Empire r-2, page 15
part #2 of Rome Series
Behind Titus, Claudius sucked in his breath. “Without question, a favourable omen! Do you agree?”
Titus’s heart pounded. “Yes,” he finally said. “The gods favour your action. What do you intend to do, Caesar?”
Titus felt his cousin’s hand on his shoulder and flinched. Claudius seemed not to notice his reaction. “Thank the gods for the Pinarii! I could always unburden myself to your father, and though the gods took him from me, they gave me you in his stead.”
Claudius shambled across the garden and picked up the feather, groaning as he bent and straightened. There were flecks of blood on the vane. “For years, I’ve b-b-been an utter fool, allowing Messalina and her lovers to make a cuckold of me. I believed all her lies, accepted all her evasions, trusted her above all those who tried to warn me. But now the truth has finally c-c-come out, and it’s worse than anything I could have imagined. Messalina has behaved like a whore. She kept a house on the Esquiline under an assumed name and she ran the place like a b-b-brothel, allowing other highborn women to meet their lovers there, staging all manner of orgies. They say that once she gathered prostitutes from the Subura and held a c-competition to see who could satisfy the most customers in a night – and she was the winner! Can you imagine, the wife of the emperor took p-p-payment to have sex with any man who wanted her, one after another! What would Great-Uncle make of such a thing?”
He turned to look at Titus. Titus could think of nothing to say.
“I see you’re too shocked to speak, Titus. No words can express your outrage, I’m sure. And what could you possibly say that would bring me comfort? But I haven’t told you the worst of it yet. Messalina has entered into a b-b-bigamous marriage with the consul Gaius Silius. They even held a ceremony, with witnesses, as if the marriage were a legal union, blessed by the gods. I suppose they intended to stage my funeral next!”
Titus at last found his voice. “But, Caesar, how can you know these things?”
Claudius’s answer was the same as Chrysanthe’s. “Slaves talk,” he said. “And so d-d-do free men, under torture.”
“Does Messalina know you’ve discovered her secrets?”
“A slave warned her. She fled to her house in the Gardens of Lucullus – the love nest she acquired from Asiaticus, when she tricked me into executing the poor fellow. Praetorians have surrounded the grounds. She awaits her fate.”
“Gaius Silius?”
“Dead, by his own hand.”
“And… her lovers?”
“Yes, her lovers. Her many, many lovers!” Claudius toyed with the feather, pulling his fingers down the shaft to tatter the vane. The blood on his fingertips he wiped on his toga, where the purple wool absorbed it without a trace. “Come with me, Titus. I need at least one p-p-person in the room whom I can trust.”
One by one the lovers were paraded before Claudius to make their confessions and receive his judgement.
Claudius sat on a throne-like chair on a raised dais. Praetorian guards were stationed at either side of him and at various places around the room. Titus stood on the dais beside Claudius and next to one of the Praetorians, a hulking brute who stank of garlic. Physicians claimed that eating garlic gave a man strength, and to judge by the muscles on this specimen, they were right.
Claudius’s most trusted freedman, Narcissus, oversaw the proceedings. He was a quintessential imperial bureaucrat, fussy about his appearance, snappish with underlings, wheedling but insistent with his master. As each of the accused men was shown into the chamber, it was Narcissus who read the charges and conducted the interrogation.
Some of the men complained that they had been blackmailed into submission by Messalina. Others openly admitted that they had sought her sexual favours. Some begged for mercy, while others said nothing. It made no difference; when the moment came for Narcissus to ask the emperor for his judgement, Claudius looked each man in the eye and declared, “G-g-guilty!”
Most of the men were citizens, and had the right to die by beheading, the fastest, least painful, and most dignified form of execution. But a few of the accused were foreign-born; they could expect to be beaten to death, strangled, or perhaps thrown to wild animals. There were also slaves among the accused, most of them from the imperial household but some belonging to outsiders; rather than charge them with committing adultery – the idea that another man’s slave might have copulated with the emperor’s wife was too scandalous to contemplate – Narcissus accused the slaves of colluding with Messalina and assisting her conspiracy. Their punishment would be crucifixion. They’ll die like Kaeso’s so-called god, on a cross, thought Titus, touching his breast and wishing he had the fascinum to protect him.
