Nero did not mind that she left. Indeed, he took the opportunity, as the guests became more and more intoxicated, to lead various lewd games in dark corners of the park. He had invited all the women from the brothels the fire had spared and had generously paid their fees out of his own pocket. But there were many noble ladies and frivolous married men and women who partook in these games under the protection of darkness. Finally the bushes were full of rustling sounds, and the lustful grunts of drunkards and women’s cries could be heard everywhere.

I left to set Jucundus’ and Barbus’ funeral pyre alight. As I sprinkled their ashes with wine, I thought of Lugunda and my youth in Britain, when I had still been sensitive, so receptive to goodness and so innocent that I had vomited when I had killed my first Briton. At the same time that morning, although I did not know it then, Nero returned to Esquiline to sleep, soiled and dirty, and with his wine-soaked wreath askew.

Poppaea, easily irritated in the way pregnant women are, had lain awake, waiting for him to return, and she now directed some rough wifely words at him. In his fuddled state, Nero was seized with such rage that he kicked her in the stomach and then fell into bed in the deep sleep of a drunkard. The following day he did not even remember what had happened until he heard that Poppaea had had a miscarriage. She was very ill and it became apparent that not even the best doctors in Rome could help her, not to mention her old Jewish women with their magic formulae and witchcraft.

All honor to Poppaea, it should be mentioned that she did not once reproach Nero when she realized that her condition was hopeless. Indeed, even as she was dying, she tried to console him in his conscience-stricken state of self-reproach by reminding him that she had always wanted to die before her beauty faded. She wished Nero to remember her until his dying day as she looked now, her tempting beauty intact, loved by Nero in spite of his action, which might have happened to any faithful married couple. Naturally Nero would have to marry again for political reasons, but all Poppaea wished was that Nero should not act too quickly in this, and that he should not have her body cremated. Poppaea wished to be buried in the Jewish way.

For political reasons, Nero could not have her buried with the rituals of the Jewish religion, but he did allow the Jewish women to gather around her body for the customary laments. He had Poppaea embalmed in the Eastern way and without demur sent the gifts she had willed to the temple in Jerusalem and the synagogues in Rome.

409

In the forum he made a memorial speech to the Senate and the people in honor of Poppaea, and he himself wept with emotion as he detailed the particular points of her beauty from her golden curls to her rosy toenails.

A funeral procession took her embalmed body in a glass coffin to the mausoleum of the god Augustus. Many people were affronted by this, for Nero had not even given his own mother a place in the mausoleum, not to mention his consort, Octavia. Save for the Jews, the people did not mourn for Poppaea. She had no longer been content with silver horseshoes but had begun to shoe her mules with gold, and she had aroused bad blood with her eternal baths in asses’ milk.

I myself grieved that the enchanting Poppaea had died so young. She had always been friendly toward me and would probably have confirmed this friendship in my arms at one time, had I had the sense to ask her boldly to do so. She was not so virtuous as I had at first believed when I had fallen so blindly in love with her, but unfortunately I did not see that until she had married Otho.

Now I have told you all this, I must go on to tell you about your mother, Claudia, and her attitude toward me. At the same time I must describe my part in the Pisonian conspiracy and its exposure. That is perhaps an even more painful task.

But I shall do my best, as I have done up to now, to describe everything moderately honestly, without justifying myself too much. Perhaps you will learn something of the weaknesses of man when you read this one day, Julius, my son. Despise me if you wish. I shall lose nothing by that. I shall never forget that cold clear look of a fourteen-year-old that you gave me, when your mother forced you to come and see your despicably wealthy and despicably foolish father at this distant resort where I am trying to cure my ailment. It was a chilling look, sterner than the worst winds of winter. But then you are a Julian, of divine blood, and I am only a Minutus Manilianus.

Book XI

Antonia

Naturally I wanted to acknowledge you officially as my son and give you the name Claudia had requested, but I thought it wiser to let a little time go by first so that your mother had time to calm down.

410

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