The Nero Prediction (22 page)

Nero, chin up, was squinting up at comet as if he was trying to stare it out of the sky. "I'm not going to let it stop me going to Greece, whatever you say."

You could hear the chart, still unrolled, being crushed by a nervous twitch of the astrologer's hands. "It is Fate that commands, Caesar, not I. Because the comet points its tail directly at your Saturn, the star that rules your chart, there can be no doubt that the warning is meant for you."

There was impatience in Nero's sigh. "Enemies? What enemies?"

Poppaea had the name on the tip of her tongue. "Decimus Junius Silanus Torquatus," she said, naming the man who, along with Nero, was the only surviving great-great-grandson of Augustus. "Ever since you left Rome he's been giving receptions far beyond his means. His clients are reminding everyone of his Augustan parentage. It's widely believed that they are preparing for his acclamation. Husband, you must crush this presumption."

Nero was squinting at the comet. "What do you think, Tigellinus?"

Tigellinus had smudges of his bed companion's lipstick on one cheek. His velvet eyes narrowed. "Torquatus is unstable Caesar. The comet must already have pushed him over the brink. For the safety of the empire you have to act immediately."

 Nero's voice, thin, stripped bare of emotion, seemed to drift down like frost from the stars. "Tell him to remove himself, if that’s what heaven wants."

"Yes Caesar, but what must I tell the Senate, about your return?"

"Tell the Senate the truth, that I'm concerned about the unrest the comet will undoubtedly cause, but that I haven't yet decided whether or not to postpone my Greek campaign."

The next day the report came in that Rome was seething with rumors. The comet predicted that Nero was about to desert Italy for the east and set up a new capitol in Alexandria or Ephesus. The comet predicted that Nero was about to be drowned at sea on his way to the east. The comet predicted that a new king would rise up out of the east and destroy Nero.

Afterwards I went to Tigellinus. If anyone could dissuade Nero from going to Greece it would be the man he had entrusted with his personal safety, especially if he had a little help from me. "Nero is convinced that the time has come to declare musical war," I told him. "I predict that he's about to give the order to depart for Greece no matter what you say."

Tigellinus raised an eyebrow. "You've become a prognosticator, have you? Well so have I. I’m as tired of comets as you are. However I predict that there will be civil war if Nero leaves Italy while a comet encourages political ambitions in Rome."

"Then there is no alternative. Since Nero must perform in public he must perform in Rome."

There was an edge of recklessness in that white smile of his, I could see that now. "He dares to perform in front of the Roman plebs?"

"I think so, if he could be convinced it was destined."

"Not good but certainly better than his leaving for Greece. Do you think Balbillus will give it his blessing?"

It was interesting, flattering even, that Tigellinus was beginning to ask me, a mere slave, for my advice. "Probably not. But there is someone who will."

"That diviner of yours?"

"Yes. Nero trusts him. I could have him here in three days."

"Is this Poppaea's idea?"

"No, but it might be if you suggest it to her."

The evening of the third day Thallus arrived befuddled from the wine he'd been drinking to numb the jostling of the cart which had stopped only when it had became necessary to change the horses.

While he was being sobered up in a bath of cold water I went to Nero. "Dominus, the diviner Thallus has arrived. He says he’s destined to read a liver for you."

It was after dinner and Nero was already deeply into his cups because indecision wasn't doing his spirits any good. "The haruspex? He wasn't much help when a comet showed up to ruin my first Neronia, so why do you suppose it'll be any different this time?"

Of course I couldn't tell Nero that Thallus would say whatever I paid him to say. "Because the man truly is prescient, dominus. He predicted that you weren't going to perform and you didn't."

Nero pushed away his wine goblet. "Change this for iced water," he told his pourer. "Epaphroditus bring him to me. The day might not be wasted after all."

Half an hour later Thallus, who had regained his gravity, was carried into the imperial presence. I’d discovered by this time that someone on the take isn’t all bad. It demonstrates independence of mind and the courage to take risks. It also means that once you catch him with his hand in the till you can lead him by his nose. So it was with Thallus.