The number of Messalina’s lovers was staggering, and the repetition of the process was numbing. Titus would gladly have fled, but he had no choice but to see and hear everything. His cousin wanted him to act as mute witness to an ordeal that was almost as painful and degrading for Claudius as it was for the accused.
Or was Claudius playing a cruel game with him? If Narcissus and his agents had uncovered Messalina’s dalliances with all these other men, how had they failed to identify Titus? At any moment, Titus half expected to hear Narcissus call his name, to feel the hands of the garlic-stinking Praetorian upon him, and to be thrust before Claudius to beg for his life.
Could Claudius be that devious? He seemed to have become more simpleminded as he had grown older, but perhaps that was merely the ruse of a truly ingenious mind. Titus looked sidelong at his cousin, who was wiping a bit of drool from his mouth, and tried to imagine him not as the rather sad fool he appeared to be but as a master manipulator. Claudius not only had outlived virtually everyone else in his family but had managed to become emperor. Was his survival the result of blind chance, or careful design?
Yet if any proof of Claudius’s blindness was required, surely it was the spectacle taking place before them, as one lover after another was produced to demonstrate just how unaware Claudius had been.
Narcissus called out the name of the next man to face judgement: “Bring forth Mnester!”
Titus’s heart skipped a beat. Claudius groaned.
Mnester’s golden hair was mussed and he wore only a brief, sleeveless sleeping tunic, as if he had just been pulled from his bed. His eyes were wide with fright as he peered around the room. Titus took a couple of steps back and to the side, concealing himself as best he could behind the hulking Praetorian. Had Mnester seen him already? Titus thought not. He held his breath.
Narcissus read the charges: numerous counts of adultery with the emperor’s wife and taking part in a criminal conspiracy to kill the emperor.
Claudius was close to tears. “Mnester, how c-c-could you?”
“But, Caesar, you yourself ordered me to submit to her.”
Claudius looked baffled. “Did I?”
“Do you not recall? I tried to resist her, and I begged you to take my side, but you ordered me to do whatever she commanded, no matter how degrading. You said those very words to me: ‘You must do anything she asks.’ And as a result you can see for yourself how I’ve suffered!”
Mnester lurched forward and dropped to his knees. Titus gave a jerk, for suddenly he was visible to Mnester, but the actor kept his face down and his eyes averted as he pulled his tunic over his head. He was not wearing a loincloth. Naked, he prostrated himself before Claudius, showing the lash marks across his broad back.
Mnester was racked by sobs. “Do you see how she mistreats me, Caesar? Many times, I wanted to come to you and complain, but I was too afraid of her. Afraid for my very life, Caesar!”
Mnester had not seemed very frightened when Titus had last seen him naked; indeed, the actor had seemed an eager participant in everything that had happened. But even though Titus saw through the lie, he was moved by the man’s lament. Mnester was a superb actor, and this was the performance of his life. The tears that streamed from his eyes were real, and so were the fiery red lash marks across the rippling muscles of his back.
Claudius was unnerved. He put one hand to his mouth and shook his head. His eyes glistened with tears.
Mnester glanced up. Titus saw the flash of hope in his eyes. “Please, Caesar, I have been foully used, degraded, humiliated, made the plaything of a woman who had the power of life and death over me. Have pity on me, I beg you! Banish me from Roma, send me to the wilderness, but spare my life!”
“She used you, yes,” muttered Claudius, “just as she used me.”
Titus looked sidelong at Claudius and saw that his cousin was completely dazzled by the performance. Titus saw the contrast between the two men and at the same time he grasped the connection between them: the aging, hunched emperor gazed raptly at Mnester as if the handsome, prostrate figure before him were the idealized personification of his own suffering. Was this not the highest achievement an actor could attain?
