Nero’s Concert
Don Westenhaver
Copyright 2009 by Don Westenhaver
ISBN: 978-1-4415-0109-7
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Prologue – July, 64 AD
Minos was on his knees praying when he smelled the smoke. In Greece he had been a priest, and his evening worship was as natural and necessary as breathing. Here in Rome he was a baker, a slave, and a fugitive, and he shared a one-room apartment with his girlfriend Pati. She was already asleep and he was about to join her on the lumpy mattress. They had fallen in love at an estate on the outskirts of Rome, where they had been household slaves. But the estate’s manager fancied Pati for himself, so he had Minos whipped and ordered him to stay away from the girl. Three months ago, the young lovers had managed to escape from the estate, a crime punishable by death. Now they hid in a tenement in the Subura district of Rome, a swampy area bounded by the Forum, the Viminal Hill and the Oppian Hill. The neighborhood was infested by prostitutes, rats, criminals, and shopkeepers who sold the cheapest products. Tonight, as every night, Minos prayed that he and Pati would not get caught, and that they would make enough money to avoid starvation and pay the rent.
The odor of smoke was stronger now. Another tenant must be cooking nearby, thought Minos. Cooking indoors was strictly against the rules and grounds for eviction. He blessed himself, rose from his knees, and opened the door into the hallway. A swirl of soot immediately blew into their room. He could feel it powder his face. Minos shut the door, ran to his window and looked down. Five floors below was the alley, usually a slimy creek of garbage, trash, piss and shit. But now it was a river of flame, obscuring the first floor apartments on both sides of the alley and licking the second and third floors.
The young man rushed over to Pati and shook her, yelling at her to wake up. He had no doubt that the flames would continue climbing upward, floor by floor, till the entire wooden building collapsed around them. They threw on their cloaks, even though the heat was ferocious. Minos grabbed a small cloth valise of their possessions and slung it over his shoulder. He took Pati’s hand and pulled her out of the apartment and then down the hallway toward the stairway. They leapt down three flights of stairs and then halted as they met a crowd of other tenants milling about, screaming, and covering their noses and mouths with cloths.
The stairs leading down to the second floor had vanished in flames trapping the crowd on the third floor landing. Several bodies lay crumpled below, one of them on fire. Minos and Pati sprinted down the hallway to the other end of the building. There were no stairs here, but a window looked out to the southwest towards the Palatine Hill.
They stared with mouths open. Though the sun had gone down hours ago, the city was brightly lit by fires all the way to the horizon. Dense smoke rose from hundreds of buildings, joining in an immense cloud that traveled sedately toward the Tiber River. They saw people leaping across the tops of buildings. A woman carrying a baby walked carefully along a roof not far from them. As they watched, she slipped and rolled over the edge with a high-pitched scream, still clutching her baby desperately, plunging into the fires way below. The young couple could now distinguish several different odors: the wood in the buildings gave off a tart smell like normal cooking fires, but there were also fragrances from burning straw and cloth, and the unmistakable stench of torched human flesh.
Minos looked around in panic for a way to escape from the tenement. It was hard to concentrate with all the screaming. He looked in the closest bedrooms, now all abandoned, and found thin blankets, which he and Pati tied end to end to form a rope. He knotted one end to a strong wooden beam and then jerked hard on the blankets to ensure they would hold his weight. Finally, he threw them out the window and reached over the sill with one leg.
“I’ll go first, Pati. That way if you start to slip, I can stop you from falling. Don’t be afraid, my love. We will survive this just like we did when we escaped from the estate.”
Minos hung outside the burning building, the heat growing more intense by the minute. He sensed the bottom of the blanket-rope was already on fire. As he dropped lower, Pati dutifully followed him. The updraft from the fire billowed out his tunic and cloak, exposing his bare legs, which began to tingle. He smelled burnt hair, knowing it was from his legs. The smoke made his eyes tear, and it was almost impossible to see and breathe. For a moment he simply held tightly to the blanket, pressing his face into it for protection, afraid to go lower, enveloped by the popping and hissing of burning wood. A nearby wall fell toward him, crashing and bursting, covering him with a shower of sparks. He smelled his clothes begin to smoke.
Pati’s foot grazed his head, prompting him to descend again. Minos slid down a few feet and then howled as his legs reached the part of the blankets that was burning. He instinctively spread his legs out, away from the fiery cloth, but then the flames reached his unprotected groin. Sheer agony slammed a door in his brain and he let go of the blanket-rope, dropping into the fire like the woman and the baby. He had a vague sensation of landing on burning coals and ashes. One of his legs broke, but he did not notice. He looked up, frantic for a glimpse of his beloved Pati, but the flames blocked her from view.
Minos felt pain in every part of his body. He felt like he was boiling in oil like a fish. He breathed in, but there was no air, only the gases of the flames. Pati crashed on top of him. He was blind by now, but he knew it was she and he embraced her gratefully and kissed her on the mouth. His lips felt hers kiss him in return, and he knew she was smiling at him. The heat and lack of air were no longer a problem. They had each other, and they glided into the afterlife.
Chapter 1 – July, 64 AD
Emperor Nero, the Pontifex Maximus, ruler of the known world and every one of its 100 million men, women, and children, stood before the group absolutely naked. His reddish blonde hair was plastered to his forehead and thick neck, and water dripped off his muscular but pale body, forming an expanding puddle on the marble floor next to the massive bathing pool. His right hand gripped a solid gold goblet of wine and his left arm wrapped around a slender maiden no more than 17 years old. In the flickering torch light her body glistened wetly and she stared modestly at the floor.
