Dying Every Day Read online

  The interpretation detracts somewhat from De Brevitate Vitae, a beautifully written and stirring exhortation toward the examined life. But it fits all too well with the pattern of Seneca’s earlier works, in particular the Consolations addressed to Marcia and to Polybius. There his deft control of language and argument allowed him to do two things at once: expound his Stoic ideals and improve his political image. It seems he continued that double game into his early years in the palace—and perhaps, as will be seen, to the last moments of his life.

  The marriage of Nero and Octavia spelled triumph for Agrippina. By 53, she had succeeded in making Nero’s succession likely, though not inevitable. And she had taken other steps to shore up her ability to control events. She was proving herself to be, by any account, one of the all-time master strategists of the game of dynastic politics.

  By the fourth year of her marriage to Claudius, Agrippina had reshuffled the imperial hierarchy in her own favor. She had overhauled the palace staff, raising up Pallas, the Greek freedman who had loyally supported her cause, while thrusting aside Narcissus, who had not. Narcissus was a dangerous adversary whom Agrippina watched carefully. His great wealth, obtained by years of grafting, made him able to do her harm, as did his control of the emperor Claudius’ private papers and correspondence.

  Agrippina had also done much work on the Praetorian Guard, the army unit that would, when the time came, acclaim the new emperor. She spent years winnowing out those she mistrusted and promoting her own partisans. And she made a crucial change in the guard’s leadership. She removed its two coprefects, holdovers from the days of Messalina, and replaced them with her own selection. The guard henceforth would have a single commander, a man named Afranius Burrus.

  Burrus was an undistinguished officer from the middle ranks of society, like Seneca an import from the provinces (Gaul in this case). His family belonged to the equestrian, not senatorial, ranks. Burrus had a maimed hand, perhaps from a war injury, which made his future as a career soldier uncertain. His appointment as head of the Praetorians greatly increased his fortunes and his social status. Burrus, like Seneca, would feel enough gratitude to do whatever his patroness wished, or so Agrippina might hope.

  Month by month the foundations of Agrippina’s power, and of Nero’s succession, were becoming firmer. But Britannicus was also growing up.

  Early in 53 Britannicus turned twelve, one year younger than Nero had been when he received his adult toga and an array of titles and honors. His supporters, Narcissus among them, watched anxiously for signs that Britannicus, too, would “graduate early.” Perhaps, this faction believed, Claudius had advanced Nero only to cover the three-and-a-half-year gap until his own son came of age. He might still intend to give the empire joint heirs, or a sequential succession in which the older boy would rule first but pass on power to the younger. Such arrangements had been made by emperors before, though not carried out after their deaths.

  Claudius was growing older as well, which added to the urgency of the question. Now in his early sixties, suffering from tremors and digestive ailments, the emperor did not seem likely to reach his seventies. Astrologers had predicted his death nearly every month since he came to power—or so said a wisecracking character in a farce written by Seneca. Whoever was to be heir might be called upon very soon.

  At around this time, Claudius did fall seriously ill, and Rome went into a deathwatch. Agrippina seized the opportunity to further spotlight her son, arranging for Nero to sponsor public games in honor of Claudius’ recovery. Nero provided horse and chariot races out of his own pocket, a public show of filial piety. His real feelings, though, must have run in the opposite direction. Plainly there was no better moment, from Nero’s perspective, for Claudius to die, than during the interval between his own attainment of manhood and that of his brother.

  Claudius wrote to the Senate from his sickbed, proclaiming Nero qualified to take the reins in the event of his death. But then, to everyone’s surprise, he recovered. And as his health revived—what little he had ever had—so did the hopes of Britannicus’ supporters.

  Narcissus now went on the offensive against Agrippina, denouncing her openly and claiming that “the palace is being torn apart by the schemes of a stepmother.” His own fate was sealed no matter who succeeded, he said—evidently feeling that his betrayal of Messalina had made him an enemy to one heir, his enmity with Agrippina, to the other—but he could at least hope to safeguard his master, Claudius. His clear implication was that Claudius, if Nero was designated successor, would soon fall victim to Agrippina—and to Pallas as well, who had now, as Narcissus claimed, become the empress’s lover.