Titus stepped farther behind the Praetorian, but not before Mnester’s eyes met his. It was only a brief look, but Titus was certain that Mnester recognized him, and in the other man’s eyes Titus saw his own doom. Mnester began to raise one hand, as if to point in accusation. Titus felt as if the floor lurched beneath him. His face turned hot and his heart pounded.
“Remember the auspices!” Titus whispered.
Claudius twitched his head to one side. “What’s that?”
“Remember the auspices, Caesar. The gods demand justice.”
Claudius slowly nodded his head. He called Narcissus to him and spoke in his ear. Narcissus crossed the room and spoke to the Praetorians at the door.
Mnester remained on the floor, his face and chest wet with tears but with the faint intimation of a smile at the corner of his mouth. It was the face of an actor at the end of a tragic play, exhausted by the role and still immersed in the cathartic moment, but ready to receive the accolades of the audience. He thought he had won Claudius’s pardon.
In the next moment he was made aware of his mistake. Praetorians surrounded him. One of them produced a leather strap attached at both ends to an iron rod. While two men held Mnester to keep him from struggling free, the strangling device was slipped over his head. Only two twists of the rod were required to sufficiently tighten the strap. Mnester’s face turned a vivid shade of red, then purple. His eyes bulged. Mucus erupted from his nose. His tongue protruded from his mouth. The only noise he made sounded disconcertingly like the squeaking of a mouse.
The man holding the rod gave it another full twist. Every part of Mnester’s body convulsed, so violently that the Praetorians barely maintained their hold. Then Mnester went limp.
His body was dragged from the room. Narcissus called a slave to clean the floor where Mnester had emptied his bladder. The slave used Mnester’s discarded sleeping tunic as a mop.
“Are there m-m-more?” said Claudius in a hollow voice.
“Yes,” said Narcissus. “Several more.”
Claudius shook his head. “No more today. I’m tired. And hungry.”
“As you wish, Caesar. I’ll see that your dinner is made ready.”
“Cousin Titus will d-d-dine with me.”
Titus suppressed a groan. “If you’d rather be alone-”
“Oh, no, I insist. Run along, Narcissus. We’ll catch up.” He turned to Titus. “Thank you, cousin.”
“For what?”
“For helping me keep my nerve. I almost lost it. Mnester had to be p-p-punished.”
“Still, Caesar, there was no need for you to witness the unpleasantness.”
“No? Mnester betrayed me. He deserved to d-d-die. But his acting gave me great pleasure over the years. I owed it to him to witness his final performance.”
At dinner, Titus was the only guest. He said little. It was Claudius who filled the silence as he rambled from one topic to another, from the military situation in Britannia – conquered but still undergoing pacification by the general Vespasian – to his anger at the Jews, and all the trouble their religious fanaticism was causing, not just in their homeland but in Roma and Alexandria and every other city where their numbers were significant.
Claudius seemed completely disconnected from the events of the day. Titus could think of nothing else. A part of him remained braced for some terrible surprise.
He kept seeing Mnester’s face at the end. If Titus had said nothing, would Mnester still be alive? Titus had merely reminded Claudius of the auspices. Why did he feel a need to justify himself? Everyone else manipulated Claudius to gain his own ends. Titus had done so to save his own life.
Narcissus announced that a messenger had arrived with news about Messalina.
“Yes, where is she?” said Claudius, his voice slurred by wine. “Why is she not here for d-d-dinner?”
Titus felt a sinking sensation.
Claudius continued to eat. Chewing on a chicken bone, he said, “Well, Narcissus?”
“Messalina is dead, Caesar.”
Claudius sat back, looking baffled. He blinked a few times, gave a twitch of his head, then shrugged. He reached for his cup and drank more wine. He picked up another piece of chicken.
Narcissus waited, ready to be asked for more information. Claudius said nothing. Eventually, Narcissus cleared his throat and recounted the details. “Caesar’s agents surrounded her apartments in the Gardens of Lucullus. Her slaves offered no resistance. She was given a knife and offered the opportunity to take her own life. She announced that she would do so, but she lacked the courage. When she faltered, one of Caesar’s agents took the knife from her and finished the job.”
