Empire - Saylor Steven (книги без сокращений TXT) 📗

“It’s true,” said Seneca. He had grown a beard in exile and kept it on his return; it made him look more like a philosopher than a senator. “Poetry gives consolation to the powerful-”

“While philosophy gives consolation to the powerless?” said Titus.

Seneca smiled. “Greeting, Titus Pinarius. Though I suppose I should address you as Senator Pinarius now.”

“Or address him as augur; that’s Pinarius’s special calling, and the one he performed today was splendid,” said Agrippina. “But you must excuse me while I attend to another matter. There’s to be an entertainment later, and I’m told the flute player and the dancing girl have both gone missing.”

Titus watched her leave, then turned to Seneca and his wife. “Speaking of entertainment, is it true that Nero will be singing a song which he composed especially for the occasion?”

“Of course not!” Seneca made a face. “Nero composed a song, to be sure; it’s a meditation on the virtues of his great-great-grandfather, the Divine Augustus, entirely appropriate for the occasion. But the song will be sung by a young freedman, a trained performer.”

“Is Nero a poor singer, then?”

Seneca and his young wife exchanged glances. He had married Paulina when she was very young and she had shared the years of his exile. Having no other student at hand, it was said that Seneca had taught his wife philosophy. Despite her youth, Paulina was probably the best-educated woman in Roma.

“Nero’s voice is not… unpleasant,” said Paulina. She was evidently being generous.

“But his talent as a singer is irrelevant,” added Seneca. “It would never do for a son of the emperor to perform as a mere actor before an audience. The very idea is vulgar.”

“Then I suppose I shall never have the pleasure of hearing Nero sing,” said Titus. “Still, I’ll look forward to hearing his composition. When it comes to writing, he certainly couldn’t ask for a better teacher than you. I was present at the recent gathering where your play about Oedipus was read aloud. Such powerful language! Such unforgettable images!”

“Thank you, Senator Pinarius.” Seneca beamed. “Nero also appreciated that play. His tastes are quite sophisticated. But he still requires instruction in matters of… propriety. The boy wanted to recite the role of Oedipus, if you can imagine that. The son of an emperor, playing the role of an incestuous parricide! I’ve tried to explain to him that emperors simply cannot be actors, yet he still talks about taking a part in the new play I’m working on, about Thyestes. I hope to have it ready for a recitation during the upcoming festivities attending Nero’s election to the consulship.”

“Doesn’t a consul have to be at least twenty years old?”

“Yes, but there is no law that says a man cannot be elected at fourteen and enjoy the privileges of a consul-elect until he reaches the age of twenty. I’m sure we can count on your vote to ratify his selection, Senator Pinarius?”

Titus nodded, acquiescing to this slippery bit of constitutional logic. Seneca was a politician after all, not just a philosopher.

“Anyway,” Seneca went on, “during the play to celebrate his election, I can assure you the consul-elect will be in the audience, not on the stage.”

Titus nodded. “A play about Thyestes, you say? Wasn’t he the Greek king tricked into eating his own sons?”

Seneca was about to bite into a pastry, but lowered the delicacy from his lips. “Yes. Thyestes’ brother, King Atreus, baked the boys in a pie, fed them to their unsuspecting father, then showed their heads to poor Thyestes. But Thyestes exacted a terrible revenge.”

“As they always do in these Greek tales,” added his wife. Paulina gave Titus a quizzical look. “Thyestes and Atreus were twins, they say. You have a twin brother, don’t you, Senator Pinarius?”

Titus frowned. After a long spell of not thinking about Kaeso, twice within an hour his brother had been called to his mind. He changed the subject back to Seneca’s work. “Oedipus and Thyestes – such grim stories.”

“I draw inspiration from the old Greek playwrights, especially Euripides. Despite the antiquity of his subject matter, his outlook is remarkably modern; the darkness and violence of his stories resonate with present-day Romans. Then there is my own experience of life, which has not been without tribulation. I was forced into a premature retirement by Caligula, thanks to his insane suspicions. I was brought back to favour by Claudius, and then sent into exile again for eight years, thanks to Messalina’s scheming. Now I’m back again, thanks to Agrippina, and I’ve been welcomed in the very heart of the imperial household. Agrippina is my deus ex machina, my Athena appearing at the last moment in the play, descending from the sky to restore harmony to the cosmos.”

“The empress is your muse, then?”

“My saviour, certainly.” Seneca cocked his head. “And then, of course, there are dreams.”

“Dreams?”

“As a source of inspiration. Do you not dream, Titus Pinarius?”

Titus shrugged. “Hardly ever.”

“Perhaps that’s a blessing. My dreams are very vivid, full of noise and blood and violence – louder and brighter and more startling than anything in the waking world. Sometimes I can scarcely stand my dreams. I wake in a cold sweat, then reach for the wax tablet at my bedside and scribble notes for a scene – Oedipus tripping blindly over the body of his mother, or Thyestes agape at the sight of his sons severed heads.”

Seneca raised an eyebrow. “Do you know, a dream has just come back to me. I’d forgotten it until this moment. I had it the night after Claudius told me I would have the honor of tutoring Nero. Odd, how one can forget a dream completely, and then it suddenly comes back. I dreamed I appeared at the imperial house, in this very room, ready for my first day, but when my young pupil turned to face me – it was Caligula! What a shock! And so nonsensical, since Nero is nothing like his uncle. Caligula was raised in army boots and had hardly any education, while Nero loves learning.” Seneca shivered. “Did you ever meet Caligula face-to-face?”

“Only once,” said Titus.

“Lucky you!”

Vespasian strolled over to join them. His wife, Domitilla, was beside him, still carrying the newborn Domitian, who had quieted down. Paulina left her husband’s side to have a closer look at the baby.

“Did I hear you mention the departed Caligula?” Vespasian said.

Seneca eyed the general condescendingly. “Yes, I was telling Senator Pinarius a story about-”

“Who doesn’t have a Caligula story to tell?” said Vespasian. The general was more used to talking than to listening. “I suppose my tale is pretty harmless compared to most. Caligula was emperor; I couldn’t have been more than thirty – that’s right, because my Titus had just been born – and I’d just been elected aedile. One of my responsibilities was keeping the city clean. I thought I was doing a pretty good job, until one day Caligula summoned me to meet him on a muddy little back road on the far side of the Aventine – not a paved road, mind you, but a narrow dirt alley behind some warehouses. He asked me why the street was so dirty. ‘Because it’s made of dirt?’ I said.” Vespasian laughed. “Caligula was not amused. He was furious. By Hercules, it’s a miracle I didn’t lose my head on the spot! He ordered his lictors to scoop up handfuls of mud and to cram it inside my toga, until I was covered all over with mud and loaded with the stuff like a bursting wineskin. Then Caligula laughed until he wept, and off he went. Mind you, later, a soothsayer told me the incident was actually a good omen, something about the very soil of my homeland being next to my skin and under the protection of my toga. Ha! But these soothsayers can turn anything to a fellow’s advantage, can’t they?” He laughed, then stopped himself. “Oh dear, is that a rude thing to say to an augur?” He laughed again, louder. “Ah, but have you met my son Titus, Senator Pinarius? He was just here, with his friend Britannicus – oh, there they are, having a laugh with Nero.”