Tacitus - Annals - Translations (1876-2012): Church-Brodribb, Jackson, Grant, Woodman, Yardley, Damon

Book I, Chapter 1, the famous declaration to write “sine ira et studio”.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

Rome at the beginning was ruled by kings. Freedom and the consulship were established by Lucius Brutus. Dictatorships were held for a temporary crisis. The power of the decemvirs did not last beyond two years, nor was the consular jurisdiction of the military tribunes of long duration. The despotisms of Cinna and Sulla were brief; the rule of Pompeius and of Crassus soon yielded before Caesar; the arms of Lepidus and Antonius before Augustus; who, when the world was wearied by civil strife, subjected it to empire under the title of “Prince”. But the successes and reverses of the old Roman people have been recorded by famous historians; and fine intellects were not wanting to describe the times of Augustus, till growing sycophancy scared them away. The histories of Tiberius, Gaius, Claudius, and Nero, while they were in power, were falsified through terror, and after their death were written under the irritation of a recent hatred. Hence my purpose is to relate a few facts about Augustus – more particularly his last acts, then the reign of Tiberius, and all which follows, without either bitterness or partiality, from any motives to which I am far removed.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

Rome at the outset was a city state under the government of kings: liberty and the consulate were institutions of Lucius Brutus. Dictatorships were always a temporary expedient: the decemviral office was dead within two years, nor was the consular authority of the military tribunes long-lived. Neither Cinna nor Sulla created a lasting despotism: Pompey and Crassus quickly forfeited their power to Caesar, and Lepidus and Antony their swords to Augustus, who, under the style of “Prince,”​ gathered beneath his empire a world outworn by civil broils.​ But, while the glories and disasters of the old Roman commonwealth have been chronicled by famous pens, and intellects of distinction were not lacking to tell the tale of the Augustan age, until the rising tide of sycophancy deterred them, the histories of Tiberius and Caligula, of Claudius and Nero, were falsified through cowardice while they flourished, and composed, when they fell, under the influence of still rankling hatreds. Hence my design, to treat a small part (the concluding one) of Augustus’ reign, then the principate of Tiberius and its sequel, without anger and without partiality, from the motives of which I stand sufficiently removed.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

When Rome was first a city, its rulers were kings. Then Lucius Junius Brutus created the consulate and free Republican institutions in general. Dictatorships were assumed in emergencies. A Council of Ten did not last more than two years; and then there was a short-lived arrangement by which senior army officers – the commanders of contingents provided by the tribes – possessed consular authority. Subsequently Cinna and Sulla set up autocracies, but they too were brief. Soon Pompey and Crassus acquired predominant positions, but rapidly lost them to Caesar. Next, the military strength which Lepidus and Antony had built up was absorbed by Augustus. He found the whole state exhausted by internal dissensions, and established over it a personal régime known as the Principate.

Famous writers have recorded Rome’s early glories and disasters. The Augustan Age, too, had its distinguished historians. But then the rising tide of flattery exercised a deterrent effect. The reigns of Tiberius, Gaius, Claudius, and Nero were described during their lifetimes in fictitious terms, for fear of the consequences; whereas the accounts written after their deaths were influenced by still raging animosities. So I have decided to say a little about Augustus, with special attention to his last period, and then go on to the reign of Tiberius and what followed. I shall write without indignation or partisanship: in my case the customary incentives to these are lacking.

[Woodman, 2004:]

The City of Rome from its inception was held by kings; freedom and the consulship were established by L. Brutus. Dictatorships were taken up only on occasion, and neither did decemviral power remain in effect beyond two years, nor the military tribunes’ consular prerogative for long. Not for Cinna nor for Sulla was there lengthy domination, and the powerfulness of Pompeius and Crassus passed quickly to Caesar, the armies of Lepidus and Antonius to Augustus, who with the name of princeps took everything, exhausted as it now was by civil dissensions, under his command.

The Roman people of old, however, had their successes and adversities recalled by brilliant writers; and to tell of Augustus’ times there was no dearth of deserving talents, until they were deterred by swelling sycophancy. The affairs of Tiberius and Gaius, as of Claudius and Nero, were falsified through dread while the men themselves flourished, and composed with hatred fresh after their fall. Hence my plan is the transmission of a mere few things about Augustus and of his final period, then of Tiberius’ principate and the remainder – without anger and partiality, any reasons for which I keep at a distance.

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

Kings first governed the city of Rome; liberty and the consulship were established by Lucius Brutus. Dictatorships were employed to meet crises. The rule of the decemvirs lasted no more than two years, and the consular authority of the military tribunes was also short-lived. The ascendancy of Cinna was not of long duration, nor that of Sulla; and the dominance of Pompey and Crassus swiftly passed to Caesar, the armed might of Lepidus and Antonius to Augustus. Augustus then brought a world exhausted from civil dissension under his authority, with the title of ‘First Citizen’.

The Roman people of old had their successes and their failures related by famous authors; and there was no shortage of fine minds for recording the Augustan period, until the groundswell of obsequiousness frightened them off. The histories of Tiberius, Gaius, Claudius, and Nero were distorted because of fear while they reigned, and, when they were gone, were composed with animosities still fresh. Hence my decision to deal only briefly with Augustus – and specifically with the final days – and then to move on to the principate of Tiberius and its aftermath, without rancour or bias, far removed as I am from motives for these.

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

The city of Rome was originally in the hands of kings; liberty and the consulship were instituted by Lucius Brutus. Dictatorships were assumed temporarily. The Board of Ten did not exercise control beyond a two-year period, nor was the military tribunes’ consular authority long prevalent. Neither Cinna’s regime nor Sulla’s was lengthy. The power of Pompey and Crassus quickly gave way to Caesar, likewise the armies of Lepidus and Antony to Augustus, who as ‘first citizen’ received everything, weary as it was from civil strife, into his command.

For the Roman people of old – their successes and misfortunes – writers of renown produced a record, and the tale of Augustus’ times did not lack reputable talents until the spread of flattery proved a deterrent. The affairs of Tiberius and Gaius, Claudius and Nero, in their prosperity were falsified through fear and after their fall were written with hatreds still fresh. Thus my plan is to report a few final things about Augustus, then Tiberius’ principate and the rest, without anger or favour, from whose causes I consider myself distant.        

 

Book I, Chapters 3-4, the demise of the Republic and its virtues.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

At home all was tranquil, and there were magistrates with the same titles; there was a younger generation, sprung up since the victory of Actium, and even many of the older men had been born during the civil wars. How few were left who had seen the republic!

Thus the State had been revolutionized, and there was not a vestige left of the old sound morality. Stript of equality, all looked up to the commands of a sovereign without the least apprehension for the present, while Augustus in the vigour of life, could maintain his own position, that of his house, and the general tranquillity.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

At home all was calm. The officials carried the old names; the younger men had been born after the victory of Actium; most even of the elder generation, during the civil wars; few indeed were left who had seen the Republic.

It was thus an altered world, and of the old, unspoilt Roman character not a trace lingered. Equality was an outworn creed, and all eyes looked to the mandate of the sovereign – with no immediate misgivings, so long as Augustus in the full vigour of his prime upheld himself, his house, and peace.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

In the capital the situation was calm. The titles of officials remained the same. Actium had been won before the younger men were born. Even most of the older generation had come into a world of civil wars. Practically no one had ever seen truly Republican government. The country had been transformed, and there was nothing left of the ne old Roman character. Political equality was a thing of the past; all eyes watched for imperial commands.

Nobody had any immediate worries as long as Augustus retained his physical powers, and kept himself going, and his House, and the peace of the empire.

[Woodman, 2004:]

At home things were calm, magistrates had the same designations.But the younger men had been born after the Actian victory, and the majority even of the elderly in the course of the citizens’ wars: what size was the remaining proportion, who had seen the republic? As a result, along with the changed state of the community, nowhere did any aspect of old-time convention remain untouched: with equality cast aside, all looked to the orders of the princeps, with no alarm for the present, while Augustus had the strength and years to support both himself and his household and peace.

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

At home there was tranquillity, and official bore the same title as before. Younger people had been born after the victory at Actium and even the old, for the most part, had been born during the period of the civil wars, leaving only a minute fraction that had witnessed the republic.

Thus the nature of the state had changed, and no trace of the old integrity of character was anywhere to be found. Equality had been discarded, and everybody focused on the emperor’s commands. There was no fear for the moment, as long as Augustus’ age and strength could sustain the man himself, his house and the peace.

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

At home the situation was calm. For magistracies there was not change to the terminology. The younger men were born after Actium and most of the elderly were born during the civil wars. How many were left who had seen a republic?

Given the upheaval in the community’s disposition nowhere did former morality survive unscathed. Everyone discarded equality and looked to the Emperor’s orders – without alarm at the time, since Augustus’ age was vigorous and he sustained himself, his house and the peace. 

 

Book I, Chapter 61, the last stand of the Varus legions five years later.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

Varus’s first camp with its wide circumference and the measurements of its central space clearly indicated the handiwork of three legions. Further on, the partially fallen rampart and the shallow fosse suggested the inference that it was a shattered remnant of the army which had there taken up a position. In the centre of the field were the whitening bones of men, as they had fled, or stood their ground, strewn everywhere or piled in heaps. Near, lay fragments of weapons and limbs of horses, and also human heads, prominently nailed to trunks of trees. In the adjacent groves were the barbarous altars, on which they had immolated tribunes and first-rank centurions. Some survivors of the disaster who had escaped from the battle or from captivity, described how this was the spot where the officers fell, how yonder the eagles were captured, where Varus was pierced by his first wound, where too by the stroke of his own ill-starred hand he found for himself death. They pointed out too the raised ground from which Arminius had harangued his army, the number of gibbets for the captives, the pits for the living, and how in his exultation he insulted the standards and eagles.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

Varus’ first camp, with its broad sweep and measured spaces for officers and eagles, advertised the labours of three legions: then a half-ruined wall and shallow ditch showed that there the now broken remnant had taken cover. In the plain between were bleaching bones, scattered or in little heaps, as the men had fallen, fleeing or standing fast. Hard by lay splintered spears and limbs of horses, while human skulls were nailed prominently on the tree-trunks. In the neighbouring groves stood the savage altars at which they had slaughtered the tribunes and chief centurions. Survivors of the disaster, who had escaped the battle or their chains, told how here the legates fell, there the eagles were taken, where the first wound was dealt upon Varus, and where he found death by the suicidal stroke of his own unhappy hand. They spoke of the tribunal from which Arminius made his harangue, all the gibbets and torture-pits for the prisoners, and the arrogance with which he insulted the standards and eagles.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

Varus’ extensive first camp, with its broad extent and headquarters marked out, testified to the whole army’s labours. Then a half-ruined breastwork and shallow ditch showed where the last pathetic remnant had gathered. On the open ground were whitening bones, scattered where men had fled, heaped up where they had stood and fought back. Fragments of spears and of horses’ limbs lay there – also human heads, fastened to tree-trunks. In groves nearby were the outlandish altars at which the Germans had massacred the Roman colonels and senior company-commanders.

Survivors of the catastrophe, who had escaped from the battle or from captivity, pointed out where the generals had fallen, and where the Eagles were captured. They showed where Varus received his first wound, and where he died by his own unhappy hand. And they told of the platform from which Arminius had spoken, and of his arrogant insults to the Eagles and standards – and of all the gibbets and pits for the prisoners.

[Woodman, 2004:]

First there was Varus’ camp, with its wide perimeter and headquarters measured out, demonstrating the handiwork of the three legions; then, in the half-destroyed rampart, in a shallow ditch, their remnants, now cut to pieces, had evidently huddled together. In the middle of the plain there were whitening bones, scattered or piled up, exactly as men had fled or resisted. Nearby lay fragments of weapons and horses’ limbs, and also, on the trunks of trees, skulls were impaled. In the neighboring groves were barbarian altars, at which they had sacrificed tribunes and first-rank centurions. And survivors of the disaster, who had slipped away from the fight or their bonds, reported that here the legates had fallen, there the eagles been seized; where Varus’ first wound had been driven home, where he had met his death by a blow from his own luckless right hand; from which tribunal Arminius had harangued; how many gibbets there had been for the captives, and which were the pits; and how in his haughtiness he had mocked the standards and eagles.

