CHAPTER IX NERO AND HIS COMPANIONS

‘Res pertricosa est, Cotile, bellus homo.’—Martial, iii. 63.

Nero had been spending the morning with some of the new friends whose evil example was rapidly destroying in his mind every germ of decency or virtue. Though it was still but noon, he was dressed in a loose synthesis—a dress of light green, unconfined by any girdle, and he had soft slippers on his feet. This negligence was due only to the desire for selfish comfort, for in other respects he paid extreme attention to his personal appearance. His fair hair was curled and perfumed, and his hands were covered with splendid gems.

But even a brief spell of imperial power, with late hours, long banquets, deep gambling, and reckless dissipation, had already left their brand upon his once attractive features. His cheeks had begun to lose the rose and glow of youth and to assume the pale and sodden appearance which in a few years obliterated the last traces of beauty and dignity from his ruined face.

With him sat and lounged and yawned and gossiped and flattered a choice assemblage of spirits more wicked than himself.

The room in which they were sitting was one of the most private apartments of the Palace. It had been painted in the reign of Gaius with frescoes graceful and brilliant, but such as would now be regarded as proofs of an utterly depraved taste. As he glanced at the works of art with which the chamber was decorated, Otho thought, not without complacency, of the day when the prediction made to him by an astrologer should be fulfilled, and he too would be Emperor of Rome. He highly approved of frescoes such as these, though even Ovid and Propertius had complained of their corrupting tendency.

Otho was now nearly twenty-three years old, and was a characteristic product of imperial civilisation. His face was smooth, for he had artificially prevented the growth of a beard. To hide his baldness, which he regarded as the most cruel wrong of the unjust gods, he wore a wig, so natural and close-fitting as scarcely to be recognisable, and this was arranged in front in the fashion which he set, and which Nero followed. Four rows of symmetrical curls half hid the narrow forehead. Those curls had cost his barber two hours’ labour that morning, and they were dyed with a Batavian pomade into the blonde colour which was the most admired. In figure Otho was small; his legs were bowed, and his feet ill-shaped, but his large eyes and beautiful mouth gave him a sweet and engaging, though effeminate, expression. Indeed, effeminacy was his main characteristic, and there was a touch of effeminacy even in the much belauded suicide to which his destiny was leading him. When he was a boy, his father was so disgusted by his ways that he flogged him like the lowest of his slaves. He was one of those creatures of perfumed baths, delicate languor, soft manners, and disordered appetites, who, in that age, so often took refuge from a depraved life in a voluntary death.12 He was entirely impecunious, and was loaded with debts—a circumstance which he did not regard as any obstacle to a life of boundless extravagance. In order to get introduced to Nero he had the effrontery to make love to a plain and elderly freedwoman, who had some influence at Court. When he had once secured an introduction he became the ardent friend of Nero, and the intimate accomplice of his worst dissipations. Being six years older than the Emperor, and far more accomplished in vice, he exercised a spell which rapidly undermined the grave lessons of Burrus and Seneca. Precociously corrupt, serenely egotistical, cynical in dishonour, and gangrened to the depth of his soul by debauchery, Otho, though still a youth, had so completely got rid of the moral sense as to present to the world a spectacle of unruffled self-content. A radiant and sympathetic softness reigned smiling on his smooth and almost boyish face.

By the side of Otho lounged another youth, whose name was Tullius Senecio. He was wealthy and reckless, and he had made himself a leader of fashion among the young Roman nobles. With them was the brilliant Petronius Arbiter, a man of refined culture and natural wit, but the most cynically shameless liver and talker even in Rome. The group was completed by the able and rough-tongued but not over-scrupulous Vestinus, the dissolute Quintianus, and the singularly handsome Tigellinus, who was as yet only at the beginning of his career, but who, of all the minions of that foul Court, became the most cruel, the most treacherous, and the most corrupt.

