I drew in my breath sharply and asked him to forgive my lack of perception. When I asked him what sum he would consider adequate, he smiled and patted my shoulder.
“Perhaps,” he said, “it would be best if you consulted your wealthy father, Marcus Mezentius, on the matter.”
I went straight to my father and asked him whether, for instance, ten gold pieces would be too large a sum for a philosopher who loved modesty and a simple life. My father burst out laughing.
“I know Seneca’s modest little habits,” he said. “Leave it all to me and don’t worry about it anymore.”
Later I heard that he had sent Seneca a thousand gold pieces, or a hundred thousand sesterces, which in my opinion was an enormous sum. But Seneca was not offended but, if possible, he treated me even more kindly than before, to show that he had forgiven my father for his upstart’s extravagance.
I worked for several months as Seneca’s assistant in the Praetorium. He was absolutely just in his decisions, all of which he carefully weighed. No lawyer could bamboozle him with mere eloquence, for he himself was the greatest orator of the day. In spite of this, people who lost their cases spread rumors that he accepted bribes. Of course, such rumors were heard about all praetors. But Seneca said definitely that he had never received a gift before a judgment had been made.
“On the other hand,” he said, “if it is a matter of ownership of a plot which is worth a million sesterces, it’s only natural that the winner of the case afterwards should give the judge a gift or two. No official can live on a praetor’s salary alone and pay for free performances at the theater during his term of office.”
Spring had come again. Under the influence of the green grass, the warm sun and the notes of the cittern, the stilted legal phrases were banished from our thoughts by the lighthearted verses of Ovid and Propertius. I had been waiting for an opportunity to solve the problem of Claudia and it occurred to me that Agrippina was the only person who could do this with magnanimity and justice. I could not tell Aunt Laelia about Claudia, or Tullia—her least of all. One lovely afternoon when the clouds over Rome shone with gold, the opportunity arose when Nero took me to the gardens on Pincius. There we found his mother busy giving instructions to the gardeners for the spring. She was flushed with the warmth and her face lit up, as always, when she saw her handsome son.
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“What’s wrong with you, Minutus Manilianus?” she said to me. “You look as if you had some secret sorrow. Your eyes are restless and you won’t look me straight in the eye.”
I was forced to look into her eyes, which were as clear and wise as those of a goddess.
“Would you really permit me to put my problem to you?” I stammered.
She led me to one side, away from the gardeners and the slaves grub-bing in the earth, and asked me to speak honestly and without fear. I told her about Claudia, but my first words made her start, although the expression on her calm face did not change.
“Plautia Urgulanilla’s reputation was always doubtful,” she said thoughtfully. “In my youth I knew her, although I wish now that I hadn’t. How is it possible that you came to know a girl like that? As far as I know, she is not allowed to set foot inside the city walls. Isn’t she a goatherd somewhere on Aulus Plautius’ farm?”
I told her how we had met, but as I went on, Agrippina kept inter-rupting me with questions—as she said, to get to the root of the matter.
“We love each other,” I managed to say at last, “and I’d like to marry her if a way to do so can be found.”
“Minutus,” protested Agrippina shortly, “one just does not marry girls like that.”
I tried to the best of my ability to praise Claudia’s good points, but Agrippina hardly listened to me. With tears in her eyes, she stared at the blood-red sunset over Rome, as if she had been upset by what I had said. Finally, she interrupted me and said, “Have you slept with her? Tell me honestly now.”
I had to tell the truth. I even made the mistake of telling her we were happy together, although this was no longer quite true because of our quarrels. I asked if there was any possibility of a good family adopting Claudia.
“Oh, my poor Minutus,” she said pityingly, “what have you become involved in? In the whole of Rome, there isn’t a single respected family who would adopt her for all the money in the world. If a family were willing to let her bear its name, it would simply show that that family is no longer respected.”
I tried again, carefully choosing my words, but Agrippina was adamant.
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