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

Varus’ first camp, with its wide circumference and with the headquarters marked out, revealed the handiwork of the three legions; then, from a half-demolished rampart and a shallow ditch, one could detect the point where an already shattered remnant of the force had taken a position. In the middle of the field were whitening bones, scattered or in piles, where men had fled or made a stand. Close by lay pieces of weapons and limbs of horses, and there were also skulls nailed to tree-trunks. In groves close by were barbarous altars where the enemy had sacrificed tribunes and first-rank centurions. And survivors of that catastrophe, who had managed to slip away from the battle or from captivity, would describe how the legates had fallen in this spot, how the eagles were taken in that; and show where Varus was dealt his first wound, and where he met his end by a blow from his own ill-starred hand. They indicated the dais from which Arminius had addressed his troops, enumerated the gibbets he used for the prisoners, and pointed out the live-burial pits, and told how he had arrogantly mocked the standards and the eagles.

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

Varus’ first camp, with a wide perimeter road and demarcated headquarters, showed the handiwork of three legions. From a low-heaped rampart and shallow ditch one could see the base of the survivors’ thinned ranks. At the battlefield’s centre, bones lay whitening, scattered or heaped where men had fled or resisted. Alongside were fragments of weapons and the limbs of horses and, affixed to tree trunks, skulls. In nearby groves were the barbarian altars where they sacrificed officers and chief centurions. Survivors of that disaster (they had slipped away from battle or captivity) gave the report. Here the legates fell; there the eagles were seized. They told where Varus was first wounded, where, with his unlucky right hand, he found self-inflicted death. And what platform Arminius spoke from, how many stocks there were for captives, and pits, and how, in his arrogance, Arminius mocked the standards and eagles.

 

Book I, Chapter 70, disaster on the shores of the North Sea.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

Vitellius at first pursued his route without interruption, having a dry shore, or the waves coming in gently. After a while, through the force of the north wind and the equinoctial season, when the sea swells to its highest, his army was driven and tossed hither and thither. The country too was flooded; sea, shore, fields presented one aspect, nor could the treacherous quicksands be distinguished from solid ground or shallows from deep water. Men were swept away by the waves or sucked under by eddies; beasts of burden, baggage, lifeless bodies floated about and blocked their way. The companies were mingled in confusion, now with the breast, now with the head only above water, sometimes losing their footing and parted from their comrades or drowned. The voice of mutual encouragement availed not against the adverse force of the waves. There was nothing to distinguish the brave from the coward, the prudent from the careless, forethought from chance; the same strong power swept everything before it. At last Vitellius struggled out to higher ground and led his men up to it. There they passed the night, without necessary food, without fire, many of them with bare or bruised limbs, in a plight as pitiable as that of men besieged by an enemy. For such, at least, have the opportunity of a glorious death, while here was destruction without honour.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

At first Vitellius had an uneventful journey over dry ground or through gently running tides. Before long, however, a northerly gale, aggravated by the equinox, during which the Ocean is always at its wildest, began to play havoc with the column. Then the whole land became a flood: sea, shore, and plain wore a single aspect; and it was impossible to distinguish solid from fluid, deep from shallow. Men were dashed over by the billows or drawn under by the eddies: packhorses – their loads – lifeless bodies – came floating through, or colliding with, the ranks. The companies became intermingled, the men standing one moment up to the breast, another up to the chin, in water; then the ground would fail beneath them, and they were scattered or submerged. Words and mutual encouragement availed nothing against the deluge: there was no difference between bravery and cowardice, between wisdom and folly, circumspection or chance; everything was involved in the same fury of the elements. At last Vitellius struggled out on to rising ground and led his columns after him. They spent the night without necessities, without fire, many of them naked or badly maimed, – every whit as wretched as their comrades in the invested camp.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

At first Vitellius had an easy journey. The ground was dry or only slightly waterlogged. But then at the autumnal equinox, when the North Sea is always at its roughest, his column was harassed and confused by a northerly gale. The country was deluged. Sea, land, and shore all looked the same. There was no way to distinguish solid from treacherous ground, shallow water from deep. Men were knocked down by waves and dragged under. Pack-animals, baggage, dead bodies floated about and struck against each other. Units lost their identity. Men stood up to the chest or even the neck in water. Then they lost their footing, and were carried away or went under. Their shouts to encourage one another were unavailing against the floods. Brave men or cowards, good sense or bad, planning or the lack of it, were all one, in the grip of the raging elements.

Finally Publius Vitellius and his column struggled out on to higher ground. They spent the night without re or other necessities. Many men were naked or hurt – as badly o as a besieged army, indeed worse, since for such an army death is at least glorious, not squalid as it was here.

[Woodman, 2004:]

At first Vitellius had a peaceful journey, the ground being dry or the incoming tide only moderate; but later under the onslaught of the north wind, coinciding as it did with the constellation of the equinox (when the Ocean’s swell is greatest), his driving column was caught and driven about. In fact the land was covered over: strait, shore, and plains all had the same appearance, nor could unstable parts be differentiated from firm, shoal from deep. They were knocked over by billows, swallowed up by maelstroms; baggage-animals, packs, lifeless bodies flowed past or bumped into them. The maniples became thoroughly mixed up among themselves, sometimes protruding as far as the chest, sometimes only the face, and on occasion, with the ground swept from under them, scattered or overwhelmed. No voice or mutual encouragements gave help in the onrushing waves; nothing distinguished the energetic from the shirker, the wise from the incautious, calculation from chance: everything was engulfed in equal violence.

Eventually Vitellius, struggling out to higher ground, led his column up to the same place. They passed the night without comestibles, without fire, many with their bodies naked or mauled, no less pitiable than men invested by an enemy: for then one still has the resort of an honorable death, whereas theirs was an inglorious extermination.

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

Vitellius initially had a smooth journey on dry soil or where the tide had a gentle flow. Soon his column was seized and buffeted by the blasts of a north wind – and it was also the season of the equinox, the time at which the ocean has its greatest swell. The land was submerged, and sea, shoreline, and fields all looked the same, with treacherous areas indistinguishable from the solid, and shallow spots from the deep. They were bowled over by the waves, pulled under by the currents; pack-animals, their loads, and dead bodies floated amongst them and bumped into them. The companies became completely intermingled, standing in water sometimes up to their chests, sometimes up to their heads; and on occasion, when they lost their footing, they became separated or they sank. Shouts of mutual encouragement were of no use against the onset of the floodwaters. There was no difference between the active man and the idler, between the prudent and the incautious, between calculated and random response. Everything was swept up in the same devastating force.

Finally Vitellius struggled out onto higher ground and brought his column up to the same spot. They passed the night without provisions and without fire, most of them naked or maimed, no less wretched than men under enemy blockade. For in that situation there was the added factor of an honourable death, whereas these men faced an end without glory.

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

Vitellius’ journey, at first, on dry ground or with limited wave encroachment, was calm. Later, with the north wind gusting, as well as the equinox (when Ocean’s swelling is greatest), his column was pulled and pushed and the land was swamped. Sea, shore and field had the same appearance, nor could uncertain ground be distinguished from solid, shallow water from deep. They were toppled by waves, swallowed by whirlpools. Animals, baggage and lifeless bodies floated among and against them. Units were mingled, above water sometimes only as far as chest or face, and occasionally, when the ground fell away, scattered and drowned. Voices didn’t help, nor mutual exhortations, against the waves. Valiant men or cowards, wise or foolish, plans or chance – it made no difference. Everything was equally enveloped in violence. Finally, Vitellius struggled onto higher ground and drew up there. They spent the night without supplies, without fire, the majority with bodies naked and bruised, scarcely less wretched than men surrounded by an enemy: there, honourable death is possible, but these faced inglorious destruction.

         

Book III, Chapters 18-19, the ambiguous nature of history.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

For my part, the wider the scope of my reflection on the present and the past, the more am I impressed by their mockery of human plans in every transaction. Clearly, the very last man marked out for empire by public opinion, expectation and general respect was he whom fortune was holding in reserve as the emperor of the future [Claudius].

[...]

This was the end of avenging the death of Germanicus, a subject of conflicting rumours not only among the people then living but also in after times. So obscure are the greatest events, as some take for granted any hearsay, whatever its source, others turn truth into falsehood, and both errors find encouragement with posterity.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

For myself, the more I reflect on events recent or remote, the more am I haunted by the sense of a mockery in human affairs. For by repute, by expectancy, and by veneration, all men were sooner marked out for sovereignty than that future emperor whom destiny was holding in the background [Claudius].

[...]

This closed the punitive measures demanded by Germanicus’ death: an affair which, not only to the generation which witnessed it, but in the succeeding years, was a battle-ground of opposing rumours. So true it is that the great event is an obscure event: one school admits all hearsay evidence, whatever its character, as indisputable; another perverts the truth into its contrary; and, in each case, posterity magnifies the error.     

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

The more I think about history, ancient or modern, the more ironical all human affairs seem. In public opinion, expectation, and esteem no one appeared a less likely candidate for the throne than the man for whom destiny was secretly reserving it [Claudius].

[...]

So the avenging of Germanicus ended. Contradictory rumours have raged around it among contemporaries and later generations alike. Important events are obscure. Some believe all manner of hearsay evidence; others twist truth into fiction; and both sorts of error are magnified by time.

[Woodman, 2004:]

...but as for me, the more I reconsider recent or past events, the more I am confronted with the mockeries made of mortal affairs in every activity: for in terms of reputation, hope, and veneration, everyone was marked out for command rather than the future princeps whom fortune was keeping in hiding [Claudius].

[...]

That was the end to the avenging, though Germanicus’ death was bandied about in various rumors not only among those men who lived then but also in following times. So is it the case that all the greatest matters are ambiguous, inasmuch as some people hold any form of hearsay as confirmed, others turn truth into its converse, and each swells among posterity.

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

Personally, the more I consider recent or earlier history, the more I find myself face to face with the farcical nature of all human affairs. For in terms of reputation, hopes, and respect, everyone was more likely to succeed to power than the man whom fortune was keeping under cover as the future emperor [Claudius].

[...]

That spelled the end of the punitive measures for Germanicus’ death, but the affair remained a subject of conflicting rumours not only amongst men of that epoch but in the years that succeeded them as well. So true is it that the greatest events are fraught with ambiguity: some regard as certain any hearsay at all, while others turn the truth inside out; and both versions balloon in succeeding generations.

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

But the more I reflect on events recent and past, the more I am struck by the element of the absurd in everything humans do. For judging by people’s talk, expectation and expressions of respect, anyone was more ‘destined to rule’ than the future emperor Fortune was hiding [Claudius].

[...]

This was the final act in avenging Germanicus’ death, bandied about not only among contemporaries but in subsequent ages too by varied rumour, so uncertain are the most significant events when some take hearsay from whatever source as information, others convert truth into its opposite and both multiply with time’s passage.        

 

Book III, Chapter 65, the duty of the historian and the corruption of the times.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

My purpose is not to relate at length every motion, but only such as were conspicuous for excellence or notorious for infamy. This I regard as history’s highest function, to let no worthy action be uncommemorated, and to hold out the reprobation of posterity as a terror to evil words and deeds. So corrupted indeed and debased was that age by sycophancy that not only the foremost citizens who were forced to save their grandeur by servility, but every ex-consul, most of the ex-praetors and a host of inferior senators would rise in eager rivalry to propose shameful and preposterous motions. Tradition says that Tiberius as often as he left the Senate House used to exclaim in Greek, “How ready these men are to be slaves.” Clearly, even he, with his dislike of public freedom, was disgusted at the abject abasement of his creatures.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

It is not my intention to dwell upon any senatorial motions save those either remarkable for their nobility or of memorable turpitude; in which case they fall within my conception of the first duty of history – to ensure that merit shall not lack its record and to hold before the vicious word and deed the terrors of posterity and infamy. But so tainted was that age, so mean its sycophancy, that not only the great personages of the state, who had to shield their magnificence by their servility, but all senators of consular rank, a large proportion of the ex-praetors, many ordinary members​ even, vied with one another in rising to move the most repulsive and extravagant resolutions. The tradition runs that Tiberius, on leaving the curia, had a habit of ejaculating in Greek, “These men! – how ready they are for slavery!” Even he, it was manifest, objecting though he did to public liberty, was growing weary of such grovelling patience in his slaves.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

The only proposals in the senate that I have seen fit to mention are particularly praiseworthy or particularly scandalous ones. It seems to me a historian’s foremost duty to ensure that merit is recorded, and to confront evil deeds and words with the fear of posterity’s denunciations. But this was a tainted, meanly obsequious age. The greatest figures had to protect their positions by subserviency; and, in addition to them, all ex-consuls, most ex-praetors, even many junior senators competed with each other’s offensively sycophantic proposals. There is a tradition that whenever Tiberius left the senate-house he exclaimed in Greek, ‘Men t to be slaves!’ Even he, freedom’s enemy, became impatient of such abject servility.