And yet weariness reigned supreme over these luxurious votaries of fashion. They had at first tried to get some amusement out of the antics of Massa, a half-witted boy, and Asturco, a dwarf; but when they had teased Massa into sullenness, and Asturco into tears and bellowings of rage, Petronius interfered, and voted such amusements boorish and in bad taste. Then they tried to kill time by betting and gambling over games at marbles and draughts. The ‘pieces’ (latrunculi and ocellata) of glass, ivory, and silver lay scattered over tables, just as they were when the players got tired of the games, and the draught boards (tabulæ latrunculariæ) had been carelessly tossed on the floor. Then they sent for plates of honey-apples, and bowls of Falernian wine, and took an extemporised meal. Nero even condescended to amuse himself with rolling little ivory chariots down a marble slab, and betting on their speed. Still they all felt that the hours were somewhat leaden-footed, till a bright thought struck the Emperor. He had passed some of his early years in poverty, and this circumstance, together with his æsthetic appreciation of things beautiful, made him delight in showing his treasures to his intimates. By way of finding something to do, he suggested to his friends that they should come and look at the wardrobes of the former empresses, which were under the charge of a multitude of dressers, folders, and jewellers. Orders were given that everything should be laid out for their inspection. Except Petronius, they all had an effeminate passion for jewellery, and they whiled away an hour in inspecting the robes, stiff with gold brocade and broideries of pearl, sapphire, and emerald.

By this time Nero was in high good-humour, and seized the opportunity of a little ostentation towards the ‘lisping hawthorn-buds’ of fashion by whom he was surrounded.

He chose out a superb cameo, on which was carved a Venus Anadyomene, and gave it to Otho. ‘There,’ he said; ‘that will adorn the neck of your fair Poppæa. Vestinus, this opal was the one for the sake of which Mark Antony procured the proscription of the senator Nonius. You don’t deserve it, for you can be very rude—’

‘Free speech is a compliment to strong emperors,’ said Vestinus, hardly concealing the irony of his tone.

‘Ah, well!’ continued Nero, ‘I shall not give it you for your deserts, but because it will look splendid on the ivory arm of your Statilia. A more fitting present to you would be this little viper enclosed in amber;13 the viper is your malice, the amber your flattery. And what on earth am I to give you, Senecio? or you, Petronius? You are devoted to so many fair ladies, that I should have to give you the whole wardrobe; but I will give you, Senecio, a silken fillet embroidered with pearls; and, Petronius, Nature has set out this agate—I believe it is from the spoils of Pyrrhus—for no one but you, for she has marked on it an outline of Apollo and the Muses. Quintianus, this ring with Hylas on it will just suit you.’

There was a hidden sarcasm in much which he had said even while he distributed his gifts, and not a few serpents hissed among the flowery speeches interchanged in this bad society. But they all thanked him effusively for presents so splendid.

At this point a sudden thought suggested itself to Nero. He had not seen much of his mother for the last few days, and being in buoyant spirits, and thoroughly pleased with himself, he chose out the most splendid robe and ornaments, and bade some of the wardrobe-keepers to carry them to the apartments of the Augusta, with the message that they were a present from her son. ‘And do you,’ he said to his freedman Polycletus, ‘bring me back word of what the Empress says in thanks.’

Nero and his friends returned to the room in which they had been sitting, and had begun to play at dice for large stakes, when Polycletus came back, flushed and excited.

Nero was himself a little uneasy at what he had done. His mother, with her unlimited resources, hardly needed a present of this kind. As long as she was Empress, all these robes had been her own; and Nero was exercising an unwonted sort of patronage when he sent this gift by the hands of an attendant. There was a certain vulgarity in his attention, which was all the worse because it was ostentatious. And yet, if Agrippina had been wise, she would have shown greater command over her temper, and have prevented that tragic widening of the ‘little rift within the lute’ which soon silenced the music of a mother’s love.

‘Well, and was the Augusta pleased?’ asked Nero, looking up from his dice.

‘I will report to the Emperor when he is alone,’ said the freedman.