Rusticus draped a huge towel around his body like a toga, carefully patting himself dry. A few of the scars tattooing his body were still sensitive if rubbed the wrong way, even after ten years. He picked up another towel and threw it at the Emperor, hitting him in the face. Nero laughed, dropped the wine goblet on the floor and wrapped himself in the towel. Then he turned to the girl, kissed her deeply on the lips, patted her ass, and gently shooed her away. Rusticus’s partner for the evening took the hint and gave him a quick hug. Then the two naked girls ran off together.
Nero dried himself and slipped on a tunic. Both men were exhausted from the party. Earlier in the evening the patio and pool had held dozens of guests, men and women, clothed and nude. Wine had flowed freely and servants had carried an endless parade of food through the crowd. Musicians had played throughout the night, including Nero himself, who sang and plucked at his lyre pensively about some boring ode to ancient Greece. The guests had clapped and cheered insanely (as was their duty), begging for encore performances.
But it was now past the middle of the night. The guests had all retired to their rooms, leaving the men and two slave girls alone in the pool for a last drink. Nero was only 27 years old, but Rusticus was 35 and no longer had the same endurance. Ten years ago, they had often partied until the sun arose. I must be getting old, Rusticus thought ruefully, as he said good night to Nero and headed off to his bedroom suite.
Sometime in the early morning hours, after what seemed like five minutes of blessed sleep, Rusticus was awakened by a loud masculine shout. The door crashed open and Nero charged in carrying a flaming torch.
“Rusticus, Rome is on fire! The Palatine Hill is threatened.”
Rome was always bursting into flames, so this was hardly earth-shaking news, but Nero’s main palace, the Domus Transitoria, sat atop the Palatine. Presumably his new wife Poppaea was in the palace at this moment. More importantly, Rusticus thought, his own estate was on the slope of the same hill, and his daughter Julia was there, along with the household staff. He jumped out of bed, his chest suddenly gripped in a vise.
“Sir, we must leave for Rome at once!” He urged Nero. “How did you find out about the fire?” They were at Nero’s seaside palace in Antium, about 30 miles from Rome.
“A messenger just rode up. Do you think I need to be there? I am really worn out and Tigellinus can handle the fire. He used to be in charge of the fire department, after all.”
“I’m going! I am worried about Julia and the servants.” Hopefully the thought of loved ones in danger would persuade Nero to go, not to mention the threat to his excessively opulent palace filled with precious works of art confiscated from all over the Roman Empire.
“Frankly, sir, the most vital reason for you to be in Rome is to show the people that you care enough about their welfare to show your presence. You know how much they admire you, and it would encourage them to see you managing the fight against this disaster.”
Nero trudged off to his rooms without comment. Rusticus’s bodyguard Taurus burst into the room as soon as Nero left.
“Taurus, what time is it? How long before dawn?”
“By the water clock it is almost three, sir. Day break should be about six.”
“Rouse five of our servants and prepare horses for all. We are leaving for Rome immediately. The city is on fire.”
Fortunately the moon was full and the road from Antium to Rome was smooth and straight, pointing directly north. The little team progressed rapidly, the horses’ hooves thundering on the cut stone slabs. The temperature and humidity rose as they galloped away from the coast and soon both men and horses were covered with sweat. Rusticus began to see the outskirts of the capital with the first light of dawn. Already he could smell the smoke, and black ash lightly dusted his tunic.
He prayed to the goddess Diana, the protector of women, to keep Julia safe. The girl was only eight and was probably terrified if the flames were near their estate.
The most direct approach to the Palatine Hill from the south was on the Via Ostiensis. The men stormed down it till they got to the Aventine Hill, but then got bogged down as hundreds of people fleeing the city blocked the road. The Romans made way for the horses, but the horsemen had to be careful not to trample them. Women were pulling little children along, everyone was dirty and crying, many of them suffering from severe burns. He saw one poor woman with half of her hair burned down to the bald skin.
The Palatine Hill was covered with forest, and the whole hillside seemed to be aflame as the men urged their horses up the slope. It looked impassable at first, but Rusticus found a path that wrapped around the west side of the hill where the fire had not yet reached and he led the men to the estate. With a cry he jumped off the exhausted horse and ran through the gate yelling for Julia. The house was deserted and dark, except for the glow of the fire’s reflection.
Rusticus’s servants were also running around, looking for their own families, who lived here as well. Finally they discovered everyone in the bath house. Made of stone and supplied with water, it was possibly the safest place to be in a fire, but Rusticus knew it too had some danger. Many fire victims died not from burns but from lack of air. He found Julia and hugged her closely. Her eyes held fear and her cheeks were streaked with tears.
“I knew you would find me, Father,” she said with a brave little voice.
“You’ll be safe now, Julia. Let’s get you away from here.” He picked her up and sat her on his horse and then climbed on behind her, holding her as he clutched the reins. He organized the staff to gather up as much food and equipment as they could in a few minutes, and then he led the families down the hill away from the fire. They crossed the Tiber River at the Sublicius Bridge and rode to the Vatican Gardens. There the men set up a camp and Rusticus put Taurus in charge. The men would protect Julia and the other women and children, keeping them fed and safe from the fire and from any opportunists that came along. Rusticus mounted a fresh horse and rode back across the Tiber.
Several times groups of desperate men surrounded him to steal his horse. They backed down when they saw the murderous expression on his face and the skill with which he wielded his sword. It took him hours to ride back through all the turmoil to the Palatine. The fire had grown much worse, and the soot in the air clung to his sweaty face. Rusticus tore off a piece of his tunic and wrapped it around his neck to cover his mouth and nose. Hordes of dogs, cats, rats, and squirrels swarmed past his horse toward the river, their terrified cries adding to the bedlam.