[Woodman, 2004:]

Recounting proposals has not been my established practice, except those distinguished by honorableness or of noteworthy discredit, which I deem to be a principal responsibility of annals, to prevent virtues from being silenced and so that crooked words and deeds should be attended by the dread of posterity and infamy. Yet those times were so tainted and contaminated by sycophancy that not only community leaders (whose own brilliancy had to be protected by compliance) but all the consulars, a majority of former praetors, and many pedestrian senators too competed with one another in rising and delivering their foul and excessive suggestions. It is transmitted to memory that, whenever Tiberius went out of the curia, he became accustomed to call out in Greek words in this fashion: “Ah! Men primed for slavery!” Evidently even he, who disliked public freedom, was averse to such prompt and prostrate passivity from the servile.

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

I have not set myself the goal of recording senatorial proposals, except in cases where they are remarkable for their integrity, or notoriously discreditable. For I think it is a special duty of history to see that virtues are not left unrecorded, and also that fear of disgrace in posterity attends iniquitous words and actions. But those times were so corrupt and contaminated with sycophancy that men competed with each other in standing up and making foul and outrageous proposals. And it was not just the leading citizens of the community who did so, either, men who had to protect their distinction with servility; so, too, did all the ex-consuls, most ex-praetors, and even many of the lower-ranking senators. The story goes that, whenever he left the Curia, Tiberius was in the habit of declaring, in Greek: ‘Ah, men ready to be slaves!’ Clearly, while he objected to the freedom of the people, he was also sickened by such abject submission from his ‘slaves’.  

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

(My policy is to trace proposals in detail only if conspicuously honourable or of noteworthy disgrace, for in my view the principle obligation of histories is that manifestations of excellence not go unspoken and, for perverse words and deeds, to generate fear from posterity and infamy. Those times were so infected and filthy with flattery that not only the state’s leading men, who had to protect their renown by obsequiousness, but every ex-consul and the majority of former praetors and even junior senators stoop up jostling with shameful and excessive proposals. Tradition holds that Tiberius, leaving the senate house, used to exclaim – in Greek, but with this purport – ‘Those fellows are ready for slavery!’ Clearly even a man opposed to civic liberty found such abject passivity in his slaves tedious.)

                   

Book IV, Chapters 32-33, on the importance of trivialities.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

Much what I have related and shall have to relate, may perhaps, I am aware, seem petty trifles to record. But no one must compare my annals with the writings of those who have described Rome in old days. They told of great wars, of the storming of cities, of the defeat and capture of kings, or whenever they turned by preference to home affairs, they related, with a free scope for digression, the strifes of consuls with tribunes, land and corn-laws, and the struggles between the commons and the aristocracy. My labours are circumscribed and inglorious; peace wholly unbroken or but slightly disturbed, dismal misery in the capital, an emperor careless about the enlargement of the empire, such is my theme. Still it will not be useless to study those at first sight trifling events out of which the movements of vast changes often take their rise.

All nations and cities are ruled by the people, the nobility, or by one man. A constitution, formed by selection out of these elements, it is easy to commend but not to produce; or, if it is produced, it cannot be lasting. Formerly, when the people had power or when the patricians were in the ascendant, the popular temper and the methods of controlling it, had to be studied, and those who knew most accurately the spirit of the Senate and aristocracy, had the credit of understanding the age and of being wise men. So now, after a revolution, when Rome is nothing but the realm of a single despot, there must be good in carefully noting and recording this period, for it is but few who have the foresight to distinguish right from wrong or what is sound from what is hurtful, while most men learn wisdom from the fortunes of others. Still, though this is instructive, it gives very little pleasure. Descriptions of countries, the various incidents of battles, glorious deaths of great generals, enchain and refresh a reader’s mind. I have to present in succession the merciless biddings of a tyrant, incessant prosecutions, faithless friendships, the ruin of innocence, the same causes issuing in the same results, and I am everywhere confronted by a wearisome monotony in my subject matter. Then, again, an ancient historian has but few disparagers, and no one cares whether you praise more heartily the armies of Carthage or Rome. But of many who endured punishment or disgrace under Tiberius, the descendants yet survive; or even though the families themselves may be now extinct, you will find those who, from a resemblance of character, imagine that the evil deeds of others are a reproach to themselves. Again, even honour and virtue make enemies, condemning, as they do, their opposites by too close a contrast. But I return to my work.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

I am not unaware that very many of the events I have described, and shall describe, may perhaps seem little things, trifles too slight for record; but no parallel can be drawn between these chronicles of mine and the work of the men who composed the  ancient history of the Roman people. Gigantic wars, cities stormed, routed and captive kings, or, when they turned by choice to domestic affairs, the feuds of consul and tribune, land-laws and corn-laws, the duel of nobles and commons – such were the themes on which they dwelt, or digressed, at will. Mine is an inglorious labour in a narrow field: for this was an age of peace unbroken or half-heartedly challenged, of tragedy in the capital, of a prince careless to extend the empire. Yet it may be not unprofitable to look beneath the surface of those incidents, trivial at the first inspection, which so often set in motion the great events of history.

For every nation or city is governed by the people, or by the nobility, or by individuals: a constitution selected and blended from these types is easier to commend than to create; or, if created, its tenure of life is brief. Accordingly, as in the period of alternate plebeian dominance and patrician ascendancy it was imperative, in one case, to study the character of the masses and the methods of controlling them; while, in the other, those who had acquired the most exact knowledge of the temper of the senate and the aristocracy were accounted shrewd in their generation and wise; so to‑day, when the situation has been transformed and the Roman world is little else than a monarchy, the collection and the chronicling of these details may yet serve an end: for few men distinguish right and wrong, the expedient and the disastrous, by native intelligence; the majority are schooled by the experience of others. But while my themes have their utility, they offer the minimum of pleasure. Descriptions of countries, the vicissitudes of battles, commanders dying on the field of honour, such are the episodes that arrest and renew the interest of the reader: for myself, I present a series of savage mandates, of perpetual accusations, of traitorous friendships, of ruined innocents, of various causes and identical results – everywhere monotony of subject, and satiety. Again, the ancient author has few detractors, and it matters to none whether you praise the Carthaginian or the Roman arms with the livelier enthusiasm. But of many, who underwent either the legal penalty or a form of degradation in the principate of Tiberius, the descendants remain; and, assuming the actual families to be now extinct, you will still find those who, from a likeness of character, read the ill deeds of others as an innuendo against themselves. Even glory and virtue create their enemies – they arraign their opposites by too close a contrast. But I return to my subject.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

I am aware that much of what I have described, and shall describe, may seem unimportant and trivial. But my chronicle is quite a different matter from histories of early Rome. Their subjects were great wars, cities stormed, kings routed and captured. Or, if home affairs were their choice, they could turn freely to conflicts of consuls with tribunes, to land- and corn-laws, feuds of conservatives and commons. Mine, on the other hand, is a circumscribed inglorious field. Peace was scarcely broken – if at all. Rome was plunged in gloom, the ruler uninterested in expanding the empire.

Yet even apparently insignificant events such as these are worth examination. For they often cause major historical developments. This is so whether a country (or city) is a democracy, an oligarchy, or an autocracy. For it is always one or the other – a mixture of the three is easier to applaud than to achieve, and besides, even when achieved, it cannot last long. When there was democracy, it was necessary to understand the character of the masses and how to control them. When the senate was in power, those who best knew its mind – the mind of the oligarchs – were considered the wisest experts on contemporary events. Similarly, now that Rome has virtually been transformed into an autocracy, the investigation and record of these details concerning the autocrat may prove useful. Indeed, it is from such studies – from the experience of others – that most men learn to distinguish right and wrong, advantage and disadvantage. Few can tell them apart instinctively.

So these accounts have their uses. But they are distasteful. What interests and stimulates readers is a geographical description, the changing fortune of a battle, the glorious death of a commander. My themes on the other hand concern cruel orders, unremitting accusations, treacherous friendships, innocent men ruined – a conspicuously monotonous glut of downfalls and their monotonous causes. Besides, whereas the ancient historian has few critics – nobody minds if he over-praises the Carthaginian (or Roman) army – the men punished or disgraced under Tiberius have numerous descendants living today. And even when the families are extinct, some will think, if their own habits are similar, that the mention of another’s crimes is directed against them. Even glory and merit make enemies – by showing their opposites in too sharp and critical relief.

But I must return to my subject.

[Woodman, 2004:]

(That much of what I have recorded, and of what I shall record, seems perhaps insignificant and trivial to recall I am not unaware; but no one should compare my annals with the writing of those who compiled the affairs of the Roman people of old. Mighty wars, stormings of cities, routed and captured kings, or – whenever they turned their attention to internal matters – discord between consuls and tribunes, agrarian and grain laws, and contests of plebs and optimates – it was these which they recalled and had the freedom to explore. My work, on the other hand, is confined and inglorious: peace was immovable or only modestly challenged, affairs in the City were sorrowful,and the princeps indifferent to extending the empire.

It will nevertheless not be without benefit to have gained an insight into what at first sight are trivialities, from which the movements of great affairs often spring. All nations and cities are ruled either by the people or by leading men or by an individual. (A form of government which is chosen from a combination of these can more easily be praised than happen, or, if it does happen, cannot be long-lasting.) It therefore follows that, just as formerly – that is, during the period of the plebs’ influence or when the fathers were a force – it was necessary to know the nature of the public and in what ways their restraint might be maintained, and those who had acquainted themselves thoroughly with the instincts of senate and optimates were believed astute and wise for their times – so, now that the situation has changed and there is no salvation for affairs other than if one man is in command, it will be apposite for these matters to have been assembled and transmitted, because few men have the proficiency to distinguish the honorable from the baser, or the useful from the harmful, whereas the majority are taught by what happens to others.

Yet, though likely to be advantageous, these matters afford very little enjoyment. It is the localities of peoples, the fluctuations of battles, and the fates of brilliant leaders which rivet and reinvigorate readers’ minds; but in my case it is savage orders, constant accusations, deceitful friendships, the ruin of innocents and always the same reasons for their extermination that I link together, confronted as I am by a satiety of similar material.

Then there is the fact that ancient writers attract only an occasional disparager, nor does it make a difference to anyone whether you delight more in exalting the Punic or Roman lines; but many who during Tiberius’ rule suffered punishment or infamy have descendants remaining, and, even if the actual families have now been extinguished, you will discover persons who, owing to a similarity of behavior, think that the misdeeds of others are being imputed to themselves. Even glory and courage receive a ferocious response, as being critical of their opposites from too close at hand. But I return to my undertaking.)

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

I am well aware that many of the things that I have recounted, and will recount, may seem trivial and too unimportant for the historical record; but nobody should compare my Annals with the writings of those who have composed early histories of the Roman people. They, with freedom to digress, would recount the history of mighty wars, the storming of cities, or the defeat and capture of kings; and if ever they turned to internal affairs, it would be to the quarrels of consuls with the tribunes, the agricultural and grain legislation, and the struggles of the plebs and the aristocracy. My area of work is restricted and without glory: peace unbroken or only weakly challenged, grim episodes in the city, and an emperor with no interest in extending the empire. Even so, it may not be without profit to examine these incidents, which initially seem trivial, but by which important events are often set in motion.

