Defender of Rome Read Online Free PDF Page A

endowed, and told the story of a woman brought low by her own ambition; a queen who had attempted to supplant Apollo and Diana with her own children, only to lose them all. He heard his voice quiver with emotion as he reached the point where the seven sons and seven daughters were hunted down by the arrows of the gods and their mother turned to stone, a memorial to her own greed. A tear ran down the cheek of the Emperor Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus. His mother, Agrippina, had likewise died of greed.
    Hadn’t he given her everything, palaces, gold, jewels and slaves? Influence even. Perhaps too much influence. Still it wasn’t enough; she had to have power. She thought he was still a child . They were staring at him now, mouths open, and he realized he had stopped singing before the end of the song. How strange she still had such an effect on him. He smiled, and bowed, and the slack faces resumed their grinning and the cheering began, washing over him like a warm, oily sea, sensuous and invigorating. How he despised them all.
    Yes, she had to have power; he of all people could understand that. When one has tasted ultimate power, the power to decide whether a man – or a woman – lives or dies, no other power will suffice. He had been weak at first, even kind, in the years after he had ascended to the throne of Rome. He had listened to his advisers. But when he had spoken those close to him had not listened nor understood. That was before he had proved he was capable of wielding true power. After a few carefully chosen disposals even Seneca had listened, he who had never known when to keep his mouth closed but had still managed to survive the wrath of Uncle Gaius and devious old Claudius. He liked Seneca, had even trusted him once, but now he was nothing but a nuisance. He picked up a flower that had been thrown at his feet. It was long-stemmed with a fringe of small white petals and he began to pluck them one by one, still smiling and acknowledging the cheers; kill him, don’t kill him, kill him, don’t kill him … He continued until he came to the last petal and paused … don’t kill him. He sighed. Seneca, always the fortunate one.
    Not Mother. He had tried to warn her, but, like Niobe, she just wouldn’t listen. So she had to be removed. They should have been singing about her death for a thousand years, a death worthy of the gods themselves. Only a true artist could have devised it. A ship that collapsed upon itself, leaving the after part to float off still containing the crushed remains of poor, dear Agrippina. Lost at sea. Plucked by Neptune to sit at his side for all eternity.
    They had botched it, of course, the fools of carpenters, and she had lived. He hadn’t even known she could swim! Still, the deed was eventually done. And those who had deprived her of her opportunity for immortality would never make another mistake.
    He walked down the broad stairway to where his wife Poppaea waited, flanked by slaves holding a golden canopy. She looked truly enchanting today, her flawless features framed by tight curls of lustrous chestnut. Smiling, she took his arm and they marched through the throng as rose petals fell at their feet and perfumed water scented the air around them. He nodded at each shouted compliment – ‘A triumph, Caesar’; ‘The glory of the world’; ‘No bird ever sang sweeter, lord’ – and knew it was all lies.
    He knew it was lies because he understood he was not the great artist he wished to be. Did they think him a fool to be deceived by such flattery, he who had expended so many millions in the quest to become what he was not? Oh, he improved with every tutor and every hour of practice, but he had come to understand that genius was god-given and not some whim that anyone could command, not even an Emperor. All the hours of practice and the degrading, stomach-churning deceits he had resorted to and he could barely hold a note. Yet when he was on the stage he felt like a god, and