He made a show of orienting the liver in the demonic Etruscan dish and ran his forefinger in two grooves that ran perpendicular to each other. "As Caesar sees," he said when the suspense became unbearable, "the Presence is long and reaches all the way to the Road. The Etruscans believed, as we do now, that this is indisputable proof that the prince will succeed in his campaign."

Nero's eyes, wide as a child's, stared at the blob of raw meat. "Indisputable proof! Tigellinus, what more do I need than that? Give the order, we depart for Greece in the morning."

Thallus held up his glistening finger. "No Caesar, not the east. The Gods of Fate forbid that. The evidence is here, in the thirteenth part, an ugly blemish meaning that there is danger in the east for you. Also here, on the right of the middle of the Bitter there is a protuberance which means that the enemy will be superior in that quadrant."

It was suddenly very quiet, probably because no one dared to breathe. All the same Nero's whisper was barely audible. "What? Superior to me?"

Thallus hurried on. "But when we look to the west, Augustus, how the picture changes! Observe the Bitter, how long it is! And here, the Finger, see how it points westward. The west, that is without doubt where you will achieve greatness."

A puzzled frown. "Gaul? Do you suppose that means Gaul? I certainly hope it doesn't mean frightful Britain! It couldn't mean Britain, could it?"

"No Augustus, I believe not, for see here, in sector number thirty-two, which is the very center of the liver, there is a large Desire, a very favorable mark. This means that it's in the heart of the empire that you are destined to win your victory."

Nero frowned. “Rome’s my city. Romans are my people. The plebs, at least, worship me. Why would I want to conquer them? They are the ones I want to celebrate my victory with!”

I cleared my thought. “Caesar, I’ve thought of something.”

“Speak man!”

“What do the Roman people like best?”

“Festivals of course.”

“And what is their favorite festival?”

“The Saturnalia, obviously, when they get to turn the tables on us patricians.”

“So could it not be, Caesar, that both Balbillus and Thallus are right?”

“Epaphroditus, you don’t often lose me but this time…” His eyes widened in sudden realization. “You don’t mean the comet was pointing at my Saturn to direct me to … You can’t possibly mean that!”

“Yes dominus, I believe you have discovered the true meaning of the sign. You are destined to throw a Saturnalia for the Romans to celebrate you return home.”

The name was a cry of joy. "A Saturnalia, of course! Rome needs to be turned on its head if it’s ever going to accept musical war. Brilliant, Epaphroditus, we’ll make a philosopher of you yet!”

Balbillus, looking just noticeably peeved at being consulted second to a liver reader, advised Nero to hold his welcome-home Saturnalia during the Games of Apollo that began on July 6. The problem was that this gave us just thirty days, barely enough time to organize a decent funeral let alone a mighty festival. But Nero was adamant. Since nothing happened by chance it all made sense. The comet had pointed at Saturn, Apollo was patron of the lyre and a Saturnalia was supposed to be chaotic anyway.

The planning began in the carriage racing us to Rome. Tigellinus sat with Nero, arguing the politics of the thing, I sat opposite taking notes.

"I intend to feast with my people," Nero insisted from the start. "I've done it disguised more than enough. This time I will be wearing the purple. I will be the King of Misrule, I’ve done it before at a Saturnalia, you know, this was before your time Epaphroditus, when poor little Britannicus was still alive. As king I ordered him to sing a song. He sang a very sad one about a prince who’d lost his father’s empire.” He turned his gaze upward, perhaps listening to that plaintive melody. “Well I suppose the less said about all that the better."

Tigellinus wiped away a cold smile with his fingertips. "Well, I don't see there’s a problem with your being King of Misrule and ordering people to make fools of themselves, as long as we keep you a discreet distance from the plebs.”

Nero smacked his hands together in exasperation. "But that's exactly what I don't want! I want to mix everybody up just like in a real Saturnalia so they get a feeling of what it means to belong together. When they feast they must feast like a family, just like when they listen they listen as a single audience."

It was a pleasure to see Tigellinus cringe. "Like a family? Augustus, the nobles and the mob aren't a family. They have separate seats at the Circus, at the amphitheater, at the theater. Your predecessors, even Caligula, all dined them in separate halls or a separate times. To force a patrician to recline cheek by jowl with a pleb, why that would be unthinkable!"