Firemen with axes were cutting a path through the forest along the edge of the fire, hoping to prevent its spread across this break. The Tiber River was less than a mile away, and with the nearest aqueduct, water was so close that it could be pumped through leather hoses to the fire. But a wind was intensifying the inferno. It was mid-morning in the middle of summer, and would have been miserably hot even without the fire. He saw firemen with their leather uniforms on fire, pouring water on the trees, the buildings, and themselves. Horse-drawn carts carried more water towards the fire, but the horses had no intention of getting very close.
Now at the base of the Palatine Hill, Rusticus looked toward the summit. Nero’s magnificent Domus Transitoria was still mostly invisible because of the smoke, but shifts in the wind allowed an occasional glimpse. It seemed to be completely engulfed, and he debated whether to even try to reach it. Suddenly he remembered Nero’s tunnel, carved underground from his palace to his private box seats at the Circus Maximus. Perhaps that would be a safe way to reach the palace.
He circled the fire to the south. The Circus was still smoldering, but almost everything flammable was now burnt out. He kicked his horse’s ribs and darted into the tunnel. It was a bit cooler inside, and hundreds of people had crowded inside this refuge, filling it with the stench of smoke, urine, burnt flesh and sweaty bodies, all screaming, crying, swearing, moaning, and praying. He finally had to dismount and lead the horse uphill through the crowd.
At the other end of the tunnel, several guards blocked his way with swords until they recognized him. He asked if the Emperor was there and they pointed mutely across a smoking courtyard. The last time Rusticus was here, this yard had been a manicured green lawn surrounded by colorfully frescoed buildings. Flowers brightened the perimeter, and a three-layer fountain tinkled with fluorescent water. Strolling musicians had entertained the guests and waitresses offered all manner of delicacies. Now all he saw was a blackened fountain, burnt grass, ruined buildings, and five men who turned toward him as he came forward.
Nero smiled grimly at him and said, “Ah, Rusticus, there you are! We were just discussing a plan of attack.”
“Your excellency, I was in the Vatican Gardens setting up temporary shelter for my household. I’m sure you have thought of it, but that’s probably the safest place to put those who have been burnt out of their homes.”
“Yes, that is part of the plan, and not just the other side of the Tiber, but also the Field of Mars. That old army camp has a lot of empty buildings and it appears the fire will not make it that far. I have ordered one century to shepherd the homeless into the shelters, another century to get them food and water, and a third to keep order in the refugee camps.” Rusticus nodded. A century was a military unit of 100 soldiers.
“We have to put this terrible fire out! Naturally every available fireman is already in that effort, but we are adding the army as well. Have you seen Tigellinus?”
“No sir. I thought he would be at your side, directing the fire-fighting.”
“Well, he’ll turn up. I sent some men out to find him. You and I will run it for now.”
Nero turned away and looked at his beloved palace, and his friend thought he saw his eyes glistening with loss. “Do you think I could rebuild it?”
He thought of his own estate, just down the hill a bit. They were both in the same boat. So much money had gone into both homes – much more into Nero’s of course – but now the estates were both worthless. He looked Nero in the eyes and merely shook his head.
Chapter 2 – July, 64 AD
Nero and Rusticus climbed to the highest part of the palace’s smoldering ruins and looked out over the city. From this elevation the path of the fire was clear. Where the fire had begun was now simply charred and smoking. There the flames were gone, nothing flammable left, but a wider expanse of the city was now fully engulfed. The boundary of the fire was easy to define from here. The inferno was now approaching the Temples of Saturn and Jupiter on the west and the Temples of Isis and Serapis on the east. In the heart of the city, the ancient Forum was resisting the fire, since it was mainly built of stone.
“The Fire Brigade includes 7 cohorts, a total of 7,000 men. Each cohort is responsible for two districts,” Nero said as he shaded his eyes against the mid-day sun with his hand. “Many of them may be dead or wounded or occupied with saving their own families. But hopefully most of them have reported for duty at their district offices. I have already sent runners to these offices to find out what is going on and report back to us. In addition, we have 2,000 soldiers available.”
“So how can we manage all these people to make sure they are sent where most needed?”
“The normal procedure is mutual support. Each cohort protects its own area. If their area is not threatened, then their firemen move to a district that needs help. So the management kind of takes care of itself. As for the soldiers, though, we need to allocate them. They were ordered to stage themselves down there on the near side of the Tiber.”
Rusticus watched the fire’s boundary pulsate like a living organism. It reminded him of a human heart. Once in the arena, he had sliced open an opponent’s chest and the poor guy’s heart had come out, still attached and still beating. The dying man had fallen over onto his back and Rusticus had stared at the organ, so stunned he just stood there as the crowd screamed at him to finish the man off. The man’s eyes closed, he stopped twitching, and he no longer breathed, yet the heart refused to die. Finally Rusticus swung his sword and cut the heart in half. Blood sprayed him like the juice of a squashed melon, and the heart finally stopped.
Nero was looking at him. “What are you thinking, Rusticus?”
The former gladiator brought himself back to the present. A different problem, but the same life and death urgency.
“Could we have the soldiers surround the fire?” Rusticus swung his arm to trace the boundary. “Their job would be to prevent it from spreading, while the regular firemen would be inside the boundary to put out the fire and rescue the people.”
“Excellent! Let’s go meet up with the army and direct them!”
The two men jumped on horses, followed by several staff, and they raced west for half a mile to the Tiber. There they split the army into two cohorts, sending one to surround the fire on the north side, while the Emperor’s team led the other to defend the southern side.