All nations and cities are governed by the people, by the aristocracy, or by monarchs. (A political system that is a selected blend of these is easier for one to praise than it is for it to evolve, or if it does evolve it is perforce short-lived.) Formerly, the plebs were strong or else the senators were dominant. Then one needed to have a knowledge of the nature of the proletariat and how it could be kept under control, and, in the other sense, those thoroughly conversant with the temper of the Senate and the aristocrats were thought to possess political sense and wisdom. Circumstances have now changed, and the safety of the state depends entirely upon one man exercising power. Thus it will prove edifying for these apparent trivialities to be gathered together and recorded, because few have the foresight to distinguish the decent from the dishonourable, or the useful from the harmful – most people learn from the experience of others. However, useful though such information will be, it has little entertainment value. For the topography of peoples, fluctuating battles, the famous deaths of leaders – these are what hold and refresh the minds of readers. In my case, I am presenting a series of cruel orders, endless accusations, faithless friendships, and calamities befalling innocent people, with the causes of their ruin being always the same – for I am faced with a tedious abundance of recurring material. There is the further consideration that those who censure the authors of old are few, and nobody cares whether one accords more fulsome praise to the Carthaginian or the Roman army. But many who suffered punishment or disgrace under Tiberius have descendants still alive; and even in cases where the families themselves have died out, one will still find those who, because of the similarity of their behaviour, believe that, when others’ misdeeds are recounted, it is they who are being pilloried. Even glory and virtue excite hostility by seemingly indicting the opposite qualities with too close a contrast. But I return to my subject.

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

Many of the things I have reported – and will report – may small and trivial in the recoding, I am quite aware. But no one should compare my annals with the writing of those who narrated the past history of the Roman people. Huge wars, successful assaults on cities, routed and captured kings, or, when they turned to internal affairs, disputes of consuls against tribunes, land-holding and welfare laws, conflicts between the commons and the ‘best men’ – these were the things they recorded, free to roam. My work is in a narrow field and inglorious: peace undisturbed or modestly provoked, Rome’s sorry affairs, an emperor inattentive to imperial expansion. It is not useless, however, this scrutiny of things at first sight trivial. From these, great events’ stirrings often arise.

All nations and city-states are ruled by the people or leading men or individuals; the constitution formed by selecting from and conflating these types finds praise more easily than existence and, when it does exist, cannot last long. Therefore, although in the past, with a forceful populace or when senators were in power, one needed to know the nature of the crowd and how it was managed, and those most fully cognizant of the characters of senate and ‘best men’ were believed canny about their times and wise, now, with situation changed and the state’s only security consisting in one-man rule, there is advantage in assembling and reporting these things: few use insight to distinguish the honourable from the less good, the useful from the harmful, and more are taught by others’ outcomes. But though beneficial they bring minimal pleasure. The locations of peoples, vicissitudes of battles and notable deaths of leaders: these things hold and revive readers’ attention. I string together brutal orders, serial accusations, deceptive friendships, the ruin of innocents and identical causes of destruction, confronting the material’s monotony and glut. Plus this: antiquity-writers have few critics. No one cares whether you give Carthaginian or Roman armies a happier encomium. But for many who under Tiberius incurred punishment or disgrace, descendants survive, and where the families themselves are gone you will find people who think, their characters being similar, that others’ bad behaviour is a reproach to themselves. Even glory and virtue have haters – for too nearly accusing their opposites. But I return to my project.

 

Book VI, Chapter 7, The Age of Slander.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

And this was the most dreadful feature of the age, that leading members of the Senate, some openly, some secretly employed themselves in the very lowest work of the informer. One could not distinguish between aliens and kinsfolk, between friends and strangers, or say what was quite recent, or what half-forgotten from lapse of time. People were incriminated for some casual remark in the forum or at the dinner-table, for every one was impatient to be the first to mark his victim, some to screen themselves, most from being, as it were, infected with the contagion of the malady

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

It was, indeed, the most deadly blight of the age that prominent senators practised even the basest forms of delation, some with perfect openness, and many in private. Nor could any distinction be traced between alien and relative, between friend and stranger, between the events of to‑day and those of the dim past. Alike in the Forum or at a dinner-party, to speak of any subject was to be accused: for every man was hastening to be first in the field and to mark down his victim, occasionally in self-defence, generally through infection with what seemed a contagious disease.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

It was, indeed, a horrible feature of the period that leading senators became informers even on trivial matters – some openly, many secretly. Friends and relatives were as suspect as strangers, old stories as damaging as new. In the Forum, at a dinner-party, a remark on any subject might mean prosecution. Everyone competed for priority in marking down the victim. Sometimes this was self-defence, but mostly it was a sort of contagion, like an epidemic.

[Woodman, 2004:]

(This was a particularly baleful phenomenon generated by those times, when leaders of the senate were performing even the lowest denouncements, some quite openly, many in secret; and you could not distinguish relatives from others, unknowns from friends, what was recent or what obscured by age: whatever the subject of their talk, whether in the forum or at a dinner party, men were censured because each individual was frantic to forestall someone else in marking out a defendant, some as a protection for themselves, the majority tainted as if by a contagious illness.)

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

This was the most pernicious feature of that period: leading members of the Senate practicing, some openly, and many covertly, the lowest form of delation. And whether this involved outsiders or family-members, friends or strangers, whether recent acts or those from the dimly remembered past – there was no discernible difference. Whatever people had talked about, whether in the Forum or at dinner, furnished the basis of an accusation, with each man rushing to beat the others in finding someone to accuse, a number doing so from self-defence, more as if they had caught some contagious disease.

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

(This was the most pernicious development of those times: leading senators practising the vilest delation, some openly, others in secret. It was impossible to separate outsiders from connections, friends from strangers, recent events from those obscured by time. Accordingly, whatever people said in the Forum or at parties led to censure, so that everyone hurried to get ahead and target a defendant. Some aimed to help themselves, but more infected, so to speak, by sickness and contagion.)

 

Book VI, Chapter 19, Tiberian reign of terror.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

Sextus Marius, the richest man in Spain, was next accused of incest with his daughter, and thrown headlong from the Tarpeian rock. To remove any doubt that the vastness of his wealth had proved the man’s ruin, Tiberius kept his gold-mines for himself, though they were forfeited to the State. Executions were now a stimulus to his fury, and he ordered the death of all who were lying in prison under accusation of complicity with Sejanus. There lay, singly or in heaps, the unnumbered dead, of every age and sex, the illustrious with the obscure. Kinsfolk and friends were not allowed to be near them, to weep over them, or even to gaze on them too long. Spies were set round them, who noted the sorrow of each mourner and followed the rotting corpses, till they were dragged to the Tiber, where, floating or driven on the bank, no one dared to burn or to touch them. The force of terror had utterly extinguished the sense of human fellowship, and, with the growth of cruelty, pity was thrust aside.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

After these, Sextus Marius,​ the richest man of Spain, was arraigned for incest with his daughter and flung from the Tarpeian Rock; while, to leave no doubt that it was the greatness of his wealth which had redounded to his ruin, his copper-mines and gold-mines, though forfeit to the state, were reserved by Tiberius for himself. And as executions had whetted his appetite, he gave orders for all persons in custody on the charge of complicity with Sejanus to be killed. On the ground lay the huge hecatomb of victims:​ either sex, every age; the famous, the obscure; scattered or piled in mounds. Nor was it permitted to relatives or friends to stand near, to weep over them, or even to view them too long; but a cordon of sentries, with eyes for each beholder's sorrow, escorted the rotting carcasses, as they were dragged to the Tiber, there to float with the current or drift to the banks, with none to commit them to the flames or touch them. The ties of our common humanity had been dissolved by the force of terror; and before each advance of cruelty compassion receded.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

Then Sextus Marius, the richest man in Spain, was thrown from the Tarpeian Rock. The charge was incest with his daughter. But the real cause of his ruin was his wealth. This became clear from Tiberius’ personal appropriation of his gold- and copper-mines – though the State was ostensibly their confiscator.

Frenzied with bloodshed, the emperor now ordered the execution of all those arrested for complicity with Sejanus. It was a massacre. Without discrimination of sex or age, eminence or obscurity, there they lay, strewn about – or in heaps. Relatives and friends were forbidden to stand by or lament them, or even gaze for long. Guards surrounded them, spying on their sorrow, and escorted the rotting bodies until, dragged into the Tiber, they floated away or grounded – with none to cremate or touch them. Terror had paralysed human sympathy. The rising surge of brutality drove compassion away.

[Woodman, 2004:]

After them, Sex. Marius, the richest man in the Spains, was denounced for incest with his daughter and cast down from the Tarpeian Rock; and, so there should be no doubt that it was the magnitude of his money which had rebounded on him so calamitously, his gold- and silver-mines (though they were publicly confiscated) were set aside by Tiberius for himself.

Spurred by these reprisals, he ordered all who were being held in prison accused of association with Sejanus to be executed. The wreckage stretched indefinitely – every sex, every age, illustrious, ignoble, scattered, or heaped. Nor were relatives or friends allowed to stand by, to shed tears or even to gaze for too long, but the guards posted round, intent on each person’s sorrow, escorted the putrefying bodies until they were dragged into the Tiber, where, floating about or beached on the banks, no one dared either cremation or contact. The dealings which are the human lot had fallen to the power of dread, and, as savagery swelled, pity was banished.      

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

Following these, the richest man in the Spanish provinces, Sextus Marius, was denounced for having had incestuous relations with his daughter, and he was thrown down from the Tarpeian Rock. And to leave no doubt that it was really the extent of the man’s wealth that had brought about his downfall, Tiberius set aside his gold and silver mines for himself, although they were state confiscations. Excited now by the executions, he ordered all imprisoned on charges of complicity with Sejanus to be put to death. The carnage was enormous, with bodies lying around – both sexes, all ages, the famous and the unknown, all scattered about or heaped together. Neither relatives nor friends were permitted to stand close to them, to shed tears, or even to look on them for any length of time. Guards were posted around the area, noting each person’s grief; and they accompanied the putrefying corpses until they were dragged to the Tiber. There they floated around or were pushed to the banks by the current, and nobody cremated them or touched them. Ordinary human interaction had been destroyed by the power of fear, and with the growth of the savagery came the expulsion of pity.

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

Next came Sextus Marius, Spain’s wealthiest man. He was reported for incest with his daughter and thrown from the Tarpeian rock. No doubt the size of his fortune turned to harm: Marius’ mines, though state-confiscated, Tiberius took for himself. Roused by punishment, Tiberius ordered killed all prisoners charged with association with Sejanus. The wreckage lay immense: every sex, every age, the notable, the unknown, scattered or heaped. For connections and friends there was no opportunity for assistance, tears or more than a glance. Instead, the surrounding guards, alert to anyone’s grief, accompanied the rotting bodies being dragged to the Tiber; floating or ashore, no cremation, no contact. The human capacity for fellowship perished from fear’s violence, and as brutality grew stronger compassion was kept at bay.

 

Book XI, Chapters 26-28, The Messalina Conundrum.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

Messalina, now grown weary of the very facility of her adulteries, was rushing into strange excesses, when even Silius, either through some fatal infatuation or because he imagined that, amid the dangers which hung over him, danger itself was the best safety, urged the breaking off of all concealment. “They were not,” he said, “in such an extremity as to have to wait for the emperor’s old age. Harmless measures were for the innocent. Crime once exposed had no refuge but in audacity. They had accomplices in all who feared the same fate. For himself, as he had neither wife nor child, he was ready to marry and to adopt Britannicus. Messalina would have the same power as before, with the additional advantage of a quiet mind, if only they took Claudius’ by surprise, who, though unsuspicious of treachery, was hasty in his wrath.”

The suggestion was coldly received, not because the lady loved her husband, but from a fear that Silius, after attaining his highest hopes, would spurn an adulteress, and soon estimate at its true value the crime which in the midst of peril he had approved. But she craved the name of wife, for the sake of the monstrous infamy, that last source of delight to the reckless. She waited only till Claudius set out for Ostia to perform a sacrifice, and then celebrated all the solemnities of marriage.

