“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