Messalina, stabbed to death! Titus was stunned by the enormity of it.
Claudius took a bite of chicken and chewed for a long time, staring into the distance.
“Does Caesar have any further orders?” asked Narcissus.
“Orders? Yes, Tell the b-b-boy to bring more wine.” He turned to Titus. “You are a good man, cousin. A man I can trust! Do you know, I think I shall make you a senator. Your grandfather was a senator, wasn’t he? We lost a few senators today and they’ll need to be replaced. How would you like that?” Claudius nodded thoughtfully. “I shall make you a senator on one condition: if I should ever think of m-m-marrying again, you must stop me. You will put it to a vote and have me stripped of my office. If I should ever so much as m-m-mention m-m-marriage, I give you and the other senators permission to kill me on the spot and put an old fool out of his misery!”
After dinner, Claudius bade Titus good night and retired. The same courier who had fetched Titus earlier reappeared to escort him out of the imperial house. They passed through the room where Titus had waited. Something was different.
“The statues,” he said. “Where are they?”
“What statues?” said the courier, looking straight ahead.
“The statues of Messalina and Mnester.”
“I don’t recall any such statues in this room,” said the courier.
“But you told me that story, about how the coins of Caligula had been melted down…”
The courier shrugged and quickened his pace.
Even the pedestals were gone, and the green marble floor beneath had been polished to show no trace. The images of Messalina and Mnester had vanished as if they had never existed.
AD 51
The weather was mild for mid-December. A crowd of dignitaries and members of the imperial household stood around the perimeter of the Auguratorium on the Palatine. The occasion was the fourteenth birthday of young Nero, the son of Agrippina, grandson of Germanicus, great-greatgrandson of Augustus, and great-nephew and now adopted son of Claudius. Titus Pinarius was present, wearing his trabea rather than his purple-bordered senatorial toga and carrying his lituus. He was to perform the augury for the young man’s toga day, his passage to manhood.
Chrysanthe was among the guests, looking beautiful as always and only slightly uncomfortable in the company of the Roman-born matrons, who would always think of her as an Alexandrian. She devoted most of her attention to their son, Lucius, who at four was deemed by Titus to be old enough and sufficiently well behaved to attend such a ceremony and watch his father at work.
While he waited to be called upon, Titus surveyed the crowd. Many of the women were dazzling in their finery, but none stood out more than Nero’s mother. At thirty-six, Agrippina was still a strikingly attractive woman. Her hair was parted in the middle; long curls streamed like ribbons on either side and were gathered by a purple-and-gold fillet at the back of her head. Her stola was a garment of numerous layers and folds, woven of a fabric of many colours. Her beaming smile showed her prominent canine teeth – a sign of good luck, many believed. Fortune had certainly smiled on Agrippina in recent years.
Despite his vow never to marry again after his humiliation by Messalina, Claudius almost immediately married Agrippina. It seemed the widower felt incomplete without a strong-willed and beautiful woman to manipulate him. Claudius’s choice of a bride had scandalized the city, since marriage between an uncle and a niece was incest. To forestall the fears of the populace that some supernatural calamity might result, Claudius had called on Titus to look for omens and precedents that favoured his marriage to Agrippina, and Titus had obliged. Agrippina was grateful for this service. Titus’s prestigious role at this day’s event was the latest proof of her favour.
Fortune had not always smiled on Agrippina. The untimely deaths of her parents, her humiliating exile under Caligula, the loss of two husbands – she had endured all these trials and emerged triumphant. She had even outwitted the machinations of Messalina – for most people now agreed that it was Agrippina and her son who had been threatened by the jealousy of Messalina, and not the reverse. It was said that Messalina had once sent an assassin to kill Nero in his crib, but the man had been frightened off by a snake in the baby’s bed – actually the skin of a snake, placed there by his clever and vigilant mother. Agrippina had become a stirring exemplar of Roman womanhood. She had survived every setback, and her marriage to her uncle Claudius had made her the most powerful woman in Roma.
