him; he had done them no harm, they had prospered during his reign, and the Greeks especially admired and even loved an Emperor who so highly valued Greek culture.
Nero was at a villa on the Bay of Naples when he learned of the revolt in Gaul. Characteristically, he did nothing. Soldiers bored him, and he assumed that this was a mutiny which could be settled by the promise of a lavish donation, which he empowered the Governor of Gallia Ludgenensis, G. Julius Vindex, to offer them. That shows his indifference to what was happening. If he had listened to the report he would have known that Vindex himself was leading the rebellion. But he was busy chatting to his architect when the messenger brought him the news, and listened with only half an ear, if that.
It was several days before he learned that rebellion was not confined to Gaul, where however the issue was in the balance, for Lucius Verginius Rufus, the Governor of Upper Germany, opposed Vindex. That news was of little comfort to Nero, since it was not clear whether Rufus was still loyal or acted on his own account.
Rebellion is like an epidemic. Once launched, it breaks out everywhere, and spreads rapidly. The Spanish legions were not to be outdone by their colleagues in Gaul and Germany. They, too, were ready to reject Nero.
The Governor of Spain was Servius Sulpicius Galba, a veteran general, now over seventy, reputed to be a man of ability; and indeed at different points in his long career he had justified his reputation. Now he was compelled either to listen to his troops or suppress their mutiny. He chose the former course, and proclaimed himself 'Legate of the Senate and the Roman People', though neither Senate nor Roman People had appointed him their legate.
Meanwhile, in Gaul, Vindex and Rufus had come to an agreement. It wouldn't last long. The two armies fell out, and Vindex killed himself. But while the outcome there was uncertain Galba seized the opportunity now open to him.
So Spain was lost to Nero. At first he was little perturbed. 'Spain is a long way off,' he said, 'and the Praetorian Guard, for whom I have cared so tenderly, will not desert me.'
They might not have done so if he had immediately returned to Rome and gone to their camp and appealed to their loyalty – and naturally to their greed. Vespasian's brother, Flavius Sabinus, the City Prefect, was afraid that this was just what he would do. He had already determined that Nero must be disposed of. So he sent the Emperor a message saying that Rome was quiet, there was no cause for anxiety, and the word was that the rebellions in Gaul and Spain were already petering out. What's more, he got the Praetorian Prefect, Nymphidius Sabinus, to send a similar message; they were cousins and Nymphidius, I believe, hoped to gain the Empire for himself, though Flavius was determined he shouldn't.
This was just what Nero wanted to hear. So he abandoned any plan to come to Rome and gave himself up to revelry. But, in a gesture intended to impress people with a sense of his energy, he named himself sole Consul.
All this gave time for the Senate to act. Once they had received confirmation that Galba was in control of his army and was making for Rome, and been assured by Flavius and Nymphidius that the Praetorians were ready to desert Nero – for a suitable reward – they convened and, greatly daring, declared Nero 'a public enemy', to be punished 'in ancient style'. 'What does that mean, 'in ancient style'?' Domatilla asked.
'I don't know exactly,' I said, 'but something disagreeable I should imagine. Our forefathers could be rather rough, you know.'
'I can tell you,' Domitian said. 'I can tell you exactly.' He smiled -you remember that smile of course, like a snake's? The executioners strip the condemned man naked, thrust his head into a wooden fork and flog him to death. We can be pretty sure Nero won't like it. I should think they'd hear his screams at Ostia.'
'Horrible. Poor Nero,' Domatilla said, 'poor anyone to suffer like that. What brutes our ancestors were. They won't really treat him like that, will they?'
'No,' I said. 'He is the Emperor, after all. The common people would lose all respect for us if an Emperor was put to death in so barbarous a manner. I imagine they hope the threat of such a death will be sufficient to persuade him to kill himself. Anyone must prefer an honourable death at his own hand to such ignominy.'
(How young I was, how naive. I know now that there are those who will endure anything, any humiliation, any pain, rather than surrender life. Sometimes I even admire such fortitude.)
