What an Artist

from The Diary of Nero

by Robert Boucheron

My astrologer enters, gloomy as ever:

“Venus is now retrograde, along with Saturn. Venus is the lucky star of the Julius clan, so this is bad for you. Saturn makes it worse.”

“I am more Domitius than Julius. Claudius adopted me. The sun is my star. The movement of a mere planet cannot affect me.”

He rolls up his chart, bows solemnly, and withdraws.

* * *

Last night I hosted a splendid dinner in the new octagonal dining room. Panels in the domed ceiling opened to shower rose petals on my guests. The floor rotated slowly, so the view was constantly changing. A musician from Alexandria played the new water organ, invisible and haunting, like a ghostly orchestra. I pulled out all the stops!

A dozen wines were served, imported from Greece and the Aegean islands, and I sampled each. Conversation ranged freely on the arts, literature, fashion and music. We improvised satirical verses on the “revolutionaries” and set them to well-known tunes. There was dancing and pantomime which made fun of the provincial lovers of “liberty.” I left the dining room leaning on the shoulders of my companions.

“How do you propose to deal with these fellows?” one asked.

“Immediately on setting foot in Gaul, I will go before the rebel soldiers unarmed and do nothing but weep. That will disarm them. Having seen the error of their ways, they will beg my pardon. Together we will then rejoice in unity and peace, and I will sing a paean of victory. In fact, I ought to be composing it right now.”

* * *

Inspired by news of the armies gathered in northern Italy, I feel the time has come to join them. I will revive my touring company, with changes as needed for Gaul. The wagons for my theatrical props and costumes need a coat of paint. The musical instruments are in storage. They can easily be dusted off and tuned. The chorus girls will appear as Amazons. Accordingly, I ordered their hair to be trimmed short, army-style. They will carry Amazonian shields and bows, and their costumes will be altered to expose one breast. The boys will play flutes and bugles, and they will wear the chlamys, the short military cloak, to show off their buttocks. I will go in a gown as citharode, holding my lyre aloft. We will charm the enemy into submission.

My call for men to enlist fell on deaf ears in Rome. I am imposing a levy on all householders. Ten percent of their servants must report for duty. Everyone must contribute part of their income, and all tenants of private houses and apartments must pay one year’s rent immediately to the treasury. Payments must be in newly minted coins, the correct weight of silver and gold. Any promised payments from us to the Greek cities will be delayed till after the emergency.

* * *

The price of grain has risen sharply, causing unrest among the common people. The usual slogans and anonymous verses surface, scrawled on the walls of my buildings or on placards hung on my statues. They criticize my “extravagance” while citizens go hungry. Today, when I appeared in the theater to give a benefit concert, I was pelted with crusts of bread.

A ship docked yesterday in the Tiber near the warehouses. From Alexandria, the ship carried not the expected cargo of grain, but a load of sand for the wrestling ground of my gymnasium. A scuffle broke out on the dock. Somehow, the sand was twisted into a story that I am withholding shipments of grain artificially to raise the price, and thereby to benefit rich merchants and myself. This is nonsense. I do not speculate, and the government vigorously prosecutes trade irregularities. However, the money that would normally subsidize grain for the city must be diverted to the war effort. The rabble rousers ignore this patriotic necessity.

* * *

Tigellinus, who has been my right-hand man for so many years, was absent from dinner three nights running. He did not come to the last council meeting. I sent a servant to his house. He brings this verbal report:

“Tigellinus received me after a delay, muffled in a cloak and bent double. He said that he has a weakness of the bowels and a slight fever. He expects to be back on the job soon, as strong and feisty as ever, determined to root out evil wherever it hides.”

“That sounds like Tigellinus. Did you see any other sign of illness, such as a basin or soiled linen?”

“No, Caesar. He did not look pale. He was wearing boots, as though he had just come in from the street.”

* * *

Despite days of grueling rehearsal, my troupe is not ready to march north. Several musicians have previous commitments or family obligations that prevent them from leaving Rome, and there is a rash of injuries among the dancers, sprains and bruises that will take time to heal. My own wardrobe is not completed, either. I ordered new outfits in a larger size, as I have gained weight, and new jewels to impress the Gallic barbarians.

Meanwhile, there is no word from my generals, Turpilianus and Verginius. By now one or the other should have moved against Vindex. That scoundrel continues to send proclamations and edicts, ridiculous attempts to intimidate me. I no longer read them.