‘Tush, man!’ answered Nero, nervously. ‘We are all friends here, and if my mother was very effusive in her compliments, they will pardon it.’

‘She returned no praises and no thanks.’

‘Ha! that was ungracious. Tell me exactly what she did.’

‘She asked me who were with you, and I mentioned the names of those present.’

‘What business is it of hers?’ said Nero, reddening, as he noticed the significant glances interchanged between Otho and Vestinus, the latter of whom whispered a Greek proverb about boys tied to their mother’s apron-strings.

‘She then asked whether you had given any other presents, and I said that you had. “To whom?” she asked.’

‘A regular cross-examination!’ whispered Vestinus.

‘I said that you had made presents to Otho, Vestinus, and others.’

‘You need not have been so very communicative, Polycletus,’ said Nero; ‘but go on.’

‘Her lip curled as I mentioned the names.’

‘We are not favourites of the Augusta, alas!’ lisped Otho.

‘But what did she say about the robe?’

‘She barely glanced at the robe and jewels, and when she had finished questioning me, she stamped her foot, tossed the dress over a seat, and scattered the gems over the floor.’

Nero grew very red, and as the freedman again remained silent, he asked whether the Augusta had sent no message.

Polycletus hesitated.

‘Go on, man!’ exclaimed Nero, impatiently. ‘In any case you are not to blame for anything she said.’

‘I am ashamed to repeat the Augusta’s words,’ said the messenger. ‘But, if I must tell you, she said: “My son gives a part to me, who have given all to him. Whatever he has he owes to me. He sends me these, I suppose, that I may put in no claim to the rest. Let him keep his finery. There are things that I value more highly.” And then she rose, and spurning with her foot the robe which lay in her way, she swept out of the room.’

Nero bit his lip, and his eyes gleamed with rage. He was maddened by the meaning smiles of Senecio, and the expression of cynical amusement which passed over the face of Petronius.

Otho came to the rescue. ‘Do not be disturbed, Nero,’ he said. ‘Agrippina only forgot for the moment that you are now Emperor.’

‘The Augusta evidently thinks that you are still a boy in the purple-bordered toga,’ sneered Tigellinus.

Nero dashed down his dice-box, overturned the table at which they were sitting, and began to pace the room in extreme agitation. He had not yet quite shaken off the familiarity of his mother’s dominance. He was genuinely afraid of her, and he knew to what fearful lengths she might be hurried by her passion and her hate.

‘I cannot stand it,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I am no match for Agrippina. Who knows but what she may prepare a mushroom, or something else, for me? I hate Rome. I hate the Empire. I will lay aside the purple. I only want to enjoy myself. I will go to Rhodes and live there. I can sing, if I can do nothing else, and if all else fails, I will support myself with singing in the streets of Alexandria. The astrologers have promised me that I shall be king in Jerusalem, or somewhere in the East. Here I am utterly wretched.’

He flung himself angrily on a couch, and a red spot rose upon his cheeks. ‘I wonder how she dares to insult me thus! If I had sent the robe and jewels to Octavia, the poor child would have touched heaven with her finger. If I had sent them to Acte, her soft eyes would have beamed with love. Of what use is it to be Emperor, if my mother is to flout and domineer like this?’

‘Does not Cæsar know what gives her this audacity?’ asked Tigellinus, in a low tone.

‘No,’ answered Nero; ‘except it be that she has ruled me from a child.’

‘It is,’ said the adventurer, ‘because Pallas abets her, and because—’

He paused.

‘Pallas? Who is Pallas?’ said the Emperor. ‘An ex-slave—nothing more. I am not afraid of him. I will dismiss him at once, and if he gives the least trouble, I will threaten him with an inquisition into his account. He shall go and end his Pallas-ship.14 But what else were you going to say?’

‘Agrippina domineers,’ he whispered in the Emperor’s ear, ‘because Britannicus is alive.’

‘Britannicus?’ answered Nero.

He said no more, but his brow became dark as night.