The Confessions of Young Nero by Margaret George

Author:Margaret George
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2017-02-21T10:47:14+00:00

XLIV

The sparkle off the water was so scintillating it made me shade my eyes. The Bay of Naples spread out before me, the day was clear and I could see all the way to Vesuvius. Naples, that Greek-inclined city, was spread out to the left of the mountain. Lake Lucrine, a shallow lake near it connected to the sea by a canal, was the historic site where Agrippa had trained the navy for the battle of Actium against Antony. Today the Roman fleet was based nearby. I was visiting Otho’s villa at Baiae. Unlike my secluded one at Sublaqueum—which I had indeed built—this villa was in a holiday resort. On all sides of the peninsula, villas of the wealthy crowded up against one another, Rome transported to the seashore. Even Seneca had a place here (although he complained about the noise and immoral goings-on, calling it “the inn of all vices”), where Julius Caesar’s father-in-law Calpurnius had set the standard for luxury more than a hundred years before. Otho came from an old aristocratic family and the villa had been theirs for a long time.

What was there to do in Baiae? Indulge oneself, that was all. The hot springs gave us baths; the bay gave us sailing; the villas delighted us with views and feasts. After dark, lighted pleasure vessels plied the waters, music trailing in their wakes.

I had brought Acte with me, for here I did not have to pretend she was with anyone else. Otho was preparing to marry and made much of this being his last season as a bachelor. That did not stop him from having a woman with him now.

“I shall be that sad specimen, that butt of comedies, a husband,” he said, waving his goblet around.

“Husbands are only the butt of comedies if they are cuckolded,” I said. “And surely you won’t be. Who is this woman who has snared the elusive Otho?”

For although he was short, bowlegged, and bald, necessitating the wig, his wealth, wit, and lineage made him a desirable match. Oddly enough, he was vain about his looks, softening his beard with moistened bread crumbs and having his body hair plucked.

His cynical expression melted away, replaced by a dreamy look. “Oh, she’s a goddess.”

He wasn’t joking. He was truly smitten. I was taken aback. “Who is this goddess?”

“Her family is from Pompeii. That is how I met her, when I was visiting there. We will have to go over there—I want to show you the frescoes—”

“You still haven’t told me her name. I know about Pompeii; I want to know more about this woman.”

“Her name is Poppaea,” he said. “You may have heard of her mother—she was Poppaea also, reputed the most beautiful woman in Rome—but I tell you, her daughter eclipses her.”

“Poppaea—Poppaea—” I was good with names, and I knew I had heard of her, but where?

“She is the wife of Rufrius Crispinus,” said Acte.

“Was the wife,” said Otho. “They are divorced.”

“She must be a goddess, for you to be content to be second and not first.

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