“You must stop bringing me bad news,” I say. “It is too tedious for my attention.”

* * *

Every day I run through vocal exercises and go over my repertoire. Also, to show that you can teach an old dog new tricks, I am learning to play the flute and the bagpipes.

“Your natural talent for music is coming to the fore,” my friends say. “What about the ballet? You ought to take dance lessons again.”

“After the current troubles die down,” I say, “at the games in celebration of my victory, I will perform on the flute and bagpipes. And I will dance the role of Turnus in a ballet inspired by the Aeneid. If circumstances force me to resign as head of state, I can always support myself as a performing artist.” I quote a line of poetry: “A humble art will earn my daily bread.”

* * *

I have little time for exercise, which may explain why I sleep badly. Then again, I carouse past midnight and fall into bed fully dressed and drunk. There I toss and turn, and rest does not come until dawn. My physician scolds me, my voice coach protests this “physical abuse,” and my bedmate Sabina complains that I keep her awake. A pretty woman with a sharp tongue has nothing on that transvestite eunuch bitch.

Mother haunts my dreams. She orders me about in a vague, sarcastic way. I can’t tell what she wants or how to please her. She grips my arm, and I can’t shake her off.

Octavia appears also. We are on a ship, and I am at the helm, sailing into a dark cloud. The rudder is wrenched from my grasp, and Octavia throws her arms around my neck. The ship keels over, and she drags me down with her.

In another dream, I stand in front of the imperial mausoleum empty-handed, though I am supposed to lay a memorial wreath. The door flies open of its own accord. From inside, a voice calls my name: Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus.

* * *

At last, some news from the north. About seven days ago, the legions in Germany moved against the forces of Vindex. He was holed up in a town called Besançon, a Roman foundation laid out in an oxbow of the river Doubs. Verginius besieged the town and captured it. Vindex committed suicide before they got to him. Verginius ends his report as follows:

This puts an end to the revolt. Lyon was staunchly loyal and was never taken by the rebels. The troops were so elated by victory that they tried to acclaim their general as emperor. I refused, saying that only the senate and people of Rome can make that choice. I humbly apologize for the implied slight to you, Caesar. I promise to uphold the oath of loyalty, and to continue to protect the empire.

I am not sure I can trust Verginius. Or Turpilianus, for that matter. What is the army doing in the Po valley? Do they expect Galba to send them an invitation to Spain? Are the soldiers loyal to me or to their commanders? I ordered general Rubrius to ride north to join Turpilianus. If he is wavering, Rubrius will act as a check.

* * *

Tigellinus has not recovered from his illness, which is awkward. He used to give me reports of goings on, gossip, love affairs, who was seen with whom, and who was heard muttering against me. His spies were everywhere, lurking in public toilets, loitering in porticoes, and peeping through keyholes and shutters. These days, I hardly know what is happening.

My dear Tigellinus is not the only friend missing from my dinner table. Attendance dwindles day by day. It is too early for the seasonal migration to the country. Those to whom I send messages fail to answer, which is rude. Or they give evasive reasons to do with health, family business, or in one case, a new diet which forbids solid food. I could stand to shed a few pounds myself, but that sounds appalling.

I am irritable and jumpy, and it is difficult to concentrate. My musical practice schedule is in tatters. I wander from room to room of Golden House, but I do not see the beautiful decorations, and I forget what errand I am on. At one moment, I want to ask my old tutor Beryllus a question, but he retired long ago. The next moment, I want to send for Seneca or Burrus, then I remember they are dead. Poppaea, Mother, Aunt Domitia—all dead. As if that were not painful enough, malicious whisperers say that I murdered them.

People come and go—messengers, painters, staff, my hairdresser. Golden House is so large that I have no idea what they are up to. Are they holding secret meetings? Are they stealing works of art? Are they sending unauthorized messages to Galba in Spain and to Macer in Africa? And where is my lawful wife Statilia? Perhaps I neglect her, but she ought to hover, like a moth drawn to the flame of my genius. Tonight, I will roam the palace in disguise and discover the truth.

* * *

With my inner circle, I broach the subject of retirement, just in case.

“We will pack the bare essentials, choose the swiftest horses from the palace stable, gallop down to Ostia, and board a galley that will set sail immediately to Alexandria. After weighing the options, I feel that is the best place for me. Retired from public life, I will give an occasional lecture or concert, and enjoy the simple pleasures of the Greek metropolis. Send instructions to the prefect of Egypt. Prepare the palace of the Ptolemies to receive me.”

