Allan Massie: Nero_s Heirs

Yet, indeed, I had a public career, and one of some distinction. I continued to serve Domitian, telling myself I was serving Rome. Since my presence now disturbed him, my service was with the armies on the frontiers of the Empire. I took a not inglorious part in the war against the Chatti (Balthus' tribe, as it happens), which war secured for Rome a defensible northern frontier by enabling the armies of the Rhine to be linked with those of the Danube. Moreover, in as much as it was I myself who drew Domitian's attention to the strategic importance of the valley of the River Neckar, I may fairly boast of having done the State important and enduring service.

But I had aroused the Emperor's jealousy. Dormant for years, since I had shown myself subservient to his will by the abandonment of Domatilla, it was renewed and intensified by my achievements. Now I found myself publicly denounced by his paid informers. Domitian was ready – eager even – to condemn me on charges of treason. Then he relented. I could not understand why. I have since wondered – hoped, hoped fervently – that Domatilla intervened and spoke up for me. But I do not know. Whatever the reason, the most serious charge was dropped. I found myself only – only! – accused of offences against the Lex Scantinia, which prohibits 'unnatural sexual practices'. I viewed the charge with contempt, disdained to enter a plea of innocence, which was certain to be dismissed, submitted to the imperial judgement, and was condemned to exile.

As Tacitus has repeatedly assured me, the tyrant being long dead, it would be safe for me to return to Rome. But to what purpose?

I would now be more a stranger in Rome than I am here. My children would have no place in the city, being bastards and the offspring of a slave. And the woman cares for me, I suppose.

So I drag my days out in this boreal climate. I used to read philosophy. It means nothing to me now. Lust has fled me, too; its last flicker was my brief desire for Balthus, now grey ashes.

At night I drink harsh wine and see ghosts in the flames. There is nothing left for me, and yet I am loth to depart.

I feel no impulse to stretch out my hands to the further shore where, I am convinced, I shall find nothing but darkness and vacancy. If by chance there is some afterlife – if I am mistaken in thinking there none – then I fear it may be a length of cold nights, with sleep broken by dreams one would wish away.