  Charges of low-life, adulterous, or incestuous sex were a highly effective tactic in Roman politics. Such charges had been brought against every imperial wife and daughter; they had already been flung at Agrippina for most of her life and would continue up to her death. Judging their truth content is almost impossible today. (Imagine assessing tabloid accounts of modern celebrity sex lives from a distance of two millennia.) All we know for certain is that such charges were guaranteed to stick and to leave a nasty smear.

  Also hard to assess are behind-the-scenes tales about what now took place in the palace. Our sources report that the emperor’s favor began to shift, away from Nero and toward his natural son. Suetonius says Claudius would hug Britannicus and urge him to grow up quickly, suggestively quoting an old Greek proverb: “The one who wounded you”—meaning himself—“will heal you.” Tacitus attributes such gestures only to Narcissus, not to Claudius. But he does give some support to the idea, prominent in other sources, that Claudius was growing mistrustful of Agrippina’s conduct, especially her sexual comportment. (When he was congratulated for having presided over the conviction of an adulteress, Claudius allegedly punned that his own wives were likewise impudica sed non impunita, “sleazy, but they won’t get off easy.”)

  A weary-looking Claudius, in a bronze portrait probably made from life.

  Claudius drew up his will at this time and had it put under official seal. He could not simply pass on control of the empire as if it were a family heirloom, but bequeathing his personal wealth, an essential resource for anyone running the government, would amount to the same thing.

  What was in that document, or in Claudius’ mind, concerning his sons? The will was later suppressed, leaving historians both ancient and modern to argue about its contents. Perhaps, as Tacitus, and some modern scholars, believe, it confirmed the selection of Nero; but why then would Nero suppress it? The motive Tacitus gives—that the will would have upset the populace by preferring a stepson over a son—sounds specious, given that entirely scuttling the will risked inflaming them even more.

  Barbara Levick, the leading modern biographer of Claudius, reasons that no logical man would derail the standing order, which for years had favored Nero, at this late stage. But moves made by aging emperors do not always accord with logic. Tiberius, who had faced a similar dilemma to that of Claudius—whether to prefer a grandnephew, Gaius, over his own grandson, based on age and purity of blood—avoided making a decision as long as he could, then designated both boys joint heirs. Even at the doorway of death, Tiberius seemed unable or unwilling to make the fateful choice. According to a report by Seneca, in his final moments Tiberius removed the signet ring from his hand as though to pass it to a successor. But instead he held on to it, and then, just before collapsing, put it back on his own finger.

  Was Claudius in a similar quandary in October 54? Or was he still convinced, as he had been for four years, that Nero was the best way forward? Did Agrippina perceive a growing change of heart in him? Did she then take steps, as most sources agree she did, to stop that heart, before it could change further?

  Poisoning stories bedevil the modern historian even more than scandalous sex tales. No autopsies were held after the death of an emperor. The Romans, like all peoples everywhere, enjoyed skullduggery and conspiracy theories. These were vastly more entertaining than r
eports of sick old men slowly declining toward death. The truth of whether Claudius was murdered can never be known for certain, and some scholars do not believe he was.

  That said, the timing of Claudius’ death is highly suspicious. It fell some three months before Britannicus’ majority, during the last stretch of Nero’s three-year edge. If Claudius had indeed expressed to anyone, or written in his will, any doubts about Nero’s succession, this would have been the perfect time to strike.

  According to Tacitus, Agrippina plotted Claudius’ murder carefully. She first sent away Narcissus, the emperor’s most watchful partisan, to Sinuessa, a spa town where he could take the cure for his gout. Then she commissioned Locusta—“the Crayfish”—a Gallic woman convicted of poisoning but sprung out of jail on condition she work for the palace. Agrippina wanted a carefully calibrated drug, one that would not kill Claudius quickly—a sudden, violent death would be too obvious—but rather would destroy his mind, so that he could neither protect himself nor elevate Britannicus.

