“Has not this rose-colored isle of wise men, scientists, poets and orators already suffered enough from her blunders? Is she not entided to her praise?”… and so on.
When he had finished, they all looked at Claudius as if he were a criminal, for it was he who had robbed this noble island of her freedom. Claudius felt guilty and Nero’s eloquence had moved him.
“Don’t stare at me like cows at a gate, my fathers,” he said sourly. “Make a decision. You’re supposed to be the Senate of Rome.”
The vote was taken and Nero’s proposal received nearly five hundred votes. My father said that what he had liked best was Nero’s modesty. In reply to all the congratulations, Nero merely said, “Don’t praise me, praise my tutor.” He went up to Seneca and embraced him in full view of everyone.
Seneca smiled and said, so that everyone could hear, “Not even the best tutor can make a good orator of an untalented pupil.”
Nevertheless, the elders among the senators did not like Seneca, for he lived like a man of the world and, according to them, had watered down the strict old Stoicism in his writings; They also said he was much too inclined to have handsome boys as his pupils. But this was not entirely Seneca’s fault. Nero hated ugliness to the extent that a deformed face or a disfiguring birthmark took away his appetite. Anyhow, Seneca never made any advances to me, and he would not let the all-too-affectionate Nero kiss his teachers.
After his appointment as Praetor, Seneca was mostly concerned with civil cases which in themselves were more difficult and involved than criminal cases, since they were concerned with property, ownership, building plots, divorces and wills. He himself said he could not bring himself to condemn anyone to flogging or execution. He noticed that I faithfully listened in on all his cases and one day made a suggestion to me.
“You are a talented young man, Minutus Lausus,” he said. “You are as fluent in Greek as you are in Latin and show an interest in legal matters, as befits a true Roman. Would you consider becoming an assistant Praetor and, for instance, digging out old precedents and forgotten decrees in the tabularium under my supervision?”
I flushed with pleasure and assured him that such a task would be a great honor. Seneca’s face clouded over.
“You realize, I suppose,” he remarked, “that most young men would give an eye to have such an opportunity to get ahead of his rivals in the line of office?”
Of course I realized this and I assured him I was eternally grateful for such an incomparable favor. Seneca shook his head.
“You know,” he said, “by Rome’s standards, I am not a rich man. At the moment I am building myself a house. When it is finished, I hope to marry and put an end to all this talk. I presume you administer your estate yourself and could pay me some compensation for my legal tuition?”
I drew in my breath sharply and asked him to forgive my lack of perception. When I asked him what sum he would consider adequate, he smiled and patted my shoulder.
“Perhaps,” he said, “it would be best if you consulted your wealthy father, Marcus Mezentius, on the matter.”
I went straight to my father and asked him whether, for instance, ten gold pieces would be too large a sum for a philosopher who loved modesty and a simple life. My father burst out laughing.
“I know Seneca’s modest little habits,” he said. “Leave it all to me and don’t worry about it anymore.”
Later I heard that he had sent Seneca a thousand gold pieces, or a hundred thousand sesterces, which in my opinion was an enormous sum. But Seneca was not offended but, if possible, he treated me even more kindly than before, to show that he had forgiven my father for his upstart’s extravagance.
I worked for several months as Seneca’s assistant in the Praetorium. He was absolutely just in his decisions, all of which he carefully weighed. No lawyer could bamboozle him with mere eloquence, for he himself was the greatest orator of the day. In spite of this, people who lost their cases spread rumors that he accepted bribes. Of course, such rumors were heard about all praetors. But Seneca said definitely that he had never received a gift before a judgment had been made.
“On the other hand,” he said, “if it is a matter of ownership of a plot which is worth a million sesterces, it’s only natural that the winner of the case afterwards should give the judge a gift or two. No official can live on a praetor’s salary alone and pay for free performances at the theater during his term of office.”
Spring had come again. Under the influence of the green grass, the warm sun and the notes of the cittern, the stilted legal phrases were banished from our thoughts by the lighthearted verses of Ovid and Propertius. I had been waiting for an opportunity to solve the problem of Claudia and it occurred to me that Agrippina was the only person who could do this with magnanimity and justice. I could not tell Aunt Laelia about Claudia, or Tullia-her least of all. One lovely afternoon when the clouds over Rome shone with gold, the opportunity arose when Nero took me to the gardens on Pincius. There we found his mother busy giving instructions to the gardeners for the spring. She was flushed with the warmth and her face lit up, as always, when she saw her handsome son.
“What’s wrong with you, Minutus Manilianus?” she said to me. “You look as if you had some secret sorrow. Your eyes are restless and you won’t look me straight in the eye.”
I was forced to look into her eyes, which were as clear and wise as those of a goddess.
“Would you really permit me to put my problem to you?” I stammered.
She led me to one side, away from the gardeners and the slaves grubbing in the earth, and asked me to speak honestly and without fear. I told her about Claudia, but my first words made her start, although the expression on her calm face did not change.
“Plautia Urgulanilla’s reputation was always doubtful,” she said thoughtfully. “In my youth I knew her, although I wish now that I hadn’t. How is it possible that you came to know a girl like that? As far as I know, she is not allowed to set foot inside the city walls. Isn’t she a goatherd somewhere on Aulus Plautius’ farm?”
I told her how we had met, but as I went on, Agrippina kept interrupting me with questions-as she said, to get to the root of the matter.
“We love each other,” I managed to say at last, “and I’d like to marry her if a way to do so can be found.”
“Minutus,” protested Agrippina shortly, “one just does not marry girls like that.”
I tried to the best of my ability to praise Claudia’s good points, but Agrippina hardly listened to me. With tears in her eyes, she stared at the blood-red sunset over Rome, as if she had been upset by what I had said. Finally, she interrupted me and said, “Have you slept with her? Tell me honestly now.”
I had to tell the truth. I even made the mistake of telling her we were happy together, although this was no longer quite true because of our quarrels. I asked if there was any possibility of a good family adopting Claudia.
“Oh, my poor Minutus,” she said pityingly, “what have you become involved in? In the whole of Rome, there isn’t a single respected family who would adopt her for all the money in the world. If a family were willing to let her bear its name, it would simply show that that family is no longer respected.”
I tried again, carefully choosing my words, but Agrippina was adamant.
“On this point, it is my duty as the protector of the Noble Order of Knights to think of what is best for you and not just of this poor wanton girl,” she said. “You’ve no real idea of her reputation. I don’t want to go into the matter further, as you in your blindness would hardly believe me. But I promise to consider the matter.”
I explained in some confusion that she had misunderstood the whole matter. Claudia was neither wanton nor depraved. If that had been the case, I should never have dreamed of marrying her. Agrippina did at least show great patience with me. By asking me about everything we had done together, Claudia and I, she taught me the difference between virtue and depravity in bed, and made me realize that Claudia was obviously much more experienced than I in these matters.
“The god Augustus himself exiled Ovid, whose immoral book tried to show that love was an art,” Agrippina explained. “Surely you don’t doubt his judgment. That kind of game belongs to the brothels. That’s proved by your not being able to look into my eyes without blushing.”
Anyhow, I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders when I had left the matter with Agrippina to deal with. I happily hurried out of the city to tell Claudia that our affairs were in good hands. I had not told her my intentions beforehand so as not to raise false hopes.
When I told her about my talk with Agrippina, Claudia turned pale with horror, so that the freckles on each side of her nose stood out dark brown against her gray skin.
“Minutus, Minutus,” she wailed, “what have you done? Are you completely out of your mind?”