I am well aware that it will seem a fable that any persons in the world could have been so obtuse in a city which knows everything and hides nothing, much more, that these persons should have been a consul-elect and the emperor's wife; that, on an appointed day, before witnesses duly summoned, they should have come together as if for the purpose of legitimate marriage; that she should have listened to the words of the bridegroom’s friends, should have sacrificed to the gods, have taken her place among a company of guests, have lavished her kisses and caresses, and passed the night in the freedom which marriage permits. But this is no story to excite wonder; I do but relate what I have heard and what our fathers have recorded.

The emperor’s court indeed shuddered, its powerful personages especially, the men who had much to fear from a revolution. From secret whisperings they passed to loud complaints. “When an actor,” they said, “impudently thrust himself into the imperial chamber, it certainly brought scandal on the State, but we were a long way from ruin. Now, a young noble of stately beauty, of vigorous intellect, with the near prospect of the consulship, is preparing himself for a loftier ambition. There can be no secret about what is to follow such a marriage.” Doubtless there was a thrill of alarm when they thought of the apathy of Claudius, of his devotion to his wife and of the many murders perpetrated at Messalina's bidding. On the other hand, the very good nature of the emperor inspired confident hope that if they could overpower him by the enormity of the charge, she might be condemned and crushed before she was accused. The critical point was this, that he should not hear her defence, and that his ears should be shut even against her confession.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

By now the ease of adultery had cloyed on Messalina and she was drifting towards untried debaucheries, when Silius himself, blinded by his fate, or convinced perhaps that the antidote to impending danger was actual danger, began to press for the mask to be dropped: – “They were not reduced to waiting upon the emperor’s old age: deliberation was innocuous only to the innocent; detected guilt must borrow help from hardihood. They had associates with the same motives for fear. He himself was celibate, childless, prepared for wedlock and to adopt Britannicus. Messalina would retain her power unaltered, with the addition of a mind at ease, could they but forestall Claudius, who, if slow to guard against treachery, was prompt to anger." She took his phrases with a coolness due, not to any tenderness for her husband, but to a misgiving that Silius, with no heights left to scale, might spurn his paramour and come to appreciate at its just value a crime sanctioned in the hour of danger. Yet, for the sake of that transcendent infamy which constitutes the last delight of the profligate, she coveted the name of wife; and, waiting only till Claudius left for Ostia to hold a sacrifice, she celebrated the full solemnities of marriage.

It will seem, I am aware, fabulous that, in a city cognizant of all things and reticent of none, any human beings could have felt so much security; far more so, that on a specified day, with witnesses to seal the contract, a consul designate and the emperor’s wife should have met for the avowed purposes of legitimate marriage; that the woman should have listened to the words of the auspices, have assumed the veil, have sacrificed in the face of Heaven; that both should have dined with the guests, have kissed and embraced, and finally have spent the night in the licence of wedlock. But I have added no touch of the marvellous: all that I record shall be the oral or written evidence of my seniors.

A shudder, then, had passed through the imperial household. In particular, the holders of power with all to fear from a reversal of the established order, gave voice to their indignation, no longer in private colloquies, but without disguise: – “Whilst an actor​ profaned the imperial bedchamber, humiliation might have been inflicted, but destruction had still been in the far distance. Now, with his stately presence, his vigour of mind, and his impending consulate, a youthful noble was girding himself to a greater ambition – for the sequel of such a marriage was no mystery!” Fear beyond doubt came over them when they considered the hebetude of Claudius, his bondage to his wife, and the many murders perpetrated at the fiat of Messalina. Yet, again, the very pliancy of the emperor gave ground for confidence that, if they carried the day thanks to the atrocity of the charge, they might crush her by making her condemnation precede her trial. But the critical question, they realized, was whether Claudius would give a hearing to her defence, and whether they would be able to close his ears even to her confession.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

Messalina’s adultery was going so smoothly that she was drifting, through boredom, into unfamiliar vices. But now fate seemed to have unhinged Gaius Silius; or perhaps he felt that impending perils could only be met by perilous action. He urged that concealment should be dropped. ‘We do not have to wait until the emperor dies of old age!’ he told her. ‘Besides, only innocent people can afford long-term plans. Flagrant guilt requires audacity. And we have accomplices who share our danger. I am without wife or child. I am ready to marry, and to adopt Britannicus. Your power will remain undiminished. Peace of mind will only be yours if we can forestall Claudius. He is slow to discover deception – but quick to anger.’

Messalina was unenthusiastic. It was not that she loved her husband. But she feared that Silius, once supreme, might despise his mistress, and see the crime prompted by an emergency in its true colours. However, the idea of being called his wife appealed to her owing to its sheer outrageousness – a sensualist’s ultimate satisfaction. So, waiting only until Claudius had left to sacrifice at Ostia, she celebrated a formal marriage with Silius.

It will seem fantastic, I know, that in a city where nothing escapes notice or comment, any human beings could have felt themselves so secure. Much more so that, on an appointed day and before invited signatories, a consul designate and the emperor’s wife should have been joined together in formal marriage – ‘for the purpose of rearing children’; that she should have listened to the diviners’ words, assumed the wedding-veil, sacrificed to the gods; that the pair should have taken their places at a banquet, embraced, and finally spent the night as man and wife. But I am not inventing marvels. What I have told, and shall tell, is the truth. Older men heard and recorded it

The imperial household shuddered – especially those in power, with everything to fear from a new emperor. There were secret conferences. Then indignation was unconcealed. ‘While a ballet-dancing actor violated the emperor’s bedroom’, they said, ‘it was humiliating enough. Yet it did not threaten Claudius’ life. Here, on the other hand, is a young, handsome, intelligent nobleman, consul-to-be – but with a loftier destiny in mind. For where such a marriage will lead is clear enough.’ When they thought of Claudius’ sluggish uxorious-ness, and the many assassinations ordered by Messalina, they were terrified. Yet the emperor’s very pliability gave diem hope. If they could convince him of the enormity of the outrage, Messalina might be condemned and eliminated without trial. But everything, they felt, turned on this – would Claudius give her a hearing? Could they actually shut his ears against her confession?

[Woodman, 2004:]

Messalina, having become sated with the simplicity of her adultery, was already drifting to hitherto unrecognized lusts when Silius himself, whether by some fatal derangement or deeming that the remedy for looming danger was danger itself, urged an abrupt end to dissembling. They had not reached this point merely to wait upon the princeps’s old age, he said; it was only the guiltless to whom planning was harmless: those whose outrages were clear should seek support from daring. Accomplices with similar dreads were available. He himself was celibate, childless, and prepared for a wedding and for adopting Britannicus; Messalina’s power would remain the same, but in addition she would be carefree if they forestalled Claudius, who was as unsuspecting of ambush as he was quick to anger.

His utterance was received grudgingly, not through any love for her husband but lest Silius, on reaching the top, would spurn his adulterer and would soon assess at its true price a crime which had been approved only amid perils. Yet she desired the name of “matrimony” by reason of that magnitude of notoriety which is the ultimate pleasure for the prodigal; and, waiting merely until Claudius set off for Ostia to sacrifice, she celebrated all the solemnities of a wedding. As I am not unaware, it will seem fantastic that any mortals felt such unconcern in a community aware of everything and silent on nothing, still less that a consul designate, on a predicted day and in the presence of signatories, came together with a princeps’s wife as if for the purpose of begetting children; that she for her part listened to the words of the officials and sacrificed before the gods; that they reclined at table among party guests; and that there were kisses, embraces, and, finally, a night spent in spousal license. Yet none of this has been compiled to promote a marvel, but I am transmitting what was heard and written by my elders.

Therefore the princeps’s household shuddered; and in particular those with whom power lay – and upon whom, if things should change, alarm would descend – no longer muttered in secret exchanges but openly: when it was an actor who trampled over the princeps’s bedroom, they said, humiliation had certainly been inflicted but actual extirpation had been only a remote possibility; but, as things were now, a young noble with dignified good looks, with strength of mind, and with an approaching consulship, was girding himself for a greater prospect: for there was no concealing what remained after such a marriage. Without doubt dread crept over them as they reflected that Claudius was a dullard and shackled to his wife and that many deaths had been perpetrated on Messalina’s order; conversely, the very complaisance of the Commander afforded confidence that, if they prevailed owing to the frightfulness of the charge, she could be suppressed, convicted before being tried: the issue turned on whether her defense would be heard and how they might close his ears if she actually confessed.

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

The adulterous affair going too easily, Messalina became bored and began to drift into bizarre sexual practices. At this point Silius himself started to push for a swift end to their secrecy; either he was suffering from a fatal delusion, or he thought that the remedy for the dangers hanging over them lay in acts that were themselves dangerous. They had not come so far just to wait for the emperor’s old age, he told her. To the innocent, planning ahead brought no harm; but when offences were in the open, assistance had to be sought from bold action. They had associates at hand who had the same fears as they. He himself was unmarried, childless, and ready to marry her and adopt Britannicus. Messalina’s power would remain the same, he said, but safety would be added if they pre-empted Claudius, who was not on his guard against treachery but was swift to anger.

These remarks were received with little enthusiasm. This was not because of Messalina’s love for her husband, but from fear that Silius, having reached the heights, would shun his lover, and would come to assess at its true value a crime to which he had given his approval only in time of peril. But she passionately desired the title ‘wife’ because the notion was utterly scandalous – and that, for the profligate, is the ultimate pleasure. Waiting only for Claudius to leave for Ostia to hold sacrifice, she went through a marriage ceremony with all its formalities.

I am well aware that it will seem incredible that, in a city that knows all and conceals nothing, any members of the human race could have been so reckless. Even more incredible that a consul-designate, on a prearranged date and with signatories present, should have come together with an emperor’s wife ‘for the purpose of having legitimate’! Incredible that she heard the words of the auspices, took vows, and sacrificed to the gods! That they took their places for dinner with guests, that there were kisses and embraces, and that they finally spent the night together freely as a married couple! But nothing in my account has been invented for sensationalism; it is what our elders heard and passed down in writing.

So a shudder had run through the emperor’s court. In particular there were indignant protests – and no longer in hushed conversations, but openly expressed – from those with whom the power lay, and who would live in fear were there a change of regime. When an actor had been defiling the emperor’s bedroom, they said, an insult had certainly been delivered but there had been little prospect of destruction. Now a young nobleman cutting an elegant figure, possessed of a strong intellect, and with a consulship forthcoming was preparing for a greater prospect. For what lay beyond such a marriage was quite clear. There is no doubt that alarm swept over them as they about Claudius’ naivety and his subservience to his wife, and about the many killings brought off on Messalina’s orders. On the other hand the emperor’s easygoing nature itself gave some reason for confidence that Messalina could be crushed, condemned before she was even tried – if they won him over first with the enormity of the charge. It was in whether her defence would be given a hearing that the danger lay, and in whether his ears could be closed to her even if she confessed.

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

Messalina, since their easiness had produced an aversion to adulteries, was coursing towards unheard-of appetites when Silius himself urged dissimulation’s rupture – from deadly infatuation or thinking for impending perils peril itself a remedy. We are in position to await the Emperor’s old age. While the harmless have wholesome plans, those manifest in scandal must seek audacity’s support. We have associates, equally afraid, I am unmarried, childless – ready for marriage and adopting Britannicus. Your power will remain unchanged, with a gain of security if we forestall Claudius, careless of plots but quick to anger. Inaction met his words. Not from love for her husband, but lest Silius, having gained the heights, reject the adulteress and assess a crime approved in uncertainty at its eventual real cost. Yet she aspired to ‘marriage’ with its vast infamy – for voluptuaries, the final pleasure. Waiting only until Claudius set out for a sacrifice at Ostia, she staged a complete and traditional nuptial.

I know it will seem incredible that any mortal possessed such recklessness in a community that knows all and hushes nothing, let alone that a consul-elect and the Emperor’s wife – day pre-announced, witnesses present to sign – were joined for the ostensible purpose of begetting children; that she listened to the priests’ words, undertook vows, sacrificed to the gods; that there was a banquet with guests, kisses, embraces and, finally, a night passed with conjugal license. But nothing has been fabricated to amaze. The stories and writings of the older generation I pass on.