Nero was more dynamic than Rusticus had ever seen him. The young man had never spent a day in military service, and in fact had never been very interested in military affairs, yet here he was charging through the city’s streets at the head of a thousand battle-hardened soldiers, leaping through flaming debris on his horse. Nero took enormous pride in his clothing, hairstyle, and makeup, and loved having his slaves fuss over his appearance. But now he was blackened with soot from head to toe, his hair flattened against his head with sweat, and the hairs on his arms and legs melted away. And smiling like a kid eating a pastry!
They came to an alley, which led into a tightly packed compound of tenements. Rusticus could see dozens of men, women and children huddled together, surrounded by roaring flames. His vision was a bit obscured by smoke, and the intense heat waves made them look blurry, but he saw their shocked and terrified expressions and heard their hideous screams as they waited to die horrible deaths. He could think of no way to save them – fallen timbers and a solid sheet of fire blocked the entrance to the alley. Nero looked around for water hoses, but there were none in sight. He yelled for the soldiers to use grappling hooks to drag the timbers to the side. This motion merely collapsed other timbers that replaced the ones removed. Huge clouds of sparks exploded with a roaring blast, forcing the soldiers further away.
Nero, not the least discouraged, exhorted the men to try again. They threw the hooks back in and pulled the timbers again. This caused more explosions and collapses, but less forceful this time.
“Once more!” he roared, and this time a hole was opened. Nero whirled his horse and charged through the hole into the tenement compound. Rusticus and a few other men followed their leader as burning embers rained down on their heads from the upper stories. They gathered up the injured and the children first, carrying some on the horses and assisting others on foot. Then Nero led the soldiers back down the alley of Hades three more times to rescue the rest of the people.
By the time Nero and Rusticus led the southern cohort to the eastern edge of the fire and met up with the northern cohort, completing the surrounding tactic, the sun had long since set. They took a break for a simple meal, and then saddled up again to ride through the city, coordinating the fire fighting, reallocating forces, and encouraging the men. Refugees continued pouring out of the city, heading west to the river. Despite the efforts of the firefighters and the army to contain the blaze, the fire continued to grow and the boundaries expanded, house after house and block after block. People who had escaped the fire rested in relief, only to find the fire at their heels again, and they ran away in panic. The fire was like a pack of wolves – no matter how hard you ran and how many turns you made, it tracked you down.
They saw a significant minority of residents that gave up the fight. Some had lost their families and possessions, some were simply too tired to run any further. An old man and woman huddled together in the doorway of what was left of their apartment building. A blanket covering them was starting to smoke; yet they simply sat there with heads hung low. A young woman holding a dead child knelt in front of a shrine to Fortuna, the goddess of luck and fate, as others streamed past her to safety. A man in an expensive toga had piled up his earthly treasures into a pyramid and was guarding them against looters as the fire began to surround him.
Rome was filled with immigrants from other countries who did not speak Latin or even Greek and did not know the city’s maze of streets. They did not understand the directions of the firefighters, wandered around the chaotic streets haphazardly, their lack of understanding quickly turning to terror.
Rusticus lost track of time. The horses wore out before the men did and were replaced. The sun arose and they ate again, this time without even dismounting. The men wore bandanas around their noses and mouths to keep out the soot. They grabbed fire hoses and drenched their bodies to cool down. Nero never left his position at the head of the team, the Emperor continuously risking his life to rescue hundreds of ordinary citizens and even slaves.
They circled the fire’s edges three times that second day, saving lives and coordinating the local captains. Several times Nero ordered dozens of men to pull down an unburnt section of buildings to create a firebreak. But the sparks often leapt across the break, defeating the effort. That second night even Nero was too tired to go on. He led Rusticus and the others to one of his auxiliary palaces, on the Esquiline Hill on the eastern perimeter of the city. With the Domus Transitoria destroyed, this had become the disaster headquarters. There the men cleaned up in the baths, changed clothes, ate a huge meal, drank gallons of wine, and then slept for six hours before heading out again.
By the fourth day, the fire had stopped expanding, slowed by thousands of firefighters, the river, the seven hills of Rome, a calming in the wind, and large firebreaks. Over the next two days, normal firefighting efforts quenched the hundreds of dying fires throughout the city. Nero and Rusticus toured the refugee camps that now surrounded Rome on all sides. The people were starving, injured, filthy, and demoralized. Government ministries were gradually getting them new clothing, medical treatment and food, but Nero accelerated the food distribution by ordering an army troop to open the imperial granary and distribute a week’s portion of grain to every man, woman, and child.
Everywhere the two men rode, the people besieged them with questions. They were desperate for not just food, water, and medical care, but all sorts of information about loved ones, government help, rebuilding plans, the cause of the fire, and which parts of Rome would still be inhabitable. As they rode through the Forum, Nero turned to Rusticus. A large crowd surrounded them on all sides, but guards kept them at a distance.
“They keep asking us the same questions. I have always been proud about our communications program, but it seems to have disappeared in the fire.”
“You mean the Government Information Platforms, one for each of the city’s 14 districts?” asked Rusticus.
“Yes, one of the ways to keep the rabble happy – besides giving them bread and gladiator shows – is to keep them well-informed. If a government doesn’t let you know what is going on and why, you will tend to be suspicious. Rumors float around, getting more ridiculous with each telling. So every morning we made sure our 14 spokesmen stood up and spread the news – whether it be a battle in England, a new tax, an upcoming concert, a new senator, whatever.”
“Good point, sir. We need to start the daily news up again. The people need it now more than ever!”
“Exactly! I’ll get Tigellinus to assign someone to set it up. Didn’t there used to be one here in the Forum?”
Most of the buildings in the Forum, made of marble, had survived the fire. Rusticus pointed toward the Temple of Jupiter.
“The Rostrum was right over there. Let’s see what shape it’s in.”
