though he must have known he was for the time being safe, he darted anxious looks at the door. 'Were you followed here?' I asked.
He shook his head, but there was no certainty, only hope, in the gesture.
'Let the boy be,' my mother said. 'Give him time. He's worn out, and no wonder. He'll tell what he has to tell when he has some food and drink in him.'
She placed bread on the table, and then soup. Sporus hesitated, as if the thought of sustenance disgusted him. 'Eat,' my mother said, 'then drink more wine.' At last he was ready.
This is his account. I assure you it is authentic. I wrote down his story when he had finished speaking and fallen asleep. I have kept the document with me throughout the upheavals of life. You know yourself, Tacitus, that I have ever been an orderly man, and one who sets great store on documentary evidence.
He told the story haltingly, with false starts and changes of direction. I've tried to capture the way he gave it to us, but I admit I've tidied it up a bit. After all, it went on till dawn's pink fingers were touching the sky.
So he said: 'He was lost. I think he has been losing himself for a long time, and now he had lost the world. He knew that, but he wouldn't confront the reality. So his plans changed all the time, and he couldn't give his mind to them because his mind recoiled. Once he even interrupted a meeting of the loyal advisers who remained to him because one of Phaon's slave-girls, a virgin, ten or eleven, had caught his eye, and he had to have her without delay. It let him suppose things weren't as they were. Another time, when he was dictating a letter he was going to send to the Senate, a letter in very high and serious tones, he had me – I'm sorry, milady, but I have to try to tell it as it was, for my own sake, though I don't know why – he had me masturbate him as he dictated. When he got hard… no, I'm sorry, I won't go on, I can see it disgusts you. But that's the life I've been compelled to live for years, you know, ever since… let's just say, ever since he first caught sight of me. And yet, can you believe it, I was fond of him, he could be charming and… no, let it pass…
'This was when we were in Phaon's villa. That's four miles out of town, between the Nomentana and the Salaria. Phaon was one of his freedmen, you won't know him. We had come to Rome the day before, nobody knew that because we'd slipped in by night and nobody recognised him as we hurried to the palace. He'd a cloak over his face. I think that's when I knew it was all over, and the only questions remaining were how and when. I mean, that the Emperor didn't dare show his face in Rome, it was unthinkable. That night he had a new plan. He was going to appear on the rostra and beg the people's mercy – ask for pardon for all he'd done that had displeased them. It might have worked. That's what I thought then anyway. Whatever people say he was a good actor, nobody could play a part like him. I've never known anyone who could sound more sincere, when he chose, and you had to know him as well as I came to do to realise that when he was most humble and contrite he was laughing at the fools he deceived. I've heard that he could always convince even Seneca of his sincerity, and everyone says Seneca was one of the wisest of men. Till near the end he could convince Seneca, they say. Now he was so excited by the idea that he even dictated the speech he would make. He said, just before we went to sleep, 'You never know, they might agree to make me Prefect of Egypt, even if they won't let me remain Emperor. We could have a marvellous time in Egypt, it's a remarkable country.'
'I think that was the last real hope he had. He'd been drinking, of course. We all had. When annihilation stares you in the face, it's natural to turn to wine, isn't it?
'It was different in the morning. He woke before it was light, and discovered that his bodyguard had deserted him. They'd just slipped away. So had most of his friends. There were only half a dozen of us remaining. Imagine that, half a dozen in that vast palace, the corridors and all the dormitories empty. And still it wasn't light. That's when he first talked of killing himself. It's when I was first really frightened, too. He called for Spiculus to despatch him. That was one of his freedmen, a gladiator who had caught his fancy, a great brute of a German. But Spiculus had run away. That was when Phaon suggested we returned to his villa. Nero agreed. 'I need only some quiet place where I can collect my thoughts,' he said. So we found horses and set off. Cocks were crowing in the suburbs and the mist lay heavy, promising a fine day. Odd that that was what I thought of. We passed quite close to the Guards' camp, which made the Emperor tremble. But when his horse shied at a dead body lying in the road, and the scarf he had tied over the lower part of his face to disguise him fell away, he was recognised by a veteran who, astonished, still saluted him. Nero didn't return the salute. I think he hoped the man would think he was mistaken. When we approached the villa, Phaon, whose teeth were chattering either with the cold of the morning or with terror, suggested we should hide in a gravel pit till someone went ahead to see if the villa was still safe. But Nero wouldn't have that. 'I won't go underground till I die,' he muttered. He went on repeating the line as if it was the chorus of a song.