While Tigellinus is still under the weather, Nymphidius commands the Praetorian Guard. Nymphidius is affable and professional. His uniform is always in perfect order—polished armor and oiled leather. He reminds me of Burrus, but younger and with all his limbs intact. He probably saw less action on the battlefield. He livens up my morning reception, which now takes place after midday.

“Why not send your German guard ahead to Alexandria?” he says. “That way, when you decide to retire, they will be ready.”

“Yes, put that plan into effect at once! At last, someone is concerned about my welfare!” I dash into the garden and start to compose a speech to the senate.

“It is with great sadness and regret ... my abiding love for the Roman people ... this unfortunate chain of events ...”

The words tumble out, my thoughts are disorganized, and my secretary is not at hand to take dictation. I detest people who talk to themselves. I go inside to change. I have no appointments, but I cannot wear this dowdy ensemble for another minute.

I see this diary on my dressing table and begin to write. I lose track of time, forget where I am, and the next thing I know, an hour has flown.

* * *

Golden House becomes so oppressive that a change of scene is in order. I give a flurry of orders to the servants, pluck a few things from my bedroom, and throw them in a carriage. I take the pair of jeweled daggers that Tiridates gave me, my lyre, my purple cape, and my diary. At the last minute, I go back and retrieve the poison from Locusta that I saved all these years. The powder may look harmless, but it dissolves quickly and acts reliably. I put it in a golden box and tuck it under my arm. I tell the driver to hurry to the Servilian Garden.

The servants here are surprised to see me. They ready my rooms as I wait outside. It is comfortable here. The familiar surroundings are what I need. Birds chirp in the trees and a fountain splashes in the sun. A few advisors are with me. Sporus has dropped the Sabina role for now, along with the dress and cosmetics. The staff at Golden House will wonder where I went, not to mention the senate and all the rest. Let them be anxious for a change.

* * *

I sound out some officers of the guard on the possibility of retirement. If I travel or go into voluntary exile, I must have a military escort. They give evasive answers. One openly refuses.

“Are you aware of the consequence of disobeying orders?”

He smirks and quotes a line from a play.

“Is it so dreadful a thing to die?”

Maybe sending my Germans away was a bad idea. They may be uncouth, but they are loyal. Nymphidius has been oddly absent since he suggested it. Should I abandon the Egyptian plan? I could appeal as a suppliant to the Parthians. Dressed all in black, I could appear before the people in the Roman Forum. I start to compose an address:

I throw myself on your mercy! I beg pardon for real or imagined offenses. If I cannot soften your hearts, I entreat you to allow me a graceful exit. Banish me to Greece or some distant shore, somewhere not too cold or primitive.

But I might be torn to pieces on my way through the streets. I might never get a chance to display my eloquence.

* * *

I wake after midnight and call for the guard. There is no answer. I get up from bed, stumble in the darkness, and at last find a light. All the guards have left. With Sporus and Epaphroditus, I walk through the villa, opening doors and calling names. The place is deserted. When we get back to my bedroom, it is bare, everything stolen, including the golden box of poison. Even my bed is stripped. I shout to the empty night.

“Doryphorus! Is there anyone who can wield a sword?”

Silence. I quote a line of poetry.

“Have I then neither friend nor foe?”

In a panic, I run into the garden, intending to throw myself in the Tiber. Acte taught me how to swim, but the swift current might sweep me under. Unfortunately, the garden does not border the river. From the darkness, my finance minister and dear friend Phaon appears at my elbow.

“May I offer you the use of my villa? It lies on the Via Nomentana, north of the city.”

“Isn’t that the wrong direction? What about my plan to escape by sea?”

“Precisely, Nero. No one will think to look for you there.”

“I see. Then we will double back.”

He winks. I am catching on.

I shiver, barefoot, clad only in a tunic. He gives me a faded old cloak to put on, with a hood to conceal my face. He has horses ready. He, Sporus, two others and I mount and ride through the suburbs. A summer storm blows through. No rain, but thunder and lightning lights up my face. I am afraid I will be recognized. We pass a man on foot.

“Are you a search party?” he asks. “Have you heard any news about Nero?”

“No news,” Phaon says.

“Wait a minute,” the man says, peering at me. “Aren’t you ...”

We spur our horses and gallop away.

