12 - Nero

Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus became – a bride. He – or she – put on the rose-covered veil of a virgin and went through the long and complicated ceremony of marriage with one of his liberated slaves. This included the blessings of Apollo’s and Aphrodite’s priests and the sacrifice of a suckling pig. And the place of honor among the guests was reserved for Sabina Poppea, his wife.

This wasn’t the first time Nero had gone through such a marriage, in the full presence of the Court, including the council of ministers, the commandant of the Praetorian Guard, and the highest military figures of Rome. Some time before this he’d “married” another man, but on that occasion the other man had been the bride. This launched a jest among the wits of Rome that would no doubt have meant death to repeat, which said “How great would it have been for Rome and the world if Nero’s father had taken such a bride.”

Some people at the second wedding observed that Nero made a better bride than groom, for with his great fleshy bosom he looked more like a heavy widow than an Augustus. His hairdresser also found it easier to arrange his hair in girly ringlets. Indeed it was when Nero was in his manly mood that the hairdresser suffered. No way could the smooth, oily skin, the round flesh and full lips be manipulated into a suggestion of masculinity.

And the feminine effect was heightened whenever Caesar opened his mouth for his mouth, which his flatterers assured him was the noblest ever heard by human ears, was that of a capricious and affected woman.

The court poets recited a collection of excellent odes that said that Aphrodite herself was smitten with envy over the beauties of the “bride.” Of course they had to be careful to include a number of blemishes in the poems, so that the meter and metaphors would not compete with Caesar’s own songs. Petronius, that arbiter of taste and master of obscenity, put everyone, including Tigellinus, to shame with his flattery.

All in all, the spectacle was thoroughly in the spirit of the time, for Rome was worthy of Nero, and Nero was worthy of Rome.

It took a certain degree of resourcefulness and inventiveness to keep Nero in good humor. Chariot races were all well and good, but Nero was easily bored. He’d had his fill of gladiatorial shows and of course he was always the winner in the chariot races. He needed triumphs of a more difficult kind, for as Muses began to push out gladiators and the ringing harp drowned out the drumming of horse’s hoofs, every member of Nero’s entourage was suddenly expected to become an expert in the arts.

Patricians and senators had always thought it beneath a Roman’s dignity to have an opinion on a statue or a poem. But suddenly it was a matter of life and death to be able to speak like professors. So they sent to Athens for the most intelligent slaves and the most admired works of art. Rome became the repository of the treasures of the Greek temples, and the culture of Greece was elevated to the status of a fashionable craze. To be able to quote the Odyssey and the Iliad in the original was now almost indispensable for anyone seeking social distinction.

A plague of poets and reciters broke out in the imperial city, and one might hear classic verses quoted anywhere Romans assembled, in the baths, restaurants and barbershops. And it all stemmed from the master of Rome. Nero wanted to be a poet, therefore every Roman had to be at least a critic of poetry.

In fact, Nero was forever threatening to leave the capital of the empire and to settle in the capital of culture, Athens. He complained that Romans were incapable of appreciating his immortal works. When he appeared in the arena, their enthusiasm, he said, seemed to be lacking in proper warmth. Only the Greeks would understand what his spirit brought to the world. And Nero actually toured the provinces like a strolling player, to win the plaudits of his subjects. When he recited in the arena in predominantly Greek Naples, he was given such a thunderous reception that he complained at the comparative coolness and doltishness of the Romans. He started to talk of a great triumphal round of performances with a climax reserved for Athens.


Unfortunately for Tigellinus, he didn’t have even the slightest rudimentary skills when it came to literary taste. His learned slaves perspired greatly in trying to teach him a few ready phrases, but he could never remember them at the right moment. But Tigellinus had other ways of winning Caesar’s favor. On this day, for example, the commandant of the Praetorian Guard arranged a great banquet in honor of the “bride.” The banquet was to be held at the artificial lake in the gardens of Agrippa.

