For a contest-
Topic: Write about the last days of a figure in Roman/Greek history or mythology.
My figure of choice? The emperor Nero.
Nota Bene: The people judging this contest will understand all of the historical refrences, so it's okay if you don't.
But you should know that Nero's real name was Domitius, and that he became emperor at the age of 16 (far too young), and that he was pretty much insane.
Also: The piece could only be 1200 words. Mine is currently 1,199. xD So keep that in mind haha.
Nero also considered himself to be quite the artist, and the title is a play on a famous James Joyce novel.
Here it goes.
Whispers can be so loud. I hear them in the hallways, hushed voices bearing news of rebellion in the west with the sounds of clashing iron and battle cries as Roman fights Roman, as we have done now for centuries. They stare not at me when they pass, but through me with cold eyes and resounding hearts that beat the name of Galba.
The whispers continue, rushing into the curia on cold arid words like Aquilo’s breath. Galba fills the anachronistic ears of the Senate with his deeds in Hispania, of his commission by Vindex, whose pathetic revolt Verginius crushed. Verginius is a smart man; when troops declare him emperor he has the sense to decline. He has what any Roman should– fear. A fear of Augustus, exalted one.
Fear of me.
But Galba is not Verginius. Sway the army, be backed by the legions. Strike fear into the plebeians. Give the senate what they want. I can no longer do these. Somehow in the course of my emperorship, the memories of my ancestors escaped me, but now come rushing back.
Their temples may line the forum, their libations may run sweetly from sacred jars, but they rule no longer. We remember them after death, yet lose the moment of the actual end of life. They drift away, memories of poisoned mushrooms and brutal stabbings, floating in and out of our minds. For that is the life of an emperor. You live, you die, you are erected in stone.
Now I realize the princeps is a god of marble, not of flesh. And I cannot last forever.
I declare Galba a public enemy, but the legions care not for Caesar’s words. My own Praetorian Prefect betrays his emperor, his god who has not yet taken his chiseled position among the divine. Nymphidius pledges support to Galba, who is in turn backed by the spears of Caesar’s army.
I must flee, even I admit. But what sort of look is this for a Caesar – cowering in his chambers? I could flee to Parthia, Egypt or… or to Galba’s feet. To go to Galba would be cowardly; I cannot flee like a common criminal. Ought I be unafraid of death? Is it so dreadful then, to die?
Hazy quiet floats about my chamber. The palace seems frozen in time, only I remain, with heartbeats reverberating like the steady rhythm of a barbarian drum.
Cowardice does not become me. I slowly stand, weak and hot and lethargic. The sun spills through the window, a cascade of light, swirling together orange and yellow on the canvas of my floor. It casts a sepia tone on my city, my great-grandfather’s city of marble. The silhouettes of columns and circuses, standing tall like individual Mount Olympuses, are tokens of my reign, yet I see nothing. I see a lifeless city of corrupt politicians and unsatisfied people and lifeless marble statues staring back with lifeless painted eyes. Is this what I am to become? Lifeless? The sculptor appears, smoothes plaster over me, starting at my toes and working up to my eyes. I am suffocating; my diaphragm contracts rapidly like a caged animal in my ribs. I cannot die. I will not die. I will not become a memory in marble. I must flee; I have to flee.
Stumbling from the window, a slight palpitation rocks my chest, scurries up my throat and pries open my lips in a crescendo of nervous laughter. The sculptor gone, but Galba remaining, flight is my only option. Warm redness flushes my face, and the feeling of power fades. I feel more like young, inexperienced Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, and less like Caesar.
I grab the stylus from my writing desk and scroll, unroll it lopsidedly. Words drunkenly stumble from my hand, strange musings about becoming Egyptian governor and leaving Galba, of becoming a statue and being another fallen emperor. I gaze at the words. They are ravings, ravings that could only come from… is this the madness they talk of in the streets?
Even if I am mad as Caligula, I want to stay alive; to not meet his fate. I run to the door, calling for guards.
“They’ve left.” comes a small voice from the hall.
“Who is there? Show yourself!” My knees yield to the ground.
I do not know his name. Did I once? “Master,” he says. “The guards deserted.”
The air is thick like water, and the stone words sink. He looks scared, and something in his face morphs and changes. Is he fifteen? Sixteen? He is about to be crowned Caesar, but he is too young. “Domitius!” I shout, before it is too late. “Remain Domitius, do not become Nero!”
Domitius’ lips form words, but they dissipate. “Master, I’m n…I understand.”
“Where is your mother, Domitius? Why do they do this?” I implore.
“Mother? In Greece.”
“Mine is dead, did you know?” I am on my feet now, looking at Domitius. “I killed her.”
Domitius’ eyes fill with disgust and sorrow. “Mast…Domit…Nero?” He seems unsure. “Nero?”
“Yes?”
A shaky breath. “Some slaves remain. They’ll deliver messages to your friends.”
But as quickly as Domitius goes, he returns.
“My friends?”
His head shakes.
“Abandoned me?”
He nods, face suddenly morphing from a Roman prince to…
“Not Domitius?”
He sighs; looks me straight on. “I am whomever you wish me to be, Caesar.”
But he is not Domitius. “Epaphroditos,”
“Yes,”
“You play lyre.”
“Yes,”
“We sing together.”
“Yes. You’re talented, Nero. An artist.”
“I am Nero, then.”
“Yes,”
“We are going to die, then.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Go with me?”
“Yes, Caesar.”
Few friends remain to me – the ones in my palace are gone, but an invitation from Phaon arrives.
Haze… Epaphroditus accompanies me on horseback. A cloak drapes over me. Spears pierce the fog of my mind. Galba’s army. They hail Caesar, but do not mean me. Nero becomes marble.
Phaon welcomes me as Pluto welcomes the dead. He hides me like a runaway slave, making no attempt to provide hope– he knows Galba already has won.
Seconds become hours until Galba’s messenger arrives. I should hide, but I bound from the fog, seize the message…
Nero is to be killed like Roman ancestors. Nero will be tied to a post and whipped to death.
This does not become him, not Caesar.
Hoof-beats pound outside.
“They come,” announces Phaon, his voice a dirge.
I take a dagger, plunging through the fog into my throat. The fog obliterates, and all is clear. Too clear. I gasp and wheeze wetly.
Epaphroditus looks at me strangely. “Caesar,” he says.
Still his Caesar.
“Caesar, do you know the last words of Augustus?”
The blood is thick, hot. It bubbles into my mouth and I retch. A non-fatal wound.
“Caesar, Augustus said ‘The play is finished. Applaud, I played my role well.’” He begins to applaud, a terrible rhythm deafening my ears. “Caesar, you did not play your role well. But you made for a good show. That’s what an artist is, Caesar. It was a good show.”
I gaze up at him as the dagger comes down. “Omnes exeunt, Domitius.”
“Qualis artifex pereo.”
Applaud, for the tragedy is ended.
Gender:
Points: 3225
Reviews: 365