'We got into the villa. But that, too, was deserted, except for Phaon's wife and daughters. Nero didn't even look at them. He sank down on a couch, saying, 'This is the end, there's no way out for poor Nero now. Have they really declared me a public enemy? Poor Nero, poor Nero. And I had such wonderful plans.' Phaon kept his head. He urged Nero to make for the coast, where (he said) they would be sure to find a boat. 'Don't give up.' We all told him not to give up. I don't know why.
'Then someone came in to say that he had seen a troop of cavalry approaching. Nero picked up two daggers and tested their points. 'How ugly and vulgar my life has become,' he said, but still couldn't bring himself to… 'I'm such a coward. Set me an example, Phaon,' he said. But Phaon shook his head. He didn't see any reason why he should kill himself to encourage Nero. By this time I was in tears, which pleased the Emperor. So was Acte, the slave-girl who, alone of his women, really loved him. 'This is nice,' he said, 'someone at least is going to mourn for me. Someone at least is sorry to see me in this state. But it's no credit to me that I can't… Come on, Nero,' he said, speaking as if we weren't there, 'be a man, play the man.' Then he held one of the daggers against his throat and began to sob, and his secretary Epaphroditus stepped forward and, taking his hand that held the dagger, thrust it into his neck. He gurgled, still tried to speak, lifted his head and managed to say, 'What an artist… so great an artist to die like this.' Epaphroditus took the other dagger and stabbed him again, also in the throat.
'It was just then, while he was still alive, that the officer commanding the troop of cavalry found us. He looked at Nero, and said, 'I'd orders to take him alive, but it's better like this.' Acte threw herself at his feet, sobbing. She caught hold of his legs, and said that Nero had begged her not to let them cut his head off, but have him buried in one piece. I don't know when he made this request. I hadn't heard him say this. His eyes were bulging from their sockets. I wanted to close them, he seemed to be looking at me, and I couldn't. Acte then begged them to let her take charge of the body. The officer said it was nothing to do with him. He'd been told to take Nero alive, but since he was dead, it didn't matter to him. 'I'd throw him in a ditch myself,' he said. Then he hurried away. I suppose he wanted to be first with the news, and get some sort of reward. As for me, I couldn't stay, it was all too horrible. But I've been afraid all day that someone would recognise me as Nero's boy, and… So that's why I've come here, you were the only person, milady, I could turn to. You won't let them do anything to me, will you?' 'Of course I won't,' my mother said.
She was full of pity. She told me when she had put Sporus to bed, that he was a poor abused child, though of course he was older than I was myself.
She kept him in our apartment for a few days. Then one night when I returned home he had gone. For a long time she wouldn't tell me where. Eventually I learned that she had sent him to the house of one of her cousins in Calabria. Later I believe he kept a brothel in Corinth. I don't suppose there was much else he could have been expected to do. Though my mother was ignorant of the fact, I have reason to suppose that Sporus had hidden some of the jewels he had got from Nero and at some point retrieved them, thus financing his enterprise. In my opinion, he had earned the jewels.
VIII
I confess to having framed my last letter in such a way as to irritate Tacitus. The sympathy expressed for Sporus will infuriate him indeed. He hates everything that smacks of degeneracy, and talks sometimes as if poor things like Sporus are responsible for their unhappy condition. It's too ridiculous. Actually, for all his gifts, his History will suffer from his lack of imagination. He can never put himself in another's place.
Still, enough of Nero; a wretched tawdry fellow when all is said and done. One last comment is appropriate and I must remember to pass it on to Tacitus in my next letter: Nero was a liar to the last, claiming that he died an