They rode over to it and found that the platform was still intact, though now black with soot and covered with wind-blown debris.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Nero with a smile. “We’ll get it cleaned up and post a man here tomorrow morning. “
So much for planning, thought Rusticus the next morning. The city awoke not to a news program but to a new fire. Just before going to bed in his new house last night he had looked out over the city to see it finally dark. On each of the previous nights he had seen hundreds of fires all over Rome, and each night the glow diminished. Now it was dark enough to once again see the stars. He thought he should offer some sacrifice to thank the gods, but he had no favorite god, and anyway, it was the gods that started the fire and men that snuffed it out. The gods did not deserve to be thanked!
But in the early morning light he now saw flames leaping all over the western side of the Esquiline, and a terrific plume of smoke rising straight up in the hot still morning air. By the time he got to Nero’s new palace, the place was crawling with men. He worked his way inside the palace, where he found Nero in the middle of his senior staff giving orders calmly, despite the general air of bedlam and the fact that this second fire was so close you could almost feel its heat.
There was Tigellinus, calm and as eager as a puppy in Nero’s presence, absorbing his master’s words like a cat lapping up milk. He saluted Nero and rushed off, no doubt to rally his firefighters again.
It took three more days to get the second fire out. Rusticus spent the time in the Finance ministry offices, assessing how to pay for the enormous expense of the fires – extra food, shelter, clothing, medical care, and equipment. On the first evening of this second fire, Nero came calling. He sat on the edge of Rusticus’s desk, full of energy, looking almost exhilarated.
“They are so desperate!” the Emperor exclaimed to Rusticus. So many have escaped death in the fire only to decide to kill themselves in the camps. We have to do something to cheer them up.”
Here on the east side of Esquiline Hill they had a great view of the Gardens of Maecenas, miraculously untouched by the fire and now crammed with at least fifty thousand refugees. He stared at the tower in the middle, visible to every point in the Gardens. Rusticus saw the expression on Nero’s face and groaned inwardly, reading his friend’s thoughts.
“It’s perfect!” said Nero. “I’ll sing to the poor people from the tower.”
Rusticus diplomatically tried to argue him out of this plan. “Sir, how will they hear you from up there on the tower? The fire is still roaring to the west of us. And do you think a concert will alleviate the sadness of a man who is mourning the loss of his children?”
Rusticus immediately regretted his words. Nero’s only child had died last year, only a few months old. The Emperor’s expression changed from giddy joy to bitter sorrow so abruptly that it was like watching an actor switch masks. He turned without a word and left the room.
When he returned, Rusticus gasped. The Emperor was wearing an effeminately styled brightly colored tunic. His face was pasty with theatrical makeup, and he held a lyre. He stood before Rusticus, caressed the instrument’s strings lasciviously, and sang out in a loud voice: “I sing the tale of ancient Troy!”
With that declaration, Nero scampered off. It took an hour for the guards to get the attention of the refugees until finally they were all watching the tower and grumbling. The sun had set, and the fire’s eerie red glow painted the tower. The top of the tower was still dark, but then someone lit 12 large oil lamps so that the “stage” was a small echo of the inferno that had plagued the city for over a week. This silenced the crowds, and Nero picked exactly that dramatic moment to appear in the middle of the 12 burning lamps.
He then commenced an epic poem, accompanied by the lyre, that dragged on for the better part of two hours. Nero loved all things Greek, and his story was an original creation, though heavily drawn from actual history. He laced the tale with unsubtle references about how to cope with misfortunes such as the current disaster. He came close to thanking the gods for presenting Rome’s citizens with such a dramatic opportunity to prove themselves virtuous. This did not go over well with the miserable crowd.
What Rusticus, and almost everyone but Nero himself, realized, was that most of the people blamed Nero for the fire. Some thought the Emperor actually ordered the city torched. But many more saw an indirect link. Disasters were usually punishment by one or more gods for someone’s sins. An immense disaster had to be due to the equally immense sins of an important person. And while the moral tone of Rome during the Empire was incredibly lax compared to the ”good old days” of the Roman Republic, thought its superstitious citizens, Nero’s sins were beyond normal human experience.
He was suspected to have killed his mother, his brother, and his first wife. He liked to dress up as a woman. He preferred singing and dancing to making war. Just recently he had dressed in animal fur and cavorted around the stage making noises and biting other actors. And now, in the midst of the worst disaster in the 800 years since the founding of Rome, here was Nero playing his lyre, singing and smiling as the flames of the city flickered on his painted face!
Rusticus had been a close friend to the young Emperor for ten years. He knew the man had great faults, but he was certainly no worse than his predecessors.
Like most Romans, Rusticus was disgusted with emperors in general. Perhaps only a vicious antisocial egomaniac was capable of forcing himself to the top, and once there, ensuring his continuity by killing all potential rivals. Of course this threat to those near the top ensured that the rivals would do all they could to assassinate the emperor, creating a self-fulfilling prophecy.
A century ago, Julius Caesar had changed the course of Roman civilization by beginning the shift from Republic to Empire. He made himself dictator, grabbing authority from the senate, and was promptly assassinated. Dictators like to be succeeded by their sons. Caesar had no children, but his niece Atia had a bright young son named Octavius. Caesar adopted him and basically bequeathed the empire to him. It took another 13 years for Octavius to kill off his rivals and emerge as the Emperor Augustus. With that the transition from Republic to empire was complete.
Rusticus believed that the job of an emperor was to improve the living conditions of his people. It was that simple. Of course accomplishing that simple task required many efforts: provision of more and better quality food, creating jobs, securing the borders, aiding the sick, and protecting the weak. Nothing was more important than establishing the correct balance between the rule of law which created order, and personal freedom, which created chaos. His reading of history told him that while both Julius Caesar and Augustus may have killed many people in achieving their objectives, the end result was a more civilized nation and probably better living conditions for Rome’s citizens, though not necessarily for all of the empire’s inhabitants.
