a cloud that vanished quickly.

On we went; the moon began dipping toward the west, and a very faint hint of light appeared on the eastern horizon. But it was still very dark, except for the lurid throbbing red ahead of us. We climbed another hill and the city disappeared, but as we reached the summit, we were suddenly close, and the first h...