  This custom-made toxin was passed to a eunuch named Halotus, the emperor’s server and food taster, who introduced it into a plate of mushrooms, one of Claudius’ favorite foods. Dio concurs with Tacitus’ account and adds a memorable detail: Agrippina had only one mushroom poisoned, the biggest and most succulent on the plate. She shared the dish with her husband to put him off guard, but then insisted, as loving spouses do, that he help himself to the best one.

  Claudius quickly fell into a stupor and was carried from the banquet hall; but then—again following Tacitus’ account—the plan went awry. After emptying his bowels of the toxic meal, Claudius began to recover. Agrippina panicked, recognizing that her husband must now suspect her intentions and would act swiftly against her.

  Luckily she had other palace lackeys ready to do her will. Xenophon, a Greek physician who attended on the imperial family, was called in and prescribed a therapeutic purge. He produced a feather to induce vomiting; it had been coated with a fast-acting poison. This second drug finished Claudius off, during the night of October 12.

  Such is the tale of Claudius’ demise as told by Tacitus. It is contradicted on details by other ancient historians and mistrusted by some modern ones. But many of those who today deny that Claudius was murdered nonetheless agree that a dish of mushrooms was the cause of death. If such was the case, the lethal fungus seems far more likely to have been poisoned than merely poisonous, given the timing of its appearance on the emperor’s table.

  The moment for Nero’s accession was at hand, a moment Agrippina had long anticipated and that she now choreographed with consummate skill. Before news of Claudius’ death could leak out, she made use of the Praetorian Guard, the corps of soldiers she had carefully groomed over preceding years, to seal off the palace. No one was to learn of Claudius’ death until the time was right. Meanwhile she detained Britannicus in his chambers and kept his sister Octavia close by her side.

  When morning came, and a troupe of comedians arrived to entertain the emperor, the soldiers admitted them. It was important to convey a sense of routine to those passing by. Finally, at around noon—an hour of good omen, according to superstitions of the day—Agrippina launched into action.

  The palace doors were thrown open, and Nero came grandly forth, accompanied by Burrus, prefect of the Praetorian Guard. A brief announcement was made of Claudius’ death to the soldiers on duty outside, who took their cue from Burrus and saluted Nero as leader. Or at least, most did. Tacitus reports that a few looked around anxiously and asked one another why Britannicus had not appeared. But as critical seconds ticked away, Britannicus stayed off the scene.

  Rome had as yet no rituals for the acclamation of a princeps. Only twice before had there been an orderly transfer of power. For lack of a longer tradition, the soldiers adopted the procedure used for Claudius the last time around. Nero was taken in a covered litter to the Praetorian camp outside the city walls. There he delivered a speech—Dio specifies that Seneca had written it for him—to the assembled soldiery. He accompanied his grand words with a grand gift: as much as 20,000 sesterces, or two decades’ worth of pay at the centurion salary level, per man. The soldiers hailed him as imperator, as they had done for Claudius.

  Nero proceeded to the Senate house and spent several hours there. The senators, too, greeted Nero adoringly. They immediately voted him the rights and powers accruing to his new status. This outdid Claudius, and Caligula as well, both of whom had waited weeks to receive these honors.

  By the end of the day on October 13, as her son made his way back to the palace, Agrippina could look with immense satisfaction on what she had wrought. Nero was princeps, and Britannicus was disinherited. The Praetorians had dutifully played their part. The machinery she had set in place had worked.

  Narcissus, in Campania, got word of Claudius’ death and hurried back to Rome. Perhaps he still hoped to rouse support for Britannicus, but he was too late. As soon as he entered the city, he was arrested and thrown into prison. The new regime, only a day or two old, had committed its first abuse of judicial procedure.

  Meanwhile, in the skies above Rome, Claudius’ spirit made its limping way toward heaven, to join the company of the gods. As the Senate would shortly decree, Claudius had become a god, Divus Claudius, at the moment of his death.