But Augustus could find no one suitable to groom as successor. His daughter Julia had produced three sons but one had to be exiled for bad behavior, and the other two died before their grandfather. The Emperor also had two stepsons. One of them died, leaving Tiberius, and the job fell to him by default. Rumor had it that the rivals of Tiberius died young as a result of foul play. In any case, the 23 years of Tiberius’ reign were marked by tax increases, lack of social spending, and a consequent vast growth in the imperial treasury. Rusticus had heard the man was completely paranoid, suspecting threats at every turn and assassinating imagined enemies. When he finally died at the ripe old age of 79, the city celebrated and there were proposals to dump his body into the Tiber River.
In a repeat of Augustus’ dilemma of having no one but Tiberius to leave the empire to but Tiberius, Tiberius himself was sad that he had only his nephew Caligula, whom he called a viper. In Rusticus’s opinion, Caligula was one of the cruelest rulers in Roman history and may have actually been insane.
Caligula had set the standard for cruelty. Like Nero, he reigned at a young age, becoming emperor when only 25. Fortunately he only survived for four years, being assassinated at age 29. But during those four years he demonstrated a vast capacity for torture. He liked to count how many small cuts an enemy could endure before dying. He murdered children in front of their parents. He gave the impression that he hated not just his rivals but the entire Roman people as a race.
Caligula also delighted in psychological cruelty. One of his games was to hold a beauty contest for his dinner guests, with their wives as the contestants. In front of everyone, Caligula carefully examined each wife in turn, selected one for a bedmate and took her off to a private room while everyone else tried to eat dinner. When he and the poor woman returned, Caligula treated the guests to a candid description of her physical features and an appraisal of her sexual performance. In the last year of his reign, Caligula went off the deep end. He announced that he had transformed from a human to a god, withdrew from public view, and spent his days communing with the divine world.
In his four years as Emperor, Caligula also managed to squander most of the Imperial Treasury that Tiberius had saved for 20 years, estimated at 27 million pieces of gold.
After Caligula mercifully died, another nephew of Tiberius took over. Tiberius had apparently preferred the Viper to this other man, Claudius, so the Romans cringed. Physically, Claudius looked like an idiot, drooling, slobbering, and stammering. He sported big ears like a jug of wine and he trembled a lot and limped as he walked. In fact, though, these were signs of a physical handicap, not a mental one.
Rusticus had never met Claudius, but his old friend Seneca had known the Emperor very well, and he said that the man was actually quite intelligent. Like his predecessors, Claudius executed anybody in his way, including a large group of senators. Perhaps embarrassed by his personal appearance, he preferred to hide in his study devoted to writing and research rather than participate in the affairs of state. Claudius married Nero’s mother and then adopted the boy, who took over when Claudius died.
One day Seneca had shown Rusticus a chart that listed the full names of the Emperors:
Gaius Julius Caesar
Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus
Tiberius Claudius Nero Caesar
Gaius Julius Caesar Germanicus (Caligula)
Tiberius Claudius Drusus
Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus
“The names signify how incestuous this dynasty has been,” said Seneca. “Most of the marriages are between people in the same bloodline. They marry cousins, nephews, etc. They divorce one relative and marry the ex-wife of another relative. Each member of the tribe is related to Julius Caesar, often on both his father and his mother’s side.
“Our friend Nero? His mother is not only the mother of an emperor, but the fourth wife of Claudius, the sister of Caligula, and the granddaughter of Tiberius. Nero’s paternal grandmother was the daughter of Octavia and Mark Antony. Octavia, of course, was the sister of Augustus. It’s enough to make your head spin.”
Given the public images of his three immediate predecessors, Rusticus thought Nero was a god-like figure. But sometimes he insisted on making an ass of himself in public. Rusticus’s official title was “rationibus”, i.e.: Finance Minister and the Emperor’s Secretary. But in fact, he felt his main responsibility was keeping Nero out of trouble by being his chief advisor and front man with the Senate. Rusticus shook his head as he walked back to his suite of rooms for the evening. Keeping Nero out of trouble was almost impossible, but he had not yet given up. The ruler was only in his twenties – perhaps he would mature with age. Assuming the cutthroat Roman politics allowed him to age!
Chapter 3 – August, 64 AD
Nero’s public relations team had been back in business for a week now, with one spokesman at a specific location at a specific time (more or less) in each of the city’s 14 regions. Announced with considerable fanfare as the Government Information Program, it quickly became known simply as the Daily News. Some days there was virtually nothing new to report, but the spokesmen repeated previous messages, changing emphasis and giving updates. The Romans came to rely on the Daily News, and as Nero predicted, it improved morale. Of course most citizens did not attend every day, but they heard the news through second- and third-hand reports.
Today’s agenda was typical, thought Rusticus as he stood anonymously in the crowded intersection near the Forum in region 8. He heard about the refugee camps now in full operation on the outer edges of the city. Free medical care, food, and shelter were all being provided, courtesy of the Emperor. There was still a shortage of grain, the primary food of the masses, but ships were arriving daily from Egypt and other provinces, and large wagons were flowing in from the rest of the Italian peninsula. Water was abundant, thanks to the aqueducts, which had survived the fire. A steady parade of horses and oxen dragged the huge mountains of fire debris down into the city’s marshes, which were unusable anyway. For centuries, these lowlands had been stinking breeders of mosquitoes, and were suspected of mysteriously causing diseases.
