You chide me, Tacitus, for being dilatory, as you call it. May I remind you that you are the historian, not me, and that I am doing you a favour, or endeavouring to do you a favour, in excavating painful memories?
But I am glad that you now at last ask me specific questions. In particular, you seek to know what it was like in Rome when Galba, who had been proclaimed Emperor by the legions in Spain, entered the city. You weren't there yourself, you say. Indeed you weren't, and I was. If this part of your History is to be authentic, you must rely on me. Don't forget that. No doubt you have other informants, and will study documents. But if you seek an eye-witness account from one who understands, or once understood, politics, then you must put your trust in me. For which reason you should remember your manners.
I don't pretend to know everything, but I can promise you that I won't pretend either to more knowledge than I truly possess. What you get from me is authentic, from the horse's mouth, as we say in these barbarian parts, where the horse is highly revered. And you must allow me to approach it in my own way. The years, and my bitter experiences, have deprived me of the literary skills I once was so proud of.
What, I wonder, do you really know of Nero's death? There are more than a dozen stories that have gone the rounds, not least, of course, those which assert that he didn't die then but escaped. You will remember that in the subsequent few years at least half a dozen false Neros presented themselves. And what will you make of that, if you happen to mention it? Perhaps you won't mention it, because it points to something which you will not readily wish to admit. These false Neros all gathered support from the common people wherever they presented themselves. Why? Because, outside the senatorial class to which we both belong (you uncertainly, if you don't mind me saying so) Nero was popular. And not only with the riff-raff. Respectable provincials had a high regard for 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, 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.