Troy, a melancholy silence hung in the huge banqueting hall. We could not applaud him, for with his lament he had clearly demonstrated that he considered he had been illegally robbed of power. But neither could we laugh, so great was the grief his song had expressed.
Britannicus’ fine voice and successful performance was an unpleasant surprise for Nero, but he hid his feelings and praised Britannicus’ talent with great eloquence. A little later Britannicus left, complaining that he did not feel well. I think he was afraid he might have an attack of epilepsy because of his agitated state. His companions went with him too, and several strictly brought up youths took this opportunity to leave at the same time. With or without cause, Nero interpreted their behavior as a demonstration against him and was furious.
“That song meant civil war,” he cried. “Remember Pompey was only eighteen and the god Augustus only nineteen when they commantled legions in civil wars. You won’t have to wait all that long. But if Rome prefers a bad-tempered epileptic as ruler to me, then I’ll renounce my rule and go to Rhodes. I shall never plunge the State into civil war. It would be better to open one’s veins or take poison than allow such a thing to happen to the fatherland.”
We were frightened by his words, drunk though we were. Several others took their farewells and left. The rest of us praised Nero and tried to explain that Britannicus had no hope against him.
“First joint regent,” said Nero. “That’s what my mother threatens. Then civil war. Who knows what list Britannicus is now ruminating over in his quiet mind. Perhaps you yourselves are all on it.”
The words alone were frightening. Nero was unpleasantly right, even if we did try to laugh and remind him that, as the Saturnalia king, he might jest as cruelly as he pleased. He returned to the games and began to assign outrageous tasks to us. Someone should get hold of one of the Vestal Virgins’ shoes. Senecio was ordered to awaken and bring in the old noblewoman whose assistance had originally helped him to find a firm place on Palatine, despite his lowly origins.
Tiring of these pranks, Nero then decided to try something even more impossible. Many left when he finally cried out, “My laurels to anyone who brings Locusta here.”
The others seemed to know who Locusta was, but I asked in my innocence, “Who is Locusta?”
No one wanted to tell me, but Nero said, “Locusta is a woman who has suffered a great deal and who can cook mushroom dishes for gods.
Perhaps I feel like tasting food for the gods because I’ve been so hideously insulted tonight.”
“Give me your laurels,” I cried, taking no particular notice of his words. “You’ve still not set me a task.”
“Yes,” said Nero. “Yes, Minutus Lausus, my best friend, should be given the most difficult task. Minutus can be our Saturnalia hero.”
“And after us, chaos,” said Otho.
“No, chaos in our own time,” cried Nero. “Why should we leave it untried.”
At that moment the old noblewoman came in, half naked and as drunk as a Bacchaean, strewing myrtle twigs about her, while Senecio hurriedly tried to stop her. This woman knew everything about Rome, so I asked her where I could find Locusta. She was not surprised by my question, but just tittered behind her hand and told me to ask my way to the Coelius district. I left quickly. The city was well lit and I did not have to ask for long before I found myself at Locusta’s little house. When I knocked, the door was opened, to my surprise, by an angry Praetorian guardsman who would not let me in. Not until he saw my narrow red border did he change his tone.
“The woman Locusta is under guard,” he explained, “accused of serious offenses. She may not see or speak to anyone. Because of her, I’ve had to miss all the Saturnalia celebrations.”
I had to rush off as far as the Praetorians’ camp to find his superior, who fortunately turned out to be Julius Pollio, brother to the friend of my youth, Lucius Pollio. He was a tribune now in the Praetorian Guard, and did not oppose the command of the Saturnalian king. On the contrary, he took the opportunity to join the circle around Nero.
“I am responsible for the woman,” he said. “So I’ll have to come with Locusta and keep an eye on her.”
Locusta was not yet an old woman, but her face was like a death mask and one of her legs was so crippled by torture that we had to get a sedan to take her to Palatine. She said absolutely nothing on the way, but just stared straight ahead with a bitter expression on her face. There was something frightening and ominous about her.
Nero had moved into the smaller reception room with his last remaining guests and had sent away all the slaves. To my surprise, Seneca and Burrus had both joined the company in the middle of the night. I don’t know if Nero himself had sent for them, or whether possibly Otho had done so, frightened by Nero’s mood. There was not a trace of the joy of Saturnalia left. Everyone seemed to be avoiding each other’s eyes, some anxiously.
When Seneca caught sight of Locusta, he turned to Nero.
“You are the Emperor,” he said. “The choice is yours. Fate has decided this. But allow me to leave.”
He covered his head with a corner of his mantle and left.
Burrus hesitated.
“Am I to be weaker than my mother?” cried Nero. “Can’t I speak to my mother’s friend and ask her about food for the gods?”
In my innocence, I thought that perhaps Locusta had formerly been one of the cooks in the Palace.
“You are the Emperor,” said Burrus sadly. “You know best what you are doing.”
He too left the company with his head bowed and his wounded arm hanging loosely at his side.
Nero looked about him, his eyes round and protruding.
“Go away, all of you,” he commantled, “and leave me alone with my mother’s dear friend. We have many matters on the art of cooking to discuss.”
I politely showed Julius Pollio into the great empty room and offered him some wine and some of the leftover food.
“What is Locusta accused of?” I asked. “What has she to do with Agrippina?”
Julius looked at me in amazement.
“Don’t you know that Locusta is the most skillful blender of poisons in Rome?” he said. “She would have been sentenced years ago according to lex Julia, but thanks to Agrippina, she has never been prosecuted. After the examination by torture which is usual for poison-blenders, she was just put under house arrest instead. I think she had so much to tell that the interrogators were frightened.”
I was astounded and could say nothing. Julius Pollio winked at me, took a drink and said, “Haven’t you even heard about the mushroom dish which made Claudius into a god? The whole of Rome knows that Nero has the clever cooperation between his mother and Locusta to thank for the fact that he is Emperor.”
“I was traveling in the provinces and didn’t believe all the gossip from Rome,” I exclaimed, thoughts racing through my head. At first I thought Nero wanted some poison to put an end to his life, as he had threatened to do, but then I saw things more clearly.
I thought I understood Seneca’s and Burrus’ presence if it were true that Nero, offended by Britannicus’ defiant behavior, wished to interrogate Locusta himself, perhaps to accuse his mother of poisoning Claudius. If he threatened Agrippina with this, perhaps he could force her into 6ilence, or even, after a secret trial, have her banished from Rome. Certainly he could not accuse his mother publicly. The thought calmed me, for I still could not believe that Agrippina had had Claudius killed. I had, after all, heard about his cancer of the stomach two years before he died.
“I should think it would be best,” I said, after thinking about it all for a moment, “if we both kept our mouths shut about what has happened tonight.”
Julius Pollio laughed.
“That won’t be difficult for me,” he said. “A soldier obeys orders without talk.”