The Emperor’s household was horrified, especially those with power and, if the situation changed, alarm. They protested, no longer in hidden conversations but openly. When the actor made free with the Emperor’s bedroom, disgrace, certainly, accrued, but annihilation was remote. Now a nobly born youth with dignity of form, force of mind and an upcoming consulship is girding for greater things. His next step, after such a marriage, is obvious. Fear entered, no doubt, as they reflected that Claudius was doltish and attached to his wife and that many deaths were done by Messalina’s order. Yet the Emperor’s easy temper gave confidence. If we prevail because of the crime’s shock value, she can be suppressed, convicted before trial. The danger lies in her being heard: his ears must be closed even to her confession.

 

Book XI, Chapter 31-34 & 37-38, Messalina’s downfall.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

Messalina meanwhile, more wildly profligate than ever, was celebrating in mid autumn a representation of the vintage in her new home. The presses were being trodden; the vats were overflowing; women girt with skins were dancing, as Bacchanals dance in their worship or their frenzy. Messalina with flowing hair shook the thyrsus, and Silius at her side, crowned with ivy and wearing the buskin, moved his head to some lascivious chorus. It is said that one Vettius Valens climbed a very lofty tree in sport, and when they asked him what he saw, replied, “A terrible storm from Ostia.” Possibly some such appearance had begun; perhaps, a word dropped by chance became a prophecy.

Meanwhile no mere rumour but messengers from all parts brought the news that everything was known to Claudius, and that he was coming, bent on vengeance. Messalina upon this went to the gardens of Lucullus; Silius, to conceal his fear, to his business in the forum. The other guests were flying in all directions when the centurions appeared and put every one in irons where they found them, either in the public streets or in hiding. Messalina, though her peril took away all power of thought, promptly resolved to meet and face her husband, a course in which she had often found safety; while she bade Britannicus and Octavia hasten to embrace their father. She besought Vibidia, the eldest of the Vestal Virgins, to demand audience of the supreme pontiff and to beg for mercy. Meanwhile, with only three companions, so lonely did she find herself in a moment, she traversed the whole length of the city, and, mounting on a cart used to remove garden refuse, proceeded along the road to Ostia; not pitied, so overpoweringly hideous were her crimes, by a single person.

There was equal alarm on the emperor's side. They put but little trust in Geta, who commanded the praetorians, a man swayed with equal ease to good or evil. Narcissus in concert with others who dreaded the same fate, declared that the only hope of safety for the emperor lay in his transferring for that one day the command of the soldiers to one of the freedmen, and he offered to undertake it himself. And that Claudius might not be induced by Lucius Vitellius and Largus Caecina to repent, while he was riding into Rome, he asked and took a seat in the emperor's carriage.

It was currently reported in after times that while the emperor broke into contradictory exclamations, now inveighing against the infamies of his wife, and now returning in thought to the remembrance of his love and of his infant children, Vitellius said nothing but, “What audacity! what wickedness!” Narcissus indeed kept pressing him to clear up his ambiguities and let the truth be known, but still he could not prevail upon him to utter anything that was not vague and susceptible of any meaning which might be put on it, or upon Largus Caecina, to do anything but follow his example. And now Messalina had presented herself, and was insisting that the emperor should listen to the mother of Octavia and Britannicus, when the accuser roared out at her the story of Silius and her marriage. At the same moment, to draw Cæsar's eyes away from her, he handed him some papers which detailed her debaucheries. Soon afterwards, as he was entering Rome, his children by Messalina were to have shown themselves, had not Narcissus ordered their removal. Vibidia he could not repel, when, with a vehemently indignant appeal, she demanded that a wife should not be given up to death without a hearing. So Narcissus replied that the emperor would hear her, and that she should have an opportunity of disproving the charge. Meanwhile the holy virgin was to go and discharge her sacred duties.

[...]

Messalina meanwhile, in the gardens of Lucullus, was struggling for life, and writing letters of entreaty, as she alternated between hope and fury. In her extremity, it was her pride alone which forsook her. Had not Narcissus hurried on her death, ruin would have recoiled on her accuser. Claudius had returned home to an early banquet; then, in softened mood, when the wine had warmed him, he bade some one go and tell the “poor creature” (this is the word which they say he used) to come on the morrow and plead her cause. Hearing this, seeing too that his wrath was subsiding and his passion returning, and fearing, in the event of delay, the effect of approaching night and conjugal recollections, Narcissus rushed out, and ordered the centurions and the tribunes, who were on guard, to accomplish the deed of blood. Such, he said, was the emperor’s bidding. Evodus, one of the freedmen, was appointed to watch and complete the affair. Hurrying on before with all speed to the gardens, he found Messalina stretched upon the ground, while by her side sat Lepida, her mother, who, though estranged from her daughter in prosperity, was now melted to pity by her inevitable doom, and urged her not to wait for the executioner. “Life,” she said, “was over; all that could be looked for was honour in death.” But in that heart, utterly corrupted by profligacy, nothing noble remained. She still prolonged her tears and idle complaints, till the gates were forced open by the rush of the new comers, and there stood at her side the tribune, sternly silent, and the freedman, overwhelming her with the copious insults of a servile tongue.

Then for the first time she understood her fate and put her hand to a dagger. In her terror she was applying it ineffectually to her throat and breast, when a blow from the tribune drove it through her. Her body was given up to her mother. Claudius was still at the banquet when they told him that Messalina was dead, without mentioning whether it was by her own or another's hand. Nor did he ask the question, but called for the cup and finished his repast as usual. During the days which followed he showed no sign of hatred or joy or anger or sadness, in a word, of any human emotion, either when he looked on her triumphant accusers or on her weeping children. The Senate assisted his forgetfulness by decreeing that her name and her statues should be removed from all places, public or private. To Narcissus were voted the decorations of the quaestorship, a mere trifle to the pride of one who rose in the height of his power above Pallas and Callistus.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

But Messalina had never given voluptuousness a freer rein. Autumn was at the full, and she was celebrating a mimic vintage through the grounds of the house. Presses were being trodden, vats flowed; while, beside them, skin-girt women were bounding like Bacchanals excited by sacrifice or delirium. She herself was there with dishevelled tresses and waving thyrsus; at her side, Silius with an ivy crown,​ wearing the buskins and tossing his head, while around him rose the din of a wanton chorus. The tale runs that Vettius Valens,​ in some freak of  humour, clambered into a tall tree, and to the question, “What did he spy?” answered: “A frightful storm over Ostia” – whether something of the kind was actually taking shape, or a chance-dropped word developed into a prophecy.

In the meanwhile, not rumour only but messengers were hurrying in from all quarters, charged with the news that Claudius knew all and was on the way, hot for revenge. They parted therefore; Messalina to the Gardens of Lucullus; Silius – to dissemble his fear – to the duties of the forum. The rest were melting away by one road or other, when the centurions appeared and threw them into irons as discovered, some in the open, some in hiding. Messalina, though the catastrophe excluded thought, promptly decided for the course which had so often proved her salvation, to meet her husband and be seen by him: also, she sent word that Britannicus and Octavia were to go straight to their father's arms. Further, she implored Vibidia, the senior Vestal Virgin, to gain the ear of the Supreme Pontiff​ and there plead for mercy. In the interval, with three companions in all (so complete, suddenly, was her solitude), she covered the full breadth of the city on foot, then mounted a vehicle used as a receptacle for garden refuse, and took the Ostian road, without a being to pity her, since all was outweighed by the horror of her crimes.

Quite equal agitation prevailed on the imperial side; as implicit confidence was not felt in the praetorian commandant Geta, who veered with equal levity to the good and to the evil. Narcissus, therefore, with the support of others who shared his alarms, stated formally that there was no hope of saving the emperor, unless, for that day only, the command of the troops was transferred to one of the freedmen; the responsibility he offered to take himself. Furthermore, that Claudius, while being conveyed to the city, should not be swayed to repentance by Lucius Vitellius and Caecina Largus,​ he demanded a seat in the same litter, and took his place along with them.

It was a persistent tradition later that, amid the self-contradictory remarks of the emperor, who at one moment inveighed against the profligacies of his wife, and, in the next, recurred to memories of his wedded life and to the infancy of his children, Vitellius merely ejaculated: “Ah, the crime – the villainy!” Narcissus, it is true, urged him to explain his enigma and favour them with the truth; but urgency was unavailing; Vitellius responded with incoherent phrases, capable of being turned to any sense required, and his example was copied by Caecina Largus.

And now Messalina was within view. She was crying to the emperor to hear the mother of Octavia and Britannicus, when the accuser's voice rose in opposition with the history of Silius and the bridal: at the same time, to avert the Caesar's gaze, he handed him the memoranda exposing her debaucheries. Shortly afterwards, at the entry into Rome, the children of the union were on the point of presenting themselves, when Narcissus ordered their removal. Vibidia he could not repulse, nor prevent her from demanding in indignant terms that a wife should not be given undefended to destruction. He therefore replied that the emperor would hear her and there would be opportunities for rebutting the charge: meanwhile, the Virgin would do well to go and attend to her religious duties.

[...]

Meanwhile, in the Gardens of Lucullus, Messalina was fighting for life, and composing a petition; not without hope, and occasionally — so much of her insolence she had retained in her extremity – not without indignation. In fact, if Narcissus had not hastened her despatch, the ruin had all but fallen upon the head of the accuser. For Claudius, home again and soothed by an early dinner, grew a little heated with the wine, and gave instructions for someone to go and inform “the poor woman” – the exact phrase which he is stated to have used – that she must be in presence next day to plead her cause. The words were noted: his anger was beginning to cool, his love to return; and, if they waited longer, there was ground for anxiety in the approaching night with its memories of the marriage-chamber. Narcissus, accordingly, burst out of the room, and ordered the centurions and tribune in attendance to carry out the execution: the instructions came from the emperor. Evodus, one of the freedmen, was commissioned to guard against escape and to see that the deed was done. Hurrying to the Gardens in advance of the rest, he discovered Messalina prone on the ground, and, seated by her side, her mother Lepida;​who, estranged from her daughter during her prime, had been conquered to pity in her last necessity, and was now advising her not to await the slayer: – “Life was over and done; and all that could be attempted was decency in death.” But honour had no place in that lust-corrupted soul, and tears and lamentations were being prolonged in vain, when the door was driven in by the onrush of the new-comers, and over her stood the tribune in silence, and the freedman upbraiding her with a stream of slavish insults.

Now for the first time she saw her situation as it was, and took hold of the steel. In her agitation, she was applying it without result to her throat and again to her breast, when the tribune ran her through. The corpse was granted to her mother; and word was carried to Claudius at the table that Messalina had perished: whether by her own or a strange hand was not specified. Nor was the question asked:​ he called for a cup and went through the routine of the banquet. Even in the days that followed, he betrayed no symptoms of hatred or of joy, of anger or of sadness, or, in fine, of any human emotion; not when he saw the accusers rejoi­cing, not when he saw his children mourning. His forget­fulness was assisted by the senate, which decreed that the name and statues of the empress should be removed from private and public places. The decorations of the quaestor­ship were voted to Narcissus: baubles to the pride of one who bore himself as the superior of Pallas and Callistus! ...... Meritorious actions, it is true, but fated to produce the worst of results. .....

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

Meanwhile, Messalina was indulging in unprecedented extravagances. It was full autumn; and she was performing in her grounds a mimic grape-harvest. Presses were working, vats overflowing, surrounded by women capering in skins like sacrificing or frenzied Maenads. She herself, hair streaming, brandished a Bacchic wand. Beside her stood Silius in ivy-wreath and buskins, rolling his head, while the disreputable chorus yelled round him. Vettius Valens, the story goes, gaily climbed a great tree. Asked what he saw, his answer was: ‘A fearful storm over Ostia!’ There may have been a storm. Or it could have been a casual phrase. But later it seemed prophetic.

Rumours and messengers now came pouring in. They revealed that Claudius knew all, and was on his way, determined for revenge. So the couple separated, Messalina to the Gardens of Lucullus, Silius – to disguise his alarm – to business in the Forum. The others too melted away in every direction. But they were pounced on and arrested separately by staff-officers of the Guard, in the streets or in hiding-places. Messalina was too shaken by the catastrophe to make any plans. But she instantly decided on the course that had often saved her – to meet her husband and let him see her.