Rusticus knew all this because of the meetings he had attended with Nero’s other advisers in the last few days. But the first such meeting had been a waste of time. When they gathered in the room, they had all assumed the agenda was to discuss how to rebuild the city. Then Nero walked in holding a bunch of musical instruments called water organs. For two hours he showed the group each organ in turn, recounting the advantages and disadvantages of them. Finally he presented the last organ, one that he had invented, and demonstrated how it was better than all the others. The advisors looked at each other, unsure what to say. Rusticus had broken the silence, praising Nero for his astounding musical breakthrough, and then asking him if they could change subjects and discuss the reconstruction of the city. Nero simply asked the men to submit their recommendations to him the next day, and the meeting was adjourned. Fortunately the subsequent meetings had been more productive.
“The divine Emperor wishes to thank all of you who attended his concert last week,” continued the spokesman. Rusticus came to attention. It would have been wiser for Nero to ignore the unfortunate performance, not remind the people about it!
“The intent of the concert was to entertain you and encourage you to cope with the horrible disaster of the fire by showing you that other people in other times have also suffered greatly. They managed to recover, and you will also. We think the vast majority interpreted the concert in that light. However, apparently a few citizens complained that a musical concert was frivolous in the midst of such a calamity. We are sorry if you misunderstood.”
Rusticus looked around to see the reaction to this ridiculous announcement. Many were grinning cynically, some yelling out curses, covering their mouths to avoid detection. One brave soul amused his buddies by pretending to play a lyre, one hand on the instrument and another plucking the strings, accompanying this pantomime with an overly contemplative expression on his face. The audience’s general response could be summed up in one word, thought Rusticus: “bullshit”.
The spokesman continued unfazed, informing them that many questions have been raised about the cause of the fire. He said that an investigation was in progress, but admitted that no answers had yet been found. At this point it could have been merely an accidental fire.
Nero seemed oblivious to his tarnished image. Most men, thought Rusticus, would have had the sense to stay out of sight for awhile. But his friend loved public performances more than anything. The most magnificent public spectacle was a Triumph, so two days later, Nero staged one.
For centuries, generals returning from a war would parade through the streets of the capital to celebrate victory. These affairs had to be approved by a vote of the people and the Senate, and there were strict conditions: the status of the general, the number of enemies killed, and the finality of the victory. Unlike holidays, which Romans celebrated 100 times a year, a Triumph might only be held every few years. It was a big deal.
The parade might last all day or even stretch over a couple days. Temporary bleachers were erected for spectators. Temples and carriages were decorated with flowers and streamers. The audiences along the parade route and the marchers themselves wore their best clothes. Music filled the air, and there was a strong religious overtone, with prayers of thanksgiving, incense, and sacrifices to the gods. The Triumph highlighted the spoils of war, namely all the captured prisoners and the booty. The Romans were especially thrilled to see the defeated enemy general, now humiliated and subservient, along with his wounded men. They cheered at the hordes of new slaves dragged in from a foreign country by the Roman army. The losing country’s men, women, and children added to the city’s workforce, freeing up Roman citizens for more leisure time.
Because the Triumphs were specifically for military victories, Rusticus and his colleagues in the Senate were appalled at Nero’s announcement to hold a Triumph to celebrate his victory over the fire. Having tried in vain to argue Nero out of the musical extravaganza, Rusticus left it to others to try to dissuade the Emperor about the Triumph. Many did, as tactfully as possible. The “enemy” was not a foreign country, there were no spoils of war, no captured slaves, and it was not a military action, they maintained. But Nero’s mind was made up.
Rusticus gave the Emperor credit for at least being reasonable about the cost of the spectacle. It was still quite impressive, but not as flamboyant as those in the years 58 and 62, both of which he had attended. The parade route was shorter, stretching only from the Field of Mars to the Esquiline Hill and then to the Forum. By staying in the northern section of the city, the parade stayed clear of the depressing scenes of the most burnt out districts. The number of marchers was reduced since there were no enemies to humiliate. No grandstands were built, there being a shortage of wood. But the temples were decorated, the prayers were offered and two white oxen were slaughtered in sacrifice. The costumes were rich, bright, and cheerful, and the audience clapped and yelled in appreciation.
Nero led the Triumph in his gold plated chariot, with his wife Poppaea at his side. The Emperor handled the reins himself, guiding four magnificent identical horses through the streets. He wore a purple robe and a golden wreath, and Poppaea looked like a goddess in an emerald dress made of pure silk. Her blond hair was piled on her head, so elaborate that it must have taken her servants hours to sculpt. The royal couple smiled and waved at the crowds. Directly behind them followed Rusticus and Tigellinus on horseback, giving them a clear and annoying view of the huge cloth penis hanging from Nero’s chariot, a good luck symbol.
Next in line were most of the Senators, marching in a rough formation, all wearing white togas bordered with broad purple stripes. Troops of equestrians followed, and then hundreds of firefighters, perspiring in their protective leather uniforms, and carrying the tools of their trade: axes, hoses, buckets, and grappling hooks.
The Triumph was over by late afternoon, none too soon for Rusticus, who had little patience for long-winded prayers, forced smiles, meaningful gestures, and slow-paced horsemanship. It felt good to sit down for dinner afterwards at a banquet with Nero, Poppaea, Tigellinus, and a handful of others in the inner circle. When dinner was finished, Rusticus made his way to a spacious balcony for some fresh air. Nero practically bounced over to him, buoyant from the public adulation, as excited as a little boy with his first puppy.
“Rusticus, wasn’t that the most wonderful Triumph! I think the people really enjoyed the opportunity to show their appreciation for the work of the firefighters in saving the city.”
