guardsman who would not let me in. Not until he saw my narrow red border did he change his tone.
“The woman Locusta is under guard,” he explained, “accused of serious offenses. She may not see or speak to anyone. Because of her, I’ve had to miss all the Saturnalia celebrations.”
I had to rush off as far as the Praetorians’ camp to find his superior, who fortunately turned out to be Julius Pollio, brother to the friend of my youth, Lucius Pollio. He was a tribune now in the Praetorian Guard, and did not oppose the command of the Saturnalian king. On the contrary, he took the opportunity to join the circle around Nero.
“I am responsible for the woman,” he said. “So I’ll have to come with Locusta and keep an eye on her.”
Locusta was not yet an old woman, but her face was like a death mask and one of her legs was so crippled by torture that we had to get a sedan to take her to Palatine. She said absolutely nothing on the way, but just stared straight ahead with a bitter expression on her face. There was something frightening and ominous about her.
Nero had moved into the smaller reception room with his last remaining guests and had sent away all the slaves. To my surprise, Seneca and Burrus had both joined the company in the middle of the night. I don’t know if Nero himself had sent for them, or whether possibly Otho had done so, frightened by Nero’s mood. There was not a trace of the joy of Saturnalia left. Everyone seemed to be avoiding each other’s eyes, some anxiously.
When Seneca caught sight of Locusta, he turned to Nero.
“You are the Emperor,” he said. “The choice is yours. Fate has decided this. But allow me to leave.”
He covered his head with a corner of his mantle and left.
Burrus hesitated.
“Am I to be weaker than my mother?” cried Nero. “Can’t I speak to my mother’s friend and ask her about food for the gods?”
In my innocence, I thought that perhaps Locusta had formerly been one of the cooks in the Palace.
“You are the Emperor,” said Burrus sadly. “You know best what you are doing.”
He too left the company with his head bowed and his wounded arm hanging loosely at his side.
Nero looked about him, his eyes round and protruding.
“Go away, all of you,” he commantled, “and leave me alone with my mother’s dear friend. We have many matters on the art of cooking to discuss.”
I politely showed Julius Pollio into the great empty room and offered him some wine and some of the leftover food.
“What is Locusta accused of?” I asked. “What has she to do with Agrippina?”
Julius looked at me in amazement.
“Don’t you know that Locusta is the most skillful blender of poisons in Rome?” he said. “She would have been sentenced years ago according to lex Julia, but thanks to Agrippina, she has never been prosecuted. After the examination by torture which is usual for poison-blenders, she was just put under house arrest instead. I think she had so much to tell that the interrogators were frightened.”
I was astounded and could say nothing. Julius Pollio winked at me, took a drink and said, “Haven’t you even heard about the mushroom dish which made Claudius into a god? The whole of Rome knows that Nero has the clever cooperation between his mother and Locusta to thank for the fact that he is Emperor.”
“I was traveling in the provinces and didn’t believe all the gossip from Rome,” I exclaimed, thoughts racing through my head. At first I thought Nero wanted some poison to put an end to his life, as he had threatened to do, but then I saw things more clearly.
I thought I understood Seneca’s and Burrus’ presence if it were true that Nero, offended by Britannicus’ defiant behavior, wished to interrogate Locusta himself, perhaps to accuse his mother of poisoning Claudius. If he threatened Agrippina with this, perhaps he could force her into 6ilence, or even, after a secret trial, have her banished from Rome. Certainly he could not accuse his mother publicly. The thought calmed me, for I still could not believe that Agrippina had had Claudius killed. I had, after all, heard about his cancer of the stomach two years before he died.
“I should think it would be best,” I said, after thinking about it all for a moment, “if we both kept our mouths shut about what has happened tonight.”
Julius Pollio laughed.
“That won’t be difficult for me,” he said. “A soldier obeys orders without talk.”
I slept badly that night and had ill-omened dreams. The next day I went out to my father’s country estate near Caere, taking only Barbus with me. It was icy cold and the darkest time of the year, but in the peace and quiet of life in the country, I hoped to realize a plan which I had long had in mind: to write a book on my experiences in Cilicia.
I was no poet; this I had noticed. I could not give a historic account of the Cleitors’ rebellion without putting the King of Cilicia and the Proconsul of Syria in a bad light. I remembered the Greek adventure stories I had read to pass the time at Silanus’ house and decided to write a similar brigand story, in a coarse amusing style, in which I exaggerated the foolish side of my imprisonment and belittled the difficulties. For several days I buried myself in this work so completely that I forgot both time and place. I think I succeeded in writing myself free of the misery of my imprisonment by joking about it in this way.
As I wrote down the last lines, the ink spluttering from my pen, I received an astounding message from Rome to say that Britannicus, in the middle of a conciliatory meal of the Imperial family, had had a severe attack of epilepsy. He had been carried to his bed and shortly afterwards had died, much to everyone’s dismay, for he usually recovered from his attacks very quickly.
In accordance with the custom of his forefathers of concealing painful events, Nero had Britannicus’ body cremated that same night on Mars field in pouring wintry rain, and then had his bones taken, with no funeral oration or public procession, to the mausoleum of the god Augustus. In his speech to the Senate and the people on the subject, Nero appealed to his fatherland, whose support was his only hope for the future, as he had so unexpectedly lost his brother’s support and help in ruling the Empire.
People are glad to believe what they hope is true, so my first thought was one of enormous relief. The sudden death of Britannicus solved in my mind all the political conflicts in a way that was best both for Nero and for Rome. Agrippina could no longer point to Britannicus when she reproached her son for ingratitude. The ghost of a threatened civil war faded away.
But at the root of my thoughts, a secret doubt still gnawed, even though I did not wish to be aware of it. I whiled away the time in Caere, with no desire to return to Rome. I heard that Nero had shared out the large fortune he had inherited from Britannicus among his friends and the influential members of the Senate. He seemed to have strewn enormous gifts about, as if to buy everyone’s favor. I had no wish to receive a share of Britannicus’ fortune.
When I finally returned to Rome in the early spring, Nero had stripped Agrippina of her guard of honor and ordered her to move out of Palatine to the derelict house of old Antonia, Claudius’ dead mother. There Nero occasionally went to see her, but always in the presence of witnesses to force her to control her temper.
Agrippina had been having a temple built to Claudius on the hill of Coelius, but Nero had it all pulled down, saying he needed the site for his own purposes. He had great plans to enlarge the Palace. In this way Agrippina’s position as a Claudius priestess also lost all meaning. From Aunt Laelia I heard that Agrippina was again as lonely as she had been during the difficult times when Messalina was still alive.
Vespasian’s son Titus, friend and companion to Britannicus, had been ill ever since the meal at which Britannicus had had his fatal attack. I decided to visit him, as I knew his father so well, even if I had avoided Titus since I had joined Nero’s circle.
Titus was still thin and pale from his illness and he looked at me distrustfully when I arrived so unexpectedly with gifts for him. One could see the Etruscan ancestry of the Flavius family in his square face, his chin and nose, much more clearly than in his father. One had only to compare him for a moment with some Etruscan statue, and for me, recently returned from Caere, the likeness was amazingly clear.
“I’ve been in Caere ever since the Saturnalia celebrations,” I said, “and I’ve written an adventure story which I can perhaps make into a play. So I don’t know what’s been happening in Rome, although I’ve heard evil rumors. My name has also been mentioned in connection with Britannicus’ sudden death. You must know me well enough to believe no ill of me. Tell me the truth. How did Britannicus die?”
Titus looked at me without fear.