The banquets Tigellinus arranged put every other form of entertainment to shame. Exotic foods from the farthest corners of the world, game fish and fruit out of season, dishes no one had ever tasted before were Tegellinus’ substitute for literacy. And the banquets were always prepared so lavishly that the remains could be distributed to thousands of citizens in the name of the imperial master. Furthermore, Tigellinus spent a great deal of time subsidizing corn imports in Nero’s name, distributing vast quantities of oil and wine, providing magnificent spectacles, and seeking out the most skillful gladiators and largest herds of wild animals, so that Rome might make merry and applaud Caesar.

Besides arranging banquets, Tigellinus hired many “clients” to bring the cheers of the masses to Nero. So as he passed through the streets of Rome in procession to the banquet, Nero was stopped by a huge delegation of “clients” hired by Tigellinus for the occasion. The people threw themselves before his sella, stretched their hands to him, and babbled hysterically, “Apollo, don’t leave us! What will we do without your music?”

“August Caesar, Rome languishes for the sound of your voice!”

“The gods have given you to us, Apollo! Sing for us!”

Nero was touched by the demonstration. His thick lips settled on a smile as he looked out over the prostrate mass of supplicants. Poppea and his other wives, of both sexes, looked at him imploringly. It seemed that Apollo had been conquered.

But the satisfied smile did not last long, for part of the procession’s path took it through the foul, narrow alleys of the Suburra. It was summer in early July, and the day was hot, the air heavy. The windows of the high apartment houses were black with spectators, who waved veils and kerchiefs at him. But there were no roses or other flowers to counteract the stale, fetid air here. There was no wind on this day, and the foul, standing air enveloped the parade. Caesar’s face became contorted with disgust. The smell of putrefying meat and fish rose thickly from the cellars, mixed with rancid odors from oil, vegetable and vinegar. The hot sun had also done its work on the human bodies, the mattresses in the apartments, and the heaps of garbage outside.

Nero thought about the “Golden House” he wanted to build, a huge edifice to link his palace on the Esquiline with that on the Palatine. Here he would assemble the costliest works of Greek art. He would build a giant amphitheater for the performing arts. It would be greater than anything any Caesar had ever before attempted. But was it to be built over a garbage dump?

The Suburra had to be uprooted. All the narrow, filthy streets of Rome had to be leveled with the ground. A new city had to rise from its ashes, eternalizing his name and filling unborn generations with incomprehension at his achievements. Let the centuries know the inexhaustibility of his talents and his divinity. It was his duty to transmit his inspiration to the world.

His attendants sprinkled him with perfume and dropped precious oils on his skin, but it was all in vain. Nero wanted to retch, and the quivering didn’t stop until he’d been carried into the Agrippa gardens. The sour, sick look on his face warned his courtiers that Nero was in a foul humor, and dread fell on them. Each one trembled for himself and looked for ways of making himself scarce.

Caesar was given to rapid changes of mood, however, and a few minutes after being carried into the riot of colors and the voices of laughter and joy that filled every corner of the gardens, the smile reappeared on his heavy lips and his fleshy jaw was lifted from the womanish bosom.

He perked up even more when he discovered what entertainment Tigellinus had arranged for him. A flotilla of barges covered with thick tapestries, decorated with garlands, and linked to each other with silk ropes floated on the artificial lake. Rows of wooden booths were erected on the lake shore containing the wives and daughters of the emperor’s suite sitting or laying in suggestive poses, a combination of imperial splendor and gross vulgarity particularly suited to the imperial taste.

Crocodiles floated on the surface of the lake, ready to pounce on anyone who should make a false step and fall into the water. For another element in Nero’s favorite amusements was that of danger – to others. Tigellinus knew that Nero would love to see someone tumble off a barge into the waiting jaws of a crocodile, and in any case, it would be fun to see the spectacle of terrified slaves who had to bring the dishes to the barge from their small boats. The reptiles, their appetites whetted by the smell of food, swam after the boats and set them rocking.

