The Splendor Before the Dark: A Novel of the Emperor Nero - Softcover

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Margaret George is the New York Times bestselling author of novels of biographical historical fiction, including The Splendor Before the Dark; The Confessions of Young Nero; Elizabeth I; Helen of Troy; Mary, Called Magdalene; The Memoirs of Cleopatra; Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles; and The Autobiography of Henry VIII. She also has coauthored a children's book, Lucille Lost.

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***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright © 2018 Margaret George

Chapter I

Nero

I awoke in the milky dawn, that opalescent hour outside time. For an instant I did not know where I was. Thus it must feel to be newborn, unclaimed.

A sweet breeze was stealing across me as I lay quietly. A sea breeze. I was on a shore somewhere. I raised my head and at once I was back in the world I knew. I was at Antium. I was in my villa bedroom that opened out onto the sea itself.

In the stillness, I arose and left Poppaea sleeping, her lips curved in a smile as she dreamed of something pleasurable. Pleasurable . . . our stay here in Antium had been pleasurable. Far enough from Rome to put thoughts of it aside, to live secluded here by the sea. For a brief time.

Quietly I walked over to the window and pushed back the filmy curtains. The horizon outside was white, making it impossible to see where the sky ended and the sea began. A pale moon was sinking, caught in the clouds. Last night it had been bright, penetrating, high. Now, still full but setting, it faded and became indistinct.

Last night . . . how exultant I had been, performing at last my epic on the Fall of Troy, on the stage here. The hard work of composing it had taken over a year, but with a furious burst the last few days, and now it had shown its face to the world, and I had all the joy of an artist who has birthed a creation after a very long labor.

It was fitting that it had taken place here in Antium, where I myself had been born twenty-six years ago. And after a likewise long and difficult labor, for I had been born feet first—an evil omen, some said. At the same time there had been other favorable omens, so which to heed? Clearly the favorable ones had prevailed, for I had been emperor now for nine years, having assumed the purple at an absurdly young age. There had been significant achievements in my reign already, most notably a peace settlement with Parthia, our historic enemy, achieved finally through diplomacy rather than arms. I had gifted the city of Rome with magnificent baths, a theater, and a covered market, and had instituted engineering works that improved harbors and aimed to protect shipping routes. What I most wanted, though, was to give Rome the greatest gift of all—a conversion to the Greek sensibilities and aesthetics. That was much harder than building buildings and digging canals. But it was coming. I knew it.

The audience last night was proof of that. Many people had traveled from Rome to hear me perform on the cithara. It is a virtuoso instrument, from Greece. Apollo himself played it. Yes! Their eyes would be opened and they would learn to embrace these cultural treasures.

I looked fondly at my cithara, now propped up against the wall, resting from its labors last night. It was, of course, the finest that could be made, and I had the finest instructor, Terpnus, who had borne with me and taught me patiently. I was always reluctant to leave him behind in Rome, and knowing I was returning to him made it easier to go back.

Rome. In the growing light, I saw the message cylinders resting on the table. They had been delivered yesterday, sent by my trusted right-hand man and Praetorian prefect, Tigellinus. But I could not bring myself to look at them then. The day was too perfect to spoil with petty business about import duties or aqueduct repairs or cart traffic in the city. If you imagine that everything an emperor has to deal with is lofty and critical, I can assure you that it is not. It is a hundred tax questions to one diplomatic treaty or one war strategy decision.

I would look at the messages a little later. I had to. But this morning would be for relaxation, and planning for the inevitable return to Rome.

I had retreated here to escape the hot days in the city, but duty required me to preside over the Feriae Augusti in two weeks, the celebration beginning on August first that culminated on the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth, commemorating Roman victories over Dalmatia, Actium, and Egypt. As the celebrations featured horse races, the only bright spot was that perhaps then I would be cleared by my trainers to do something I had longed to do: race chariots competitively.

Oh, I had driven chariots, but never in a real public race. It was deemed too dangerous, and it is true, chariot racing has a high accident rate. But it was also the most exciting thing a person could do. My grandfather had been a successful chariot racer, and I liked to believe I had inherited his skill.

“Begging your pardon, Caesar,” my trainer had said, “if a celebrated charioteer dies in a race, his family and fans mourn him. But if an emperor dies in one, the entire empire is bereft.”

Tigellinus was more blunt. “It’s irresponsible of you to think of taking such chances.” He paused. “Especially as you have no heir. Do you want to spark a civil war, like we had after Julius Caesar was killed?”

No heir. Oh, the pain of that. I had had a daughter, but she died a baby. And none since.

“No,” I admitted. I would not make Rome endure such agony again. But I still wanted to race chariots, calling upon the gods to protect me. Had they not done that so far?

But then there was the nagging thought of a disturbing prophecy I had been given by the sibyl I had visited at Cumae. Fire will be your undoing, she had said. When pressed further, she had added, Flames will consume your dreams and your dreams are yourself. But there were no fires at chariot races. So did that assure me that I was safe to embark on that activity?

As for fires, we had a very capable fire brigade in Rome. But perhaps the fire she spoke of was somewhere else? Or it was a metaphorical fire? People spoke of the fire of anger, the fire of lust, the fire of ambition. I was on fire about my art. Did she mean that would destroy me?

I shook my head. Put it out of your thoughts, I told myself. Think only of this fair day before you, a day to walk beside the water, to drink chilled juice of Persian peaches with the wife who is the dearest thing under heaven to you, to wait for the moon to rise upon you once again.

I left her to sleep while I walked outside to see the pearly sky lighten, promising a fair, tranquil day.

It was late morning before Poppaea stirred. I had finished reading the Rome dispatches—they were as dull as I had feared—and reread a portion of my Troy epic with a mind to revisions, when she rose from the bed, trailing silk behind her like clouds of glory. Encircling her neck was the glittering gold collar I had gifted her with last night. She had worn it to bed and now she ran her hands over it lovingly.

“They say cold metal is a sad thing to lavish love on,” I said. “But on you it looks worthy of love.” It was studded with gems betokening the planets, moon, and sun, crafted from an Indian design I had commissioned.

“Gold is easy to sleep with,” she said. “In fact, it helped me to dream.”

“Ah, such dreams as gold gives.” I rose and embraced her, the body-warmed gold indistinguishable from her own temperature. “And it is cold no longer.”

The sun was midway in the sky, burnishing the waves outside the window.

“Shall we go to the grotto today? We haven’t visited it yet.” The ancient grotto, down at the far end of the quays, was a large one extending quite far into the hillside. Grottoes held a fascination for me, as so many stories of the gods placed them there. They reeked of the supernatural.

She stretched, raising her arms over her head, shaking her shining amber hair. “I suppose we should....