The Education of Nero
The great library of the palace lay directly above the great hall. It was an enormous place, and when I was young and free, I would sneak away from my palace chores to hide away and read in its labyrinth of wood and stone. Sunlight poured laughingly in through the high windows, frolicking on the swirling clouds of dust. It would leap, run, and dance, landing finally on the plush carpet, sinking in, warming it, drawing me to come and sit and read. And so it is not surprising that in my older years I find myself here once again—now that the more strenuous work has passed on to younger, broader shoulders. But somehow, I fear it is not so with the empire. The hard labor of the palace may now be carried strong by the young men, but the youth who is to inherit the kingdom possesses not, I think, shoulders broad enough to bear the troubles of the Roman world.
For at present I sit at a small table in the library, writing my history of the Claudian line, as I often do in my times of attendance on the young master. But as I listen, I begin to write this little piece, for I fear that the great deeds of this line will not be passed on to the the future generation. Young Nero sits one aisle over in the library, grumbling as he waits for his tutor, Seneca, to arrive. And I think that perhaps this narrative may not be so much a sidetrack from my work about the Claudians. For methinks it may lend a little peephole to the viewer, one that explains the mystery surrounding the ruin of this great family.
Seneca enters. I know by the swishing of his robes. The floor creaks. Nero rises to honor his teacher. “You have come, Seneca.” Abrupt, yes, but ordinary for the young master.
The old voice, almost an oral door-hinge, “Yes, my young protégé, and not without reason for my tardiness.” Another swish of robes; Seneca must be seated. He proceeds without a pause, “We will begin with your Greek.”
Paper rustles.
Firmer now, “Your Greek.”
Nero’s voice speaks, sweeter than honey, “I was thinking it would be wise to begin with astronomy.” Neither speaks for some time.
“Then astronomy we shall begin with.” It was Seneca who broke the silence.
I could almost picture the triumph on Nero’s face. All know he hates Greek; rhetoric and grammar, too. But music and astronomy he loves. Seneca is clay in the boy’s hands—clay that can be twisted to do whatever the maker might will. Seneca knows that it is Agrippina who has plucked him from exile, and if the boy so wishes, it will be Agrippina who sends him there once again. So it is that day after day, the future emperor learns his music and his astronomy and not a drop of language or history. For all the power Seneca actually wields, it might as well be Nero teaching himself. The sessions, too, end at the pupil’s bidding and not the master’s, a strange twist of fate for the once-renowned orator.
But once Nero comes to the throne, and his incapacity for ruling an empire becomes apparent, I am confident that upon Seneca’s thin, frail shoulders the weight of blame will fall. So I remain here and wait and watch and learn, knowing that emperors—dynasties—empires—come and go with the winds of time, and only the memory of them remains. And so I return to my writing, that I might leave my small mark on the landscape of history, when the Roman empire has finally been dismantled from without and within by a foolish imp at the reins. And though it may seem itself an idle prophecy, perhaps those on the outside looking in, those on the wiser side of history, will read this little piece and realize that though it takes a nation to build an empire, by a single man it may be destroyed. Nam urbes constituit aetas, hora dissolvit.