  The upward progress of Claudius’ ghost would soon be described by a most unlikely “witness”—the former senator who was now the close adviser, speechwriter, and moral conscience of the new regime, the philosopher Seneca.

  CHAPTER 3

  Fratricide

  (A.D. 54–55)

  “That which transpired in heaven, on the third day before the ides of October, Year One—the beginning of a most blessed age—I wish to commit to record,” begins a text with the curious title Apocolocyntosis Divi Claudii—“Pumpkinification of the Deified Claudius.” The narrator, an unidentified political insider with a snarky tone and a habit of suddenly breaking into verse, promises to relate the events of October 13, the day after Claudius’ death. The author, improbably enough, was Seneca.

  Nearly everything about this work is a mystery, including the meaning of its title, for the text as we have it nowhere refers to pumpkins. The invented Greek word apocolocyntosis, coined by analogy with apotheosis, may simply be intended to convey the spirit of the ludicrous. For Rome had witnessed a truly ludicrous event by late 54: the official deification, sponsored by Nero and Agrippina, of Claudius.

  It was the first time in almost two decades that such an honor had been granted, and only the second time a princeps had received it. Augustus, of course, had been the first. The notion that Claudius ranked with his most sanctified predecessor was patently absurd. Seneca’s older brother Gallio, formerly called Novatus, quipped to his cronies that Claudius had been hauled up to heaven with a hook—meaning the hook the Romans used to haul the corpses of criminals through the Forum, before they were dumped into the Tiber.

  Laughable or not, the move held advantages for Nero. He could now be called divi filius, son of a god, as he soon was on coins and in inscriptions. By a twist of irony, the same rise in stature accrued to Britannicus, Claudius’ natural son, the new emperor’s chief rival and foremost threat.

  Agrippina too had much at stake in Claudius’ divinization. She could now hope to follow the example of Livia, the wife of Augustus, and exploit the power that belonged to a god’s widow. Livia had become priestess of Augustus’ cult and was thereafter accompanied by a lictor—a bearer of bundled rods, symbolizing the right to use force as an instrument of control. Agrippina, in fact, saw to it that she would outstrip her predecessor. The senatorial acts that deified Claudius awarded her two lictors to Livia’s one. They also set aside funds for a colossal new temple in central Rome, to be superintended by Agrippina as flamen or head priestess.

  It was this solemn act of deification, this prop to the authority of both Nero and Agrippina, that Seneca mocked in Apocolocyntosis. Abandoning the reserved, high-minded to
ne of the moral treatises, he here writes in such an uncharacteristically funny, irreverent voice that, were it not for a chance comment by Cassius Dio, no one would ever think the work was his.

  The day described in Apocolocyntosis begins with the death of Claudius. After the Fates snip the thread of the emperor’s life, Claudius farts loudly and pronounces his last words: “Oh Lord, I think I’ve shit myself” (to which the narrator adds, “Whether he did or not, I can’t say, but he certainly shit all over everything else”). The palsied, limping emperor appears at heaven’s gates and is greeted as a deformed monster. An assembly of gods is convoked—a parodic version of the Roman Senate—to debate Claudius’ request for admission, and stern voices are raised in opposition. The deified Augustus rises to condemn Claudius’ abuses, recounting with outrage the murders that have thinned out the imperial family.

  Rebuffed from heaven, Claudius is sent down to the underworld. There he is greeted by throngs of his victims—thirty-five senators and 321 knights, together with countless commoners, according to the exacting records of Aeacus, judger of souls. Sentence is passed in the work’s last lines. Claudius will have an eternal low-rank post on the staff of Caligula, shuffling legal papers for one of the mad emperor’s freedmen.

  Seneca’s motives in writing this work are extremely hard to discern. Editors of a recent translation suggest he wanted revenge, since Claudius, at the behest of Messalina, had sent him to exile on Corsica thirteen years earlier. Other readers have suggested it was written during the Saturnalia, a winter solstice holiday that granted license to servants to make fun of their masters. But if so, Seneca took that license to a risky extreme, ridiculing one of the first, and most sober, undertakings of Nero’s administration.