Nero set his jaw. "Well, you better start thinking about it because that's the way it's going to be!" His eyes were shining now in spite of the lateness of the hour. "You see, I don't give a fig for the patricians, I really don't, their minds are too narrow, they see the world through the back of their heads because they're always looking to the past. The future is the common people, their minds are a blank sheet upon which anything can be written. Let's make a point of humiliating the patricians. For every enemy I make among them I'll make a hundred friends among the plebs. Do you see it now?  It will be the secret of my success!"

Tigellinus swallowed this in two big gulps. He was from a comparatively humble background himself - his father had been a minor land-holder in Sicily, barely enough room for the horse business his son had inherited. The patricians privately referred to Tigellinus as scum, he knew that. He didn't want to be accused of having eyes in the back of his head, but neither did he want a revolution on his hands because that could cost him his life.

So what he said was, "Augustus, are you certain that the support of the plebs will be strong enough to outweigh the hostility of the Senate?"

Nero looked out the carriage window, squinting to see if he could make out the comet low on the western horizon. "Where do the charioteers, the actors, the singers come from, the ones the people idolize, from the plebs or the patricians?"

"Plebs of course."

"And who makes up the bulk of the legions?"

"Plebs again, although they are led -"

"There are a great many able men in the ranks. How many patricians or knights are centurions? None, they’re mostly a gaggle of fops. The legions can easily be supplied with new commanders, you know that."

"Certainly Augustus, although you are talking about -"

“Yes, revolution. I play. The people, all the people, sing with me in one mighty chorus. It will be the paean of victory for musical war."

I glanced at Tigellinus. There was something in his violet eyes I hadn't seen before: apprehension. Where was that reckless smile now? One couldn't blame him, though, being uneasy about trying to force the patricians to mix with the mob, and then watch their emperor play the musician and the clown.

Nero chose the site: his maternal great-grandfather Agrippa's lake in the Field of Mars near where, on my first day in Rome, Euodus and I had watched the gruesome going away feast for those condemned to die the next day in the amphitheater – not a good omen.

"I want to bring Baiae to Rome, just like I did for my Youth Games, only on a much grander scale. Use your Praetorians to build me a seaside city around the water," he told Tigellinus. "My architects already have lists of the materials you'll need, preliminary plans will be in your hands tomorrow. Go to it man, there's not a moment to waste!"

“We could never build it large enough, Caesar, if the plebs are going to attend.”

Nero rubbed his hands together. His tongue worked one side of his mouth. “Yes, well let’s hope that’s true. We’ll have to settle for a few thousand then. Chosen by lottery. I’ll throw the tokens into the crowd at the Circus.”

“Augustus, you can’t do that,” said Tigellinus,  dangerously close to a smile. “You’ll be killed in the stampede!”

“All right then. You arrange it. Just make sure that everyone has an equal chance to come.”

Thirty days to build a city large enough to house a hundred thousand revelers! Only the Roman army driving slaves night and day could do that. The twenty-seventh day it was done. Agrippa's lake, 250 yards long 200 wide, was surrounded by a fantasy of quaint towers, of balconies that overlooked floating gardens where gilded boats were tethered to quays on which musicians played and beautiful, scantily dressed women danced. Taverns were crammed with free food, free wine, brothels with ladies of pleasure, only some of them professionals, many of them daring young women from famous families. Neropolis it was called, city of the senses. It really was astonishingly like Baiae. It was also very much a Saturnalia although that, of course, is held during the icy grip of December not the feverish heat of summer.

As planned its king was Nero himself, jolly and affable under his red cap of freedom, playing the fool and the clown on a barge that was towed around the edge of the lake by gorgeously decorated boats rowed not by stern Roman sailors or grim galley slaves but by fancifully attired, prettily painted male prostitutes. Not once but several times, so that everyone would get a chance to see it, Nero, dressed as a bride, married Pythagoras, his dwarf court jester, who “deflowered” his patron in a semi-transparent muslin tent while the lord of the world, to the delight of his vast audience, made all the appropriate howls of pain and squeals of pleasure, another Saturnalian jest. For three days and two nights Nero’s revels out did even those of his great-grandfather Marc Anthony, darling not only of Cleopatra but all of Alexandria.