She also sent word that Britannicus and Octavia should go and seek their father’s embraces. She herself begged the senior priestess of Vesta, Vibidia, to obtain the ear of the emperor as Chief Priest and urge pardon. Meanwhile, with only three companions – so rapidly was she deserted – she walked from end to end of the city. Then she started along the Ostia road – in a cart used for removing garden refuse. People did not pity her, for they were horrified by her appalling crimes.

On Claudius’ side there was just as much agitation. Lusius Geta, the Guard commander, followed his own caprices, regardless of right and wrong. No one trusted him. So Narcissus, supported by others as afraid as he was, asserted that there was only one hope of saving the emperor’s life: the transference of the Guard, for that one day, to the command of a freed slave – himself; for he offered himself as commander. Then, afraid that Claudius, during the return journey to Rome, might have his mind changed by his companions Lucius Vitellius and Gaius Caecina Largus, Narcissus asked for a place in the same carriage, and sat with them.

Claudius, it was widely said afterwards, contradicted himself incessantly, veering from invective against Messalina’s misconduct to reminiscences of their marriage and their children’s infancy. Lucius Vitellius would only moan ‘How wicked, how sinful!’ When Narcissus pressed that he should reveal his mind honestly and unambiguously, Vitellius, undeterred, still responded with, cryptic exclamations which could be taken in two ways. Caecina Largus did the same.

Now Messalina came into view. She cried and cried that Claudius must listen to the mother of Octavia and Britannicus. Narcissus shouted her down with the story of Silius and the wedding, simultaneously distracting the emperor’s gaze with a document listing her immoralities. Soon afterwards, at a point near the city, the two children were brought forward. Narcissus ordered their removal. But he could not remove Vibidia, who demanded most indignantly that a wife should not be executed unheard. Narcissus replied that the emperor would hear Messalina – she would have a chance to clear herself – and that meanwhile Vibidia had better go and attend to her own religions duties.

[...]

Meanwhile at the Gardens of Lucullus Messalina was fighting for her life. She composed an appeal. Its terms were hopeful and even at times indignant, so shameless was her insolence to the very end. Indeed, if Narcissus had not speedily caused her death, the fatal blow would have rebounded on her accuser. For Claudius, home again, soothed and a little fuddled after an early dinner, ordered ‘the poor woman’ (that is said to have been his phrase) to appear on the next day to defend herself. This was noted. His anger was clearly cooling, his love returning. Further delay risked that the approaching night would revive memories of conjugal pleasures.

So Narcissus hurried away. Ostensibly on the emperor’s instructions, he ordered a Guard colonel, who was standing by, and some staff officers to kill Messalina. A former slave, name Euodus, was sent to prevent her escape and see that the order was carried out. Hastening to the Gardens ahead of the officers, he found her prostrate on the ground, with her mother Domitia Lepida sitting beside her. While her daughter was in power they had quarrelled. But in her extremity, Lepida was overcome by pity. She urged Messalina to await the executioner. ‘Your life is finished,’ she said. ‘All that remains is to make a decent end.’ But in that lust-ridden heart decency did not exist. Messalina was still uselessly weeping and moaning when the men violently broke down the door. The officer stood there, silently. The ex-slave, with a slave’s foulness of tongue, insulted her. Then, for the rst time, it dawned on Messalina what her position really was. Terrified, she took a dagger and put it to her throat and then her breast – but could not do it. And so the officer ran her through. The body was left with her mother. Claudius was still at table when news came that Messalina had died; whether by her own hand or another’s was unspecified. Claudius did not inquire. He called for more wine, and went on with his party as usual.

On the days that followed, the emperor gave no sign of hatred, satisfaction, anger, distress, or any other human feeling – even when he saw the accusers exulting, and his children mourning. His forgetfulness was helped by the senate, which decreed that Messalina’s name and statues should be removed from all public and private sites. It also awarded Narcissus an honorary quaestorship. But this was the least reason for conceit to a man who exceeded even Pallas or Callistus in power.

The vengeance on Messalina was just. But its consequences were grim.

[Woodman, 2004:]

As for Messalina, never more dissolute in her luxuriousness, with autumn at its height she was celebrating a burlesque of the vintage throughout the house: press-beams were being lowered, vats were flowing, and females girded with pelts were leaping about like sacrificing or raving Bacchants. The woman herself, with flowing hair and waving a wand, and by her side Silius, wreathed with ivy, were wearing buskins and tossing their heads, while a provocative chorus voiced cries all around. It is maintained that Vettius Valens had recklessly struggled up a very tall tree and, when asked what he was looking at, replied “A frightful storm from Ostia,” whether such a spectacle had in fact begun or whether an utterance which had slipped out by chance turned into a prophecy.

Meanwhile it was no rumor but messengers who arrived from all sides to bring the news that everything was known to Claudius and he was on his way, ready for vengeance. So Messalina and Silius parted, she to the Lucullian Gardens, he, dissembling his dread, to his responsibilities in the forum. As the rest were slipping off in different directions, centurions appeared and clapped chains on whomsoever they discovered in public or in some hiding-place; but Messalina, though adversity was depriving her of reason, was not sluggish in determining to meet and be seen by her husband, where she had often found support, and she sent word that Britannicus and Octavia should proceed to their father’s embrace. And she begged Vibidia, the most long-standing of the Vestal Virgins, to approach the ears of the high priest and seek clemency. Meanwhile, having covered the length of the City on foot with only three to accompany her (such was her sudden isolation), she started along the Ostian Way in a vehicle by which the clearings from gardens are carried off – to sympathy from no one, because the grotesque nature of her outrages was having too much effect.

Nonetheless there was trepidation on Caesar’s part: he did not have sufficient trust in Geta, the praetorian prefect, whose attitude toward honor and crookedness alike was one of equal levity. Narcissus therefore, having enlisted the services of men whose dread was the same as his own, affirmed that there was no hope of Caesar’s preservation unless he transferred jurisdiction of the soldiers to one of the freedmen for that single day, and he offered himself as the one to undertake it. And, lest Claudius on his journey to the City should have his mind changed to regret by L. Vitellius and Largus Caecina, Narcissus demanded a seat in the same conveyance and was taken along. (There was a frequent report thereafter that in between the contrary utterances of the princeps – since sometimes he censured the outrages of his wife, at others he reverted to the memory of his espousal and the infancy of his children – Vitellius’ only exclamation was “Oh, the deed! Oh, the crime!” Narcissus kept hounding him to clear up its ambiguity and to provide them with access to its meaning; but he still failed to prevail upon him, except to the extent that the man’s replies were weighed and likely to come down on whichever side one tipped the scales; and Largus Caecina followed his example.)

And already Messalina was in sight and shouting repeatedly that Claudius should listen to the mother of Octavia and Britannicus, when her accuser cried out in protest, referring to Silius and the wedding; at the same time he handed over notes informing on her lusts, to distract Caesar’s gaze. And not long after, as the latter was entering the City, their mutual children were in the process of being brought to him, but Narcissus ordered their removal. In the case of Vibidia, however, he was unable to deflect her from importuning, with considerable indignation, that his spouse should not be given up to extermination undefended. So Narcissus replied that the princeps would listen to her and there would be an opportunity of wiping out the charge: meanwhile the Virgin should go and perform her rituals.

[...]

Meanwhile Messalina in the Lucullian Gardens was prolonging her life and composing a plea with some degree of hope and occasionally of anger (such was the haughtiness with which she acted in those extreme circumstances); and, had not Narcissus hastened her slaughter, ruin would have rebounded on her accuser. For, when Claudius had returned home and been soothed by a timely dinner, on growing warm with wine he ordered someone to go and tell “the pitiable woman” (this was the expression they maintain he used) to be present on the next day to make her case. When Narcissus heard this, and anger started to wane and love return, the approaching night and the man’s memory of his wife’s bedroom became grounds for fear if there was any hesitation: so he burst out and told the centurions and the tribune who was present to proceed with the slaughter: such was the Commander’s order. Euodus, one of the freedmen, was provided as guard and agent;and,hurriedly going ahead into the gardens, he discovered her stretched on the ground,her mother, Lepida, sitting alongside – who, without affection for her daughter when she flourished, had been won over to pity by her final crisis and was urging her not to wait for her assailant: her life had passed, she said, and there was nothing to be sought except glory in her death. But in a mind so corrupted by lusts there was no trace of honor: her tearful complaints were being drawn out pointlessly when the gates were driven in by the assault of the arrivals and there stood in front of her the tribune in silence, the freedman berating her with much slavish abuse. That was her first moment of insight into her true situation: she took the sword, and, while tremblingly moving it to her throat and chest in vain, she was transfixed by a blow from the tribune.

Her corpse was conceded to her mother, and Claudius was told while dining that Messalina had perished, without its being specified whether by her own or

another’s hand; and he for his part did not ask: he called for a cup and celebrated the routines of the party. Not even during the following days did he give signs of hatred, joy, anger, sadness, or, in fine, of any human emotion – not when he saw her delighted accusers, not when he saw her children sorrowing. And his oblivion was helped by the senate in voting that her name and likenesses be removed from public and private places. Narcissus was decreed quaestorian insignia – the merest triviality for one so disdainful, since he acted above Pallas and Callistus. *** honorable things indeed, but from which the basest would arise, amid the general grimness.

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

Messalina’s extravagant behaviour was wilder than ever. Autumn was well advanced, and she was staging a tableau of the grape-harvest throughout the house. Presses were in operation, vats were overflowing, and there were women dressed in animal skins leaping about like maenads sacrificing or driven into a frenzy. Messalina herself, her hair streaming, brandished a thyrsus, and beside her was an ivy-garlanded Silius, wearing high boots and tossing his head, while all around them rose the din of a dissolute chorus. They sat that, in fun, Vettius Valens struggled up a very tall tree, and people asked him what he saw he replied that there was a terrible storm in the area of Ostia. Perhaps such a thing had started to appear, or perhaps it was just a casual remark that became regarded as prophetic.

Meanwhile actual messengers – not simply a rumour – were coming in from all quarters to report that Claudius was aware of everything and that he was on his way, eager to exact vengeance. Messalina accordingly left for the Gardens of Lucullus and, to hide his fear, Silius left to take up his duties in the Forum. The others slipped away in all directions, centurions appeared, and any found in the streets or in hiding were put in irons. The setback prevented any planning, but Messalina boldly determined to meet and be seen by her husband – an approach that had often proved effective in the past – and she sent instructions for Britannicus and Octavia to go and embrace their father. She also begged Vibidia, the senior of the Vestal Virgins, to seek an audience with the supreme pontiff and try to gain his mercy. Meanwhile, with only three companions – so alone did she suddenly find herself – she walked the whole length of the city and then set out on the road for Ostia on a cart employed for garden refuse. There was no pity from anyone; her atrocious crimes outweighed everything.

There was no less alarm on Claudius’ part, for his men did not have much confidence in the praetorian prefect Geta, who was equally unreliable whether the cause were honourable or wicked. Narcissus therefore enlisted the support of others who harboured the same fears and declared that the only hope of saving Claudius’ life lay in the emperor transferring command of the troops, for that one day, to one of the freedmen; and he offered to take it on himself. Also, so that Claudius would not be influenced by Lucius Vitellius and Largus Caecina to regret his decision on the return journey to Rome, Narcissus demanded a seat in the same carriage and was taken on board.

It was frequently reported later than the emperor’s remarks were inconsistent, as at one moment he would berate his wife’s scandalous conduct, but then he would occasionally lapse into recollections of his marriage and the early years of their children. Meanwhile, it was said, Vitellius murmured only, ‘Ah, such a crime! Such villainy!’ Narcissus pressed him to clarify his ambiguous remarks and let the truth be known, but succeeded only to the extent of having him reply with vague comments capable of being interpreted as required; and Caecina Largus followed his example.

