Nero's Heirs by Allan Massie Read Free Book Online

I was to narrate what happened that afternoon, it would appear perfectly commonplace. Domatilla had some friends with her. We played some ball-game. Domitian lost his temper and shouted at his sister, accusing her of having infringed some rule of the game. She lowered her eyes and spoke gently, seeking to pacify him. But he, giving way to a mood which I knew only too well, refused to be mollified, turned away, and strode off towards the woods. She called after him, appealingly and then, when he paid no heed, her upper lip, which was long and a little too thick for perfect beauty, trembled. But she shrugged, scuffed her feet uncertainly in the sand, and suggested we resume the game, for which, however, no one now had any heart. 'Bother him,' she said, recognising and resenting her brother's ability to impose his sullen will on the company - even by withdrawing his presence.
    Nothing, you see, nothing. Yet it was in that moment when she looked after him and scuffed her feet in the sand that she became no longer the girl I had known all my life, but someone quite new to me, whom I experienced the absolute need to know perfectly and thoroughly.
    I followed her to the house, where I found her drinking a glass of lemon squash.
    'He's so silly,' she said, and a tear escaped her eye, trickling down her cheek which was flushed, either from the game or as a result of her emotion. I wanted to take her in my arms, and lick the tears which she now began to shed in profusion as she gave way to great sobs. I was at a loss to understand why she was so moved, and I did nothing. I could speak no words to comfort her. But I felt much.
    VII
    You chide me, Tacitus, for being dilatory, as you call it. May I remind you that you are the historian, not me, and that I am doing you a favour, or endeavouring to do you a favour, in excavating painful memories?
    But I am glad that you now at last ask me specific questions. In particular, you seek to know what it was like in Rome when Galba, who had been proclaimed Emperor by the legions in Spain, entered the city. You weren't there yourself, you say. Indeed you weren't, and I was. If this part of your History is to be authentic, you must rely on me. Don't forget that. No doubt you have other informants, and will study documents. But if you seek an eye-witness account from one who understands, or once understood, politics, then you must put your trust in me. For which reason you should remember your manners.
    I do n't pretend to know ever ything, but I can promise you that I won't pretend either to more knowledge than I truly possess. What you get from me is authentic, from the horse's mouth, as we say in these barbarian parts, where the horse is highly revered. And you must allow me to approach it in my own way. The years, and my bitter experiences, have deprived me of the literary skills I once was so proud of.
    What, I wonder, do you really know of Nero's death? There are more than a dozen stories that have gone the rounds, not least, of course, those which assert that he didn't die then but escaped. You will remember that in the subsequent few years at least half a dozen false Neros presented themselves. And what will you make of that, if you happen to mention it? Perhaps you won't mention it, because it points to something which you will not readily wish to admit. These false Neros all gathered support from the common people wherever they presented themselves. Why? Because, outside the senatorial class to which we both belong (you uncertainly, if you don't mind me saying so) Nero was popular. And not only with the riff-raff. Respectable provincials had a high regard for him; he had done them no harm, they had prospered during his reign, and the Greeks especially admired and even loved an Emperor who so highly valued Greek culture.
    Nero was at a villa on the Bay of Naples when he learned of the revolt in Gaul. Characteristically, he did nothing. Soldiers bored him, and he assumed that this was a mutiny