The girl dancers who had to perform on narrow ledges running around the barges were pale with terror, and the guests, reclining on couches at their tables, laughed drunkenly at the antics of the slaves and dancers. The laughter rose into a shout of excited merriment when an unhappy girl slipped and fell into the water with a scream. A huge pair of reptilian jaws closed on the white body, and the water was stained red.


The food was rich and greasy. Boat after boat unloaded cargoes of roast white pheasant from remote provinces, huge boiled lobsters holding smaller marine animals in their claws, like shrimp, crays, and starfish. Finally a whole table was transported to Nero’s barge. It contained a pig still in its skin, amid green leaves and miniature bushes. Tiny pigs were laid around the larger animal in sucking poses.

Sabina Poppea half lay and half sat at Nero’s side. She was in an advanced stage of pregnancy and did everything to show it off. Like the animal brought to Caesar’s table, she had her long, heavy breasts uncovered, the nipples painted red to bring out the pallor of her skin. Her brown eyes, cold and motionless, were fixed contemptuously on the distance. Her amber colored hair was woven into thick plaits coiled like a crown on her head. The heavy golden ornaments on her throat, ears, and arms, and the great uplifted curve of her body, suggested the white marble statue of Helen, with whom she identified herself. No muscle quivered on her face. It was as if she, not Nero, were in control of her destiny.

But then Nero lifted up a huge carving knife and slit the belly of the pig, out of which tumbled a mass of tiny sausages, and a sudden flicker of terror passed across Poppea’s eyes. As the guests reached out and grabbed for the delicacies, she had the frightful thought that some day Nero would do to her what he’d done with the pig, plunge a knife into her and scatter her vitals on a table. She shuddered from head to foot.

* * * * *

Afterwards, when the clusters of torches were lighted on the barges and the guests visited the booths on the edge of the lake, Nero remained in the company of his favorites. Tigellinus approached him on bended knee and begged him to sing for the entertainment of the company. Nero categorically refused. His face was clouded again, like when he went through the Suburra earlier.

“No one in Rome loves me,” he exclaimed in a melancholy, womanish voice.

“No one loves you?” cried Tigellinus in horror. “Command me, my Caesar, and at a word I will throw myself to the crocodiles.”

Tigellinus immediately realized he might have just uttered his own death sentence, and all the blood drained from his face.

Fortunately, Nero paid no attention to the offer, much to the disappointment of Petronius. Nero only grimaced sourly with his thick lips, drew down his eyebrows, and let his eyes sink into the surrounding folds of fat.

He said, “If you Romans loved me, you would know what I desire and I wouldn’t have to say it.”

The courtiers looked at each other in bewilderment. They opened and closed their mouths without saying anything, until finally, wrinkling up his eyes even more than before, Nero exclaimed, “Rome stinks!”

The courtiers stared back with consternation. Apparently Nero disliked Rome. They knew what happened to a man Nero disliked. He only had to indicate dislike, had but to lift up his little finger, and a soldier would appear. No instructions were needed. It was enough for Nero to have expressed displeasure. But what in the name of Pluto was to be done if it was Rome that Nero disliked? The courtiers were tongue-tied. Even the quick-witted Petronius was at a loss for words.

Tigellinus was the first to come to.

“Rome would rejoice to go up in flames for your sake, O Caesar. Rome longs to burn for you! Rome will burn for you!”

The fleshy folds retreated from Nero’s face. A spark of triumph lit their watery depths. Nero put his hand heavily on Tigellinus’ shoulder.

“See! This is the only friend I have in Rome!”

This was clearly Tigellinus’ day. He had scored a great victory over his enemies.

Petronius, the craftiest and most gifted of the sycophants, stood off to the side, observing Tigellinus’ triumph. The vicious smile died on his lips. He put on an earnest look, struck a pose, and stretched out his hand to Nero.

“Now I see it! Now I understand! What is Homer’s description of the burning of Troy? For you, O king of poets, the gods have reserved the greatest of all songs of flame. You will be the singer, and Rome, the queen of cities, will by your model!”

Nero rose from his couch, approached Petronius, and kissed him on the mouth.

Petronius shot a triumphant, crooked smile at Tigellinus.