“Yes sir. Today’s event was certainly organized, especially given the short notice.” The tepid comment was the best Rusticus could do. He didn’t want to burst Nero’s bubble, but the applause of the people meant nothing to him. He knew that rich and poor alike felt it was their civic duty to clap, and that not appearing supportive might be interpreted as having treasonous thoughts. Contrary to certain Greek philosophers, you could force someone to love and respect you, or at least act as if they did.
“I want you to investigate who started this terrible fire, Rusticus. We owe it to the people to explain what happened. Obviously this has to be done carefully and tactfully by someone that I trust and that the people trust. You have a reputation of being fair and objective and incorruptible.”
“I would be honored to investigate it. Thanks for your confidence in me.”
“Can you look into it and still do your regular duties?”
“I’m sure that I can. I’ll get my friend Taurus to assist me.”
“Excellent! Report your progress only to me of course. Others will pressure you for answers, but speculations and isolated discoveries would only add to the constant rumors.”
“I agree completely,” replied Rusticus, though he knew Nero well enough to anticipate the Emperor “editing” his report before it went public. Nonetheless, he was excited about the project, which would give him an excuse to get out of the office routine.
“I’ll start tomorrow,” he continued. “Thanks for the dinner, sir. Now, with your permission, I would like to go home so I can say goodnight to my daughter before she falls asleep.”
Chapter 4 – August, 64 AD
Anna pulled off her gloves and wiped the back of her hand against her forehead, leaving a large smear of black ash amid the sweat. She looked at her hands in disgust. The ash and dirt were everywhere – in the air, on the ground, on the workers, and on the corpses.
She’d organized the corpses and body parts neatly in three rows – separating men, women, and children. The plot of ground that had been cleared for her use was almost filled with today’s bodies, at least 100 so far, and it was only mid-afternoon. Clouds of buzzing flies hovered over the dead, and the stench was overwhelming, even through the kerchief covering her mouth and nose. At the end of the day, slaves would drag all the bodies over to wooden pyres, throw as many as would fit onto the pyres, and set fire to them.
All day long a parade of people had walked past Anna’s exhibit, looking for friends and relatives. Occasionally someone would recognize a body with a scream or a moan, and Anna would add a name to her list and ask the person if they wanted to claim the corpse. More frequently, a passerby would tentatively approach, study a body, and walk away – a false alarm. Anna knew they had mixed emotions: happy the deceased was a stranger, but sad that their loved one was still missing.
Slaves carried in another batch of mangled bodies on blood-drenched wooden litters and dumped them casually at the end of Anna’s three rows. She put her gloves back on and began arranging the newcomers more neatly, men, women, and kids, so that each lay on his or her back with feet together and arms straightened along the torso. Sometimes when she was pulling them into position, an arm or a leg would come loose like on an overcooked chicken. Numb after three days of this hellish job, Anna pushed the limbs back into place. The stench grew worse each day, but the horror was decreasing.
Her customers were mostly naked. Clothing not burned off by the fire had been stolen by looters or fallen off along the way. Anna attempted to restore dignity to the deceased by draping their midsections with whatever cloth was available.
She came to a man with the face of a boy. Which row to put him in? She peered down to look more closely. He had gray hair on his chest and scalp but had the cheeks of a baby – not even the peach fuzz of an adolescent. She took off a glove and cupped his chin with her palm. It was as smooth as plaster. The whole face slipped a bit sideways and Anna jumped back in shock.
It was a mask! She pulled it all the way off, solving the boy-man mystery. The dead person was an old man. But there was a new mystery. Why was he wearing a mask? Someone had gone to a lot of effort to fashion it. It was similar to a funeral mask, made of wax and tinted to match the skin color of the old guy, with the lips just a shade more pink. The eyes were closed, avoiding the challenge of making eyeholes look realistic. It even had life-like eyebrows and lashes. Anna turned the mask over. The craftsmanship was superb. The old man’s big nose was leaning a bit to the side like it had been broken years before, and the mask reflected the same nose.
Anna ran after the litter bearers and asked them where they had found the latest batch of bodies. One of them mentioned a particular district and remembered it was a bit odd. They’d found the dead man sitting down, propped against a column in the market. It was out in the open in an area that had been cleared of corpses the previous day.
Probably most slaves would have simply shrugged and returned to work, but Anna had been born a very curious child and was now a very curious 22-year-old woman. Her mistress, Camilia, would not get angry if she left her post to report this strange affair. She ran back to the bodies and pulled Masked Man out of the row and off to the side. Then she grabbed the mask and jogged to the nurses’ station.
She found Camilia up to her elbows in blood. There must have been 30 patients under the canopy, lined up in rows of cots, reminding Anna of her own rows, but these bodies were alive, at least for the time being. These made a lot of noise, shocking after the mute gallery she tended all day.
She knew Camilia’s three rows were not men, women and children but rather those too injured to survive, those who would survive without attention, and those who would die if not attended. Camilia and another nurse were working on the last group of people. Camilia’s current patient was a badly burnt man about Anna’s age, and she was wrapping the burns with long strips of cloth and sprinkling some sort of powder on the burns as she progressed down the body. A third nurse was comforting the other patients, going up and down the rows offering water, adjusting blankets, making consoling sounds, and offering small amounts of wine and poppy juice to help with the pain.
Camilia noticed Anna approaching and looked at her questioningly.
“Mistress Camilia, one of my corpses is wearing a mask!” She held it up.
“What is this, a joke?”
“No. An old man had this stuck to his face.”
“Well, that certainly is bizarre, but so what?” Camilia looked back down and resumed bandaging the burn victim.
“There’s more to it. He was found sitting upright in an area that had already been cleared.”
Camilia was exhausted, having worked from sunup to sundown, a long day in the height of summer, for the week since the fire was put out. She needed a break and it would only take a few minutes to see the masked man. She took the mask from Anna and inspected it closely.