When we reach a path leading to the back of the villa, we turn the horses loose, and make our way on foot through bushes and reeds. The path is narrow, and my borrowed cloak snags. At the back wall, Phaon whispers to me.

“Hide in that sand pit while they make a secret passage for you.”

“I refuse to go underground while still alive.”

They dig under the wall, while I pick thorns from my cloak. On my hands and knees, I crawl through the hole and collapse in the first room I come to, on an old bed with a straw mattress.

“Caesar, I apologize for the rough accommodation,” Phaon says.

“I am dirty and tired.” I hold out my arms to be undressed.

“No change of clothes is possible, I’m afraid.”

“I have lost the last shred of dignity.”

“Would you care for some refreshment?”

“Yes, I’m hungry. And thirsty.”

“It is too early to send out to a shop. I’ll see what I can scrounge.”

Wearily, I wave him away. A servant brings me coarse barley bread, quite stale, and lukewarm water in a cracked earthenware cup.

“Exactly what a prisoner gets,” I say. “A far cry from what I am used to, but appropriate to the occasion.”

The bread is inedible, but I drink the water. It is nearly dawn. I fall sound asleep.

* * *

Phaon sits with me and tries to console me. He has moved me to the best bedroom, with a view of the peristyle. He has retrieved my most prized possessions, including the pair of daggers and this diary. Outside, the day is bright, with the clatter and bustle of ordinary life. In here it is dark and still, with curtains drawn. Phaon lives in considerable luxury, more than I would have guessed. He is worried and anxious, more upset than I am.

“I urge you to assess your current predicament,” he says. “Forget the past and see the present for what it is. Save yourself from the indignity which threatens.”

“You mean I should kill myself to avoid being killed.”

“It is the nobler alternative.”

“What about escape?”

“The ports and roads are blocked by now. You slept most of the day.”

“I often do.” I shrug listlessly.

“May I order the servants to prepare a funeral pyre? Should they dig a grave in the garden?”

“What a decision! The most difficult of my career. Let them do both.”

I lie on the ground to give the servants the correct size for a grave. This rouses me from my lethargy, and I help them pile wood for a fire.

“Someone should draw water to wash my corpse. Phaon, do you have a Greek vase for my ashes? Or something to mark my grave, a marble slab or some sculpture?”

He orders a servant to search.

“What an artist perishes in me.”

“Indeed, Caesar.”

A courier arrives with a letter for Phaon. I snatch it from his hand and read aloud:

Please be advised that harboring a fugitive is a crime. The senate has declared Nero a public enemy. If caught, he will be punished in the ancient fashion.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“The criminal is stripped naked, tied by the neck to a forked tree, then beaten to death with rods,” Phaon says. Epaphroditus winces, as if watching the scene unfold before his eyes.

I pick up a dagger and hold it to my throat.

“Sporus, my darling, begin the lament! Weep and wail for the emperor Nero! Will one of you kind friends set me an example by killing yourself first? What, no volunteers?”

I throw the dagger to the floor in disgust. Sporus whimpers.

“For shame, Nero!” I say. “You are a coward, afraid to die. This behavior does not become you. A time like this calls for stern resolve.”

Epaphroditus weeps, and Sporus subsides into sniffles. Phaon wrings his hands. Again, I pick up the dagger, poke myself with the point, and put it down.

“Promise not to let the soldiers mutilate my body. They must not cut off my head. They will put it on display, where people can spit on it. You must bury me at once and smooth the earth so the grave can never be found. Nero will vanish from the scene.”

As I dither, a rumble rises. It is the distant thunder of horses’ hooves, from a detachment of soldiers headed this way. I quote a line from the Iliad:

“The trample of swift-footed chargers strikes my ear!”

How did the messenger know that Phaon is here, instead of Golden House or the Servilian Garden? For that matter, how do the soldiers know where to find me? Was I led into a trap? A furious pounding on the door startles me as I write.

“It is time to lay aside the pen,” Phaon says.

He walks toward me and holds the dagger by its blade, the handle toward my hand.

About the author

Robert Boucheron is an architect and the editor of Rivanna Review in Charlottesville, Virginia. His short stories and essays on literature and architecture appear in Alabama Literary Review, Bellingham Review, Concrete Desert Review, Fiction International, Louisville Review, New Haven Review, and Saturday Evening Post.

About the illustration

The illustration is "The Emperor is Bored" by Henri-Paul Motte, 1880. Painting. Location unknown. In the public domain in its country of origin and the United States.