approximately how much it amounts to.
The presence of the Praetorians in the forum and in other public places soon attracted crowds of people, and the news that Pallas had fallen from favor aroused general pleasure. What delights a crowd more than when a rich and influential man falls from his pedestal? Soon the wandering jesters were imitating Pallas on the street corners and competing with malicious songs.
But when Pallas walked down from Palatine, followed by his eight hundred freedmen and assistants, the crowd fell silent and made way for his dignified procession. Pallas left his office like an Oriental king, his following glittering with valuable costumes, gold, silver and jewels.
Who is more ostentatious in his clothing than an ex-slave? So Pallas had ordered them all to come in their best clothes.
He himself was wearing a simple white tunic as he went up to the Capitoline, first to the mint in the temple of Juno Moneta and from there to the State Treasury, the temple of Saturn. In front of each idol, he took the cleansing oath and confirmed it again in the temple of Jupiter.
Hoping to throw the State finances into confusion, Pallas had taken with him all his freedmen who over the years had been trained for different tasks, hoping that Nero would be forced to recall him in a few days’ time. But Seneca was prepared for this. Five hundred skilled slaves lent by the bankers were immediately placed in Pallas’ building in Palatine. And several of Pallas’ subordinates abandoned him as soon as he had left the city, and returned willingly to their old occupations. Seneca himself took over the right to decide on financial issues at a high level and formed a kind of State bank which lent out huge sums to Egypt and the tribal kings of Britain. The money did not lie idle, but earned dividends for Seneca.
For several days Nero did not dare face his mother. Agrippina, for her part, considered that she had been mortally insulted, shut herself in her rooms on Palatine and called Britannicus in to her with his suite and tutor, in order to show to whom she would in future devote her attentions. Vespasian’s son, Titus, was one of Britannicus’ companions, as was Seneca’s nephew, Annaeus Lucanus, who despite his youth was too clever a poet to appeal very much to Nero. For while Nero liked the company of poets and artists and arranged competitions in the art of poetry, he did not like admitting that anyone could better him.
However cleverly Nero thought he had played his part in Pallas’ dismissal, he was still very uneasy when he thought about his mother. As a kind of penance, he devoted his time to training his voice under the supervision of Terpnus. He fasted and lay on his back for long periods with a plate of lead on his chest. His exercises were monotonous to listen to, and to tell the truth, we were ashamed of them and tried to make sure that no old senator or visiting envoy heard them.
The good news which arrived from Armenia just then increased Nero’s self-confidence to some extent. On the advice of Seneca and Burrus, Nero had summoned Rome’s greatest commantler, Corbulo, from Germany to quell the disturbances in Armenia, for the fact that this buffer state had been occupied by the Parthians was sufficient reason for war, according to Roman political tradition.
In the internal struggle for the supreme command, Corbulo and the Proconsul of Syria, by successful forced marches, had managed to occupy the banks of the Euphrates, and then had shown such resolution that the Parthians had thought it best to leave Armenia again without declaring war. The Senate decided on a feast of thanksgiving in Rome, gave Nero the right to a triumph and had wreaths put on his lictor’s fasces.
These measures were taken to calm the general unrest, for many people had feared that Nero’s resolution would lead to war with Par-thia. Business life in Rome was upset by the rumors of war, and the decrease in activity in the temple of Mercury did harm to all tradesmen.
At the end of the year, the Saturnalia were celebrated for four days, more wildly than ever before. People vied with each other at sending expensive gifts and the older and more miserly, who wished to adhere to tradition and exchange only clay figures and festive bread, were ridiculed. On Palatine, one huge room was filled with gifts sent to Nero, for the rich noblemen in the provinces had exercised their inventive powers in good time to find extravagant gifts for him. The Chancery was kept busy listing the gifts, their value and their donors, for Nero considered that his position demantled that every gift should be reciprocated with an even more expensive one.