'They say he fainted when he heard of Galba's revolt,' Domitian said.
They say all sorts of things,' I replied. 'This afternoon at the baths, I was told first that Nero intended to invite all the members of the Senate to a banquet, and then poison them; second, that he was going to set the city on fire again, but only after letting wild beasts – lions, tigers, and so forth – loose in the streets to hinder the fire- fighters; and third, that he was going to buy off the Gallic legions by giving them permission to sack any city they chose. It's all rot, even though Nero is such a liar and fantasist. He won't do any thing like that. People also say he's paralysed with terror.'
'I heard something else,' Domitian said, 'that he was intending to go to Gaul and confront the rebel legions. Only, instead of haranguing them in a manner worthy of his ancestors, he would fall on his knees before them and weep and weep. This, he says, would soften their hearts. They would be so moved to find their Emperor throwing himself on their mercy, that they would take him to their hearts. How contemptible can you get? Actually, I don't suppose they'd react like that at all. I imagine some centurion would step up and cut his throat, stick him in the gizzard.'
'I don't know,' I said. 'Soldiers can be very sentimental, I'm told. That might be the only thing that could save him, and he's such an actor he might even pull it off. But I can't suppose he would have any chance of getting to Gaul.'
'Poor Nero,' Domatilla said again. 'I do feel sorry for him. I know he's done terrible things, but all the same… I hate to see people humiliated.'
I think it was that night that, walking through the city, I came on one of Nero's statues, with a note attached to it, written in Greek: 'This time it's a real contest, Nero, and one you can't fix but are going to lose.' Nobody knew what was happening. Some Senators began to regret their rashness when it was reported that Nero was calling on the common people to rise and arm themselves in his defence. Then, at the baths, one of my admirers – but I forget which – assured me that this was nonsense or, if it wasn't nonsense, the next best thing, since no recruits had presented themselves. 'Die for Nero? Not bloody likely. That's the popular opinion,' he said. 'Actually, I do know that Nero was preparing yesterday to go to Gaul, but his first concern was to find wagons to carry his stage-equipment, and then to arrange for his concubines to have their hair cut in a boyish style and be issued with shields and weapons such as the Amazons used. The man has taken leave of what senses he still retained. He's living in a dream world.' No doubt, I thought, but it may still turn to nightmare for the rest of us; and I hurried home to make sure that all was well there and my mother safe. I had already begged her not to leave the house till things were more settled. Though I couldn't imagine that anyone would harm her of choice, accidents will happen, especially when someone like Nero is at his wits' end, and the mob is excited beyond measure – as it might be at any moment.
Was it that evening or one a few days later that, shortly after I had retired to bed, where I lay sleepless, listening to the ever-changing sounds of the night city that refused to surrender to silence, I heard a scratching at the outer door of our apartment? It was a gentle noise, calculated, as I supposed, to alarm nobody. Yet its persistence suggested anxiety, even fear. I rose, put on a dressing-gown and, picking up the cudgel which we kept in a stand by the door, listened to the renewed scratching. 'Please help,' came a thin high voice. 'Please let me in.'
I did not recognise the young man who stumbled through the door, falling against me. I pushed him off, and he swayed, and would have fainted (as I supposed) had I not taken him by the shoulder and guided him to a stool by the table. He sat for a moment with his back to the wall, his legs quivering. His face was streaked with dirt and tears and what might have been blood, and his tunic was torn. Then he uttered a deep sob and buried his face in his hands so that I could not see his features but only the tangle of black curls now presented to me.
My mother, aroused by the sounds, joined us from her chamber. She took one look at the young man, who had, with a start of terror, lifted his head. 'Sporus?' she said. 'So the Emperor is dead?'
'At my hand,' he said. 'Perhaps. In part. I don't know. I hope not. It was terrible.'
My mother told me to fetch wine, while she busied herself heating up what remained of the broth we had had for our supper. Sporus gulped down the first cup of Marino wine as a parched traveller drinks water from a well, and held out his cup for more. I sipped mine and watched him. His hand still shook, and every now and then,
