said. “To his credit, it must be said that he did burn all Claudius’ secret records before committing suicide. Agrippina had wanted those at any price. In that way, he saved the lives of a great many men. Agrippina had to be content with a hundred million sesterces which she demantled from his estate. Believe it or not, but I know there would have been a blood bath if Agrippina had had her way. Fortunately Seneca and Prefect Burrus are sensible men and they succeeded in stopping her. Seneca was chosen as Consul after writing a malicious satire on Claudius to please the Senate. Now no one can hear Claudius called god without laughing. It was really simple revenge for his exile. But we who know about things in Rome are aware that he deserved it after the scandal over Agrippina’s sister. The poor girl lost her life too, in the end. I don’t know what we can expect when an eloquent philosopher makes decisions in State affairs. Things are not what they used to be. The young people even go about indecently dressed like Greeks, now that Claudius is no longer here to make them wear togas.”
Aunt Laelia gabbled on for some time before I could get away from her. As I hurried to my father’s house on Viminalis, I noticed that die atmosphere in Rome had become freer than before. People dared to laugh. The innumerable statues in the forum were covered with jokes which were read aloud for everyone’s amusement. No one bothered to scrape them off, and although it was only afternoon, I saw in the streets quite a number of drunken cittern-playing youths with long hair.
Tullia’s atrium was filled as before with a crowd of people seeking audience or some favor, and clients, and also-to my sorrow-Jews, whom my father would never be rid of. Tullia stopped talking to two well-known old gossips and to my astonishment came up to me and embraced me warmly. Her plump fingers glittered with rings and she had tried to hide the loose skin at her neck with a many-tiered necklace of jewels.
“It’s high time you returned to Rome from your travels, Minutus,” she cried. “When your father heard you had disappeared he was ill with worry, although I reminded him of his own conduct in his youth. I can see that you are quite well, you bad boy. Did you get involved in a drunken brawl in Asia, that you’ve got such ugly scars on your face? I was afraid your father would grieve to death over you.”
My father had aged, but in his capacity as senator, he bore himself with even greater dignity than before. When I looked at him after this long time, I noticed that his eyes were the most sorrowful I had ever seen on any man. We could not talk easily to one another, however glad he was to see me. I was content to tell him about my experiences and I belittled my imprisonment. Finally I asked him, mostly in jest, what the Jews still wanted of him.
“The Procurator in Judaea is now Felix, the brother of the treasurer Pallas,” said my father. “You must know him, the man who married a granddaughter to Cleopatra. Owing to his cupidity, complaints have been pouring in. Or rather, the Jews are eternal troublemakers for whom no one is good enough, and now someone has again gone and killed someone else somewhere. I think the whole of Judaea is in the hands of a band of brigands. Plundering and burning are going on there and Felix obviously cannot maintain order. The Jews are trying to take the matter to the Senate. But which of us wants to become involved in such things? Pallas is much too powerful to offend. And the Senate has genuine troubles in Armenia and Britain to contend with.
‘We meet at the Palace now,” my father went on. “Agrippina wants to listen behind a curtain to the discussions in the Senate. It’s certainly more comfortable there than in that fearful Curia, where some of us have to stand, if by some miraculous chance all of us happen to be there at the same time. You get frostbite in your feet there in the winter.”
“And Nero?” I asked eagerly. “What do you think of him?”
“I know that Nero wished he had never learned to write, the day he had to sign a death warrant for the first time,” said my father. “Perhaps one day he really will be the hope of mankind, as many genuinely believe. In any case, he has handed back part of the jurisdiction to the Consuls and the Senate. Whether this is a show of respect for the city fathers or to avoid having to go to trials in order to attend more pleasant amusements, I could not even guess.”
My father was obviously talking just for the sake of talking. He frowned, looked absently beyond me and did not seem to have the slightest interest in affairs of State. Suddenly he looked straight at me.