Jesters’ processions wandered through the streets, citterns were played everywhere, people sang and shouted, slaves strutted about in their masters’ clothes and their lords humbly served festive meals and obeyed their orders during these days of the year when Saturnus made slaves and masters equal.
Nero held the customary banquet on Palatine for the noblest youths of Rome. At the drawing of lots, he became the Saturnalia king and had the power to command us to commit any foolishness he wished. We had already drunk so much wine that the weakest had vomited on the walls, when Nero took it into his head that Britannicus should sing for us. The intention was to humiliate him, and Britannicus was forced to obey the festival king, although his mouth began to tremble. We were prepared for a good laugh, but to our surprise Britannicus took up the cittern and sang movingly the most melancholy of all songs, the one that begins: “Oh, Father, oh, Fatherland, Oh, Kingdom of Priam.”
We could do nothing but listen attentively, avoiding one another’s eyes, and when Britannicus finished singing this song about the dying
Troy, a melancholy silence hung in the huge banqueting hall. We could not applaud him, for with his lament he had clearly demonstrated that he considered he had been illegally robbed of power. But neither could we laugh, so great was the grief his song had expressed.
Britannicus’ fine voice and successful performance was an unpleasant surprise for Nero, but he hid his feelings and praised Britannicus’ talent with great eloquence. A little later Britannicus left, complaining that he did not feel well. I think he was afraid he might have an attack of epilepsy because of his agitated state. His companions went with him too, and several strictly brought up youths took this opportunity to leave at the same time. With or without cause, Nero interpreted their behavior as a demonstration against him and was furious.
“That song meant civil war,” he cried. “Remember Pompey was only eighteen and the god Augustus only nineteen when they commantled legions in civil wars. You won’t have to wait all that long. But if Rome prefers a bad-tempered epileptic as ruler to me, then I’ll renounce my rule and go to Rhodes. I shall never plunge the State into civil war. It would be better to open one’s veins or take poison than allow such a thing to happen to the fatherland.”
We were frightened by his words, drunk though we were. Several others took their farewells and left. The rest of us praised Nero and tried to explain that Britannicus had no hope against him.
“First joint regent,” said Nero. “That’s what my mother threatens. Then civil war. Who knows what list Britannicus is now ruminating over in his quiet mind. Perhaps you yourselves are all on it.”
The words alone were frightening. Nero was unpleasantly right, even if we did try to laugh and remind him that, as the Saturnalia king, he might jest as cruelly as he pleased. He returned to the games and began to assign outrageous tasks to us. Someone should get hold of one of the Vestal Virgins’ shoes. Senecio was ordered to awaken and bring in the old noblewoman whose assistance had originally helped him to find a firm place on Palatine, despite his lowly origins.
Tiring of these pranks, Nero then decided to try something even more impossible. Many left when he finally cried out, “My laurels to anyone who brings Locusta here.”
The others seemed to know who Locusta was, but I asked in my innocence, “Who is Locusta?”
No one wanted to tell me, but Nero said, “Locusta is a woman who has suffered a great deal and who can cook mushroom dishes for gods.
Perhaps I feel like tasting food for the gods because I’ve been so hideously insulted tonight.”
“Give me your laurels,” I cried, taking no particular notice of his words. “You’ve still not set me a task.”
“Yes,” said Nero. “Yes, Minutus Lausus, my best friend, should be given the most difficult task. Minutus can be our Saturnalia hero.”
“And after us, chaos,” said Otho.
“No, chaos in our own time,” cried Nero. “Why should we leave it untried.”
At that moment the old noblewoman came in, half naked and as drunk as a Bacchaean, strewing myrtle twigs about her, while Senecio hurriedly tried to stop her. This woman knew everything about Rome, so I asked her where I could find Locusta. She was not surprised by my question, but just tittered behind her hand and told me to ask my way to the Coelius district. I left quickly. The city was well lit and I did not have to ask for long before I found myself at Locusta’s little house. When I knocked, the door was opened, to my surprise, by an angry Praetorian