“Minutus, my only son,” he said, “what are you going to do with your life?”
“For two years I have lived in a dark cave,” I said, “humiliated and more wretched than a slave. A whim of the Goddess of Fortune has taken away two years of my life. If I were even capable of a constructive thought, then it would be that one day I shall retrieve those two years and be glad to be alive as a man, without moping unnecessarily and denying the bounties of life.”
My father gestured toward the room’s polished walls, as if including in the gesture all the pomp and grandeur of Tullia’s house.
“Perhaps I too live in a dark cave,” he said with deep melancholy in his voice. “I submit to duties for which I have not asked. But you are flesh of your mother’s flesh and must not be lost. Do you still have her wooden goblet?”
“It was only a wooden mug and the brigands in Cilicia didn’t even bother to take it away from me,” I said. “When we were given no water for several days and my tongue filled my mouth and our breath smelled like the breath of wild animals, sometimes I pretended to drink out of the goblet, imagining that it was full. But it wasn’t. It was only delirium.”
I was careful not to tell my father about Paul and Cephas, because I wanted to forget them as completely as if I had never met them. But my father said, “I wish I were a slave, poor and insignificant, so that I could begin my life all over again. But it is too late for me. The chains have already grown into my flesh.”
I was not attracted by this philosophical dream of a simple life. Seneca had eloquently described the blessings of poverty and peace of mind, but in reality he preferred to be bewitched by power, honors and wealth, explaining that they could not alter a wise man, just as poverty and exile had not been able to.
We ended by talking about financial matters. After consulting Tullia, who also had plans for my life, my father decided to transfer a million sesterces over to me at first, so that I could live as I should, giving banquets and making useful connections. He promised me more when I needed it, for he himself could not possibly spend all his money, however much he tried.
“Your father lacks an interest which would satisfy him at his age and fill his life,” complained Tullia. “He doesn’t even bother to go to lectures anymore, although I had a special auditorium built in the house, for I thought you would perhaps continue in a literary career. He could collect old musical instruments or Greek paintings and become famous for it. Some people breed special fish in their pools, others train gladiators, and he could even afford to keep racehorses. That’s the most expensive and the finest leisure occupation a middle-aged man can have. But no, he’s so stubborn. Either he frees a slave, or hands out gifts to useless people. Well, I suppose he could have worse amusements. With concessions on both sides, we’ve managed to find a way of life which satisfies us.”
They wanted me to stay for the evening meal, but I thought I ought to report to the Palace as soon as possible, before the news of my arrival reached there by other means. The guards did in fact let me in without searching me for weapons. The times had changed that much. But I was amazed to see how many knights were sitting in the arcades, waiting for an audience. I reported to several court officials, but Seneca was so weighed down with his enormous burden of work that he could not possibly receive me, and Emperor Nero himself had shut himself in his workroom to write poems. One was not allowed to disturb him when he was consulting the muses.
I was depressed when I realized how many people were striving in so many ways for the favors of the young Emperor. Just as I was about to leave, one of Pallas’ innumerable secretaries came up to me and showed me to Agrippina’s room. She was striding restlessly up and down, bumping into stools and kicking the valuable Oriental rugs to one side.
“Why didn’t you report straightaway to me,” she said angrily, “or have you too lost all respect for me? Ingratitude is one’s reward. I don’t think any mother has sacrificed so much for her own son and his friends.”
“Augusta, Mother of the Fatherland,” I cried, although I knew she had no right to these titles of honor. Officially she was only priestess to the god Claudius. “How can you reproach me for ingratitude? I dared not even dream of disturbing you in your widow’s grief with my insignificant affairs.”
Agrippina seized my hand, pressed my arm in her full bosom and breathed the scent of violets into my face.
“It’s good that you’ve come back, Minutus Lausus,” she said. “You’re a lighthearted man, despite your past mistakes, and that was sheer inexperience. At this moment, Nero needs his real friends most of all. The boy is