Messalina was now in view and shrieking out that he should listen to the mother of Octavia and Britannicus. Her accuser shouted her down with the story of Silius and the wedding. At the same time, to take Claudius’ eyes from her, he passed him some writing tablets that detailed her depravities. Shortly afterwards, as the emperor was entering the city, the children they shared were brought to him – but Narcissus had them removed. He could not, however, push to one side a highly indignant demand from Vibidia that a wife not to be consigned to her death without a defence. He therefore replied that the emperor would hear her and she would have the opportunity of rebutting the charge. Meanwhile, the Vestal Virgin should go away and attend to her sacral duties.

[...]

Meanwhile, in the Gardens of Lucullus, Messalina was trying to extend her life. She was drafting a plea, not without hope and with bursts of anger – such was her pride even in this desperate situation! And had not Narcissus accelerated her death, destruction would have recoiled on the accuser. For on returning home Claudius had been calmed by a protracted dinner, and when he felt the mellowing effects of wine he ordered a man to go with a message for the ‘poor woman’ (his exact expression, they say) that she should appear to plead her case the following day. The words were noted. Anger was subsiding and love returning, and there was fear for the oncoming night and Claudius’ reminiscing about his wife’s bedchamber. Narcissus therefore rushed out and instructed the centurions and the tribunes on duty to carry out the execution – it was on the emperor’s order, he said. One of the freedmen, Euodus, was to oversee the deed and ensure its completion. He swiftly went ahead to the gardens, where he found Messalina prostrate on the ground. Sitting beside her was her mother Lepida who, estranged from her daughter in her heyday, had been brought around to compassion in her bleakest hour, and was now urging her not to wait for the executioner. Her life was over, she told her, and all that remained was to seek death with honour. But the woman’s mind, corrupted by debauchery, had no spark of decency left in it. There were tears and lamentations, uselessly prolonged, and the doors were broken in with a charge from the new arrivals. Before her, in silence, stood the tribune, but there too was the freedman, berating her with a torrent of abuse appropriate for slaves.

That was when Messalina first understood her situation. She took a blade and, as he fumbled with it, vainly trying to put to her throat or breast, she was run through by a sword-thrust from the tribune. The body was given up to her mother. Claudius was dining when he was brought the news that Messalina had died, whether by her own hand or another’s being left unclear. And he did not ask; he simply called for a cup and carried on with the routine of the banquet. Even in the days that followed he gave no sign of resentment or joy, anger or sadness, or any other emotion of a human being – not even when he saw the delight of her accusers, and not when he saw the grief of his children. The Senate helped him to erase her memory, decreeing that her name and statues be removed from private and public locations. The insignia of a quaestor were awarded by decree to Narcissus, a mere trifle for a haughty man who comported himself as the superior of Pallas and Callistus... It was certainly honourable, but from it would come terrible consequences.            

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

Messalina, however, was never more adrift in dissipation. Autumn now ripe, she staged a mock vintage at home. Presses were worked, vats overflowed. Skin-girt women capered about like celebrants or raving Bacchants. She herself, hair loose, held a thyrsus. Beside her Silius was ivy-crowned. They wore tragedy boots, tossing their heads to the noisy accompaniment of a chorus untrammelled. Vettius Valens, they say, who as a lark had struggled up an enormous tree, when people asked what he could see, responded, ‘A formidable storm from Ostia’ – either a storm was visible or a random utterance turned prophetic.

Then arrived not rumour but messengers from all directions. Claudius knows all and is en route ready for vengeance. Messalina left for Lucullus’ Gardens, Silius – to conceal fear – for his duties in the Forum. The rest were all slipping away when centurions arrived with chains for anyone found in public or in various hiding places. Messalina, although misfortune was undoing her plan, nevertheless determined with alacrity to meet and be seen by her husband; this had often helped her before. She sent word that Britannicus and Octavia should go to their father’s embrace. She also begged Vibidia, the senior Vestal, to obtain the chief pontiff’s ear and plead for clemency. Meanwhile, with just three companions – such was her sudden solitude – she traversed Rome’s breadth on foot. On a cart for garden-refuse removal she started down the Ostia road with no pity from anyone: her depravities’ ugliness was overpowering.

Fear afflicted Claudius, too, however. In Geta, the Guard commander, they had little confidence, as being equally mobile towards the honourable and the perverse. Therefore Narcissus, along with those similarly concerned, declared to Claudius: Your only hope of safety lies in transferring military command for today onto one of your freedmen. I will undertake it, was his offer. Lest during the carriage journey to Rome Claudius be turned to remorse by Lucius Vitellius or Caecina Largus, Narcissus requested and took a seat in the same conveyance.

It was frequently said thereafter that during the Emperor’s varied outbursts – sometimes he condemned his wife’s depravities, but occasionally reverted to the memory of their marriage and their children’s infancy – Vitellius uttered nothing but ‘Oh the deed!’ and ‘Oh the crime!’ Narcissus pressed him to open up his obscurities and make truth available, but succeeded only in getting equivocal response tilting in any given direction. And Vitellius set an example for Caecina Largus. Then Messalina was in sight, crying: Hear the mother of Octavia and Britannicus! The accuser shouted back: Silius! The wedding! Narcissus also handed over documentation of her debauches, which diverted Claudius’ eye. Soon, at Rome’s gate, their common children were on offer – except that Narcissus had ordered them removed. Vibidia was unable to deter from her antipathy-arousing demand. Claudius must not destroy his wife unheard. Narcissus therefore replied: The Emperor will listen, there will be opportunity to clear herself. Meanwhile, go tend your Vestal duties.

[...]

Meanwhile Messalina, in Lucullus’ Gardens, prolonged life and composed pleas. Some hope she had, and occasionally anger, so great was her arrogance at the end. If Narcissus had not hastened her killing, ruin would have recoiled upon the accuser. For Claudius, back home, was soothed by an early dinner. Once heated by wine, he gave an order. Go tell the poor woman – his expression, they say – to be here tomorrow to speak her case. At this, there was alarm. His anger is flagging, his love returning. And if we delay, there will be night’s arrival and the memory of his wife’s chamber. Narcissus broke free and signified to the officers present to accomplish the killing. Thus your emperor orders. As guard and enforcer went one of the freedmen, Euodus. Quickly going ahead to the gardens, he found her sprawling with her mother Lepida alongside. During her daughter’s prime, Lepida was little sympathetic, but at the inevitable end was won to compassion. She urged her not to await the killer. Your life’s course is complete, and for death, honour should be your only aim. But a mind degraded by debauches contained nothing honourable. Tears were coming and useless complaints, when at the arrivals’ thrust the gates burst open and the officer stood there in silence. The freedman, however, berated Messalina with many a slavish insult.

Only then did she perceive her situation and accept a blade. This she applied in vain to throat and breast, trembling the while; the officer’s blow run her through. The body was given to her mother, and an announcement to Claudius, dining: Messalina is dead – no distinction whether by her hand or another’s. Nor did he enquire. He asked for his cup and put on the usual party. He gave no sign, on subsequent days, of hatred, joy, anger, sorrow, indeed of any human emotion, not when her accusers, rejoicing, caught his eye, or her children, grieving. Assistance in forgetting was given him by the senate decreeing removal of her name and likenesses from places public and private. Decreed for Narcissus: an honourable quaestorship – a trifle to the conceit of one superior to Pallas and Callistus. Worthy deeds, origin of much worse.

 

Book XIV, Chapter 2, the incestuous relationship between Nero and Agrippina.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

Cluvius relates that Agrippina in her eagerness to retain her influence went so far that more than once at midday, when Nero, even at that hour, was flushed with wine and feasting, she presented herself attractively attired to her half intoxicated son and offered him her person, and that when kinsfolk observed wanton kisses and caresses, portending infamy, it was Seneca who sought a female's aid against a woman’s fascinations, and hurried in Acte, the freed-girl, who alarmed at her own peril and at Nero’s disgrace, told him that the incest was notorious, as his mother boasted of it, and that the soldiers would never endure the rule of an impious sovereign. Fabius Rusticus tells us that it was not Agrippina, but Nero, who lusted for the crime, and that it was frustrated by the adroitness of that same freed-girl. Cluvius’s account, however, is also that of all other authors, and popular belief inclines to it, whether it was that Agrippina really conceived such a monstrous wickedness in her heart, or perhaps because the thought of a strange passion seemed comparatively credible in a woman, who in her girlish years had allowed herself to be seduced by Lepidus in the hope of winning power, had stooped with a like ambition to the lust of Pallas, and had trained herself for every infamy by her marriage with her uncle.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

It is stated by Cluvius​ that Agrippina’s ardour to keep her influence was carried so far that at midday, an hour at which Nero was beginning to experience the warmth of wine and good cheer, she presented herself on several occasions to her half-tipsy son, coquettishly dressed and prepared for incest. Already lascivious kisses, and endearments that were the harbingers of guilt, had been observed by their intimates, when Seneca sought in a woman the antidote to female blandishments, and brought in the freedwoman Acte, who, alarmed as she was both at her own danger and at Nero's infamy, was to report that the incest was common knowledge, since his mother boasted of it, and that the troops would not submit to the supremacy of a sacrilegious emperor. According to Fabius Rusticus, not Agrippina, but Nero, desired the union, the scheme being wrecked by the astuteness of the same freedwoman. The other authorities, however, give the same version as Cluvius, and to their side tradition leans; whether the enormity was actually conceived in the brain of Agrippina, or whether the contemplation of such a refinement in lust was merely taken as comparatively credible in a woman who, for the prospect of power, had in her girlish years yielded to the embraces of Marcus Lepidus;​5 who, for a similar ambition had prostituted herself to the desires of Pallas; and who had been inured to every turpitude by her marriage with her uncle.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

According to one author, Cluvius Rufus, Agrippina’s passion to retain power carried her so far that at midday, the time when food and drink were beginning to raise Nero’s temperature, she several times appeared before her inebriated son all decked out and ready for incest. Their companions observed sensual kisses and evilly suggestive caresses. Seneca, supposing that the answer to a woman’s enticements was a woman, called in the ex-slave Acte. She feared for Nero’s reputation – and for her own safety. Now she was instructed to warn Nero that Agrippina was boasting of her intimacy with her son, that her boasts had received wide publicity, and that the army would never tolerate a sacrilegious emperor.

Another writer, Fabius Rusticus, agrees in attributing successful intervention to Acte’s wiles, but states that the desires were not Agrippina’s but Nero’s. But the other authorities support the contrary version. So does the tradition. That may be because Agrippina really did intend this monstrosity. Or perhaps it is because no sexual novelty seemed incredible in such a woman. In her earliest years she had employed an illicit relationship with Marcus Aemilius Lepidus (V) as a means to power. Through the same ambition she had sunk to be Pallas’ mistress. Then, married to her uncle, her training in abomination was complete.

[Woodman, 2004:]

Cluvius transmits that Agrippina was so carried away by the fervor of retaining her powerfulness that in the middle of the day, at a time when Nero was warm with wine and with banqueting, she quite often offered herself to him in his drunken state, smartly made up and prepared for incest; and that, as those closest to them were already noting their reckless kisses and the blandishments which heralded outrage, Seneca sought from a female some defense against these womanly allurements and sent in the freedwoman Acte, who, tense though she was at the danger to herself and at Nero’s infamy alike, was to tell him that their incest had been publicized by his mother’s boasting and that the soldiers would not tolerate the command of a perverted princeps. (Fabius Rusticus recalls that the desire was not Agrippina’s but Nero’s and that it was thwarted by a stratagem of the same freedwoman; but the other authors too have relayed the same as Cluvius, and tradition inclines in their direction – whether Agrippina in fact conceived such monstrousness in her mind or whether the contemplation of a novel lust seemed more credible in one who in her girlhood years had committed illicit sex with Lepidus in the hope of despotism, having groveled even before the whims of Pallas with a similar desire and been trained for every outrage by her wedding to her uncle.)

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

According to Cluvius’ account, Agrippina was so far driven by her desire to hold on to power that at the mid-point of the day, when Nero – even at that hour – was flushed with wine and feasting, she quite often appeared before her inebriated son all dressed up and ready for incestuous relations. People close to them began noticing the salacious kisses and the sweet talk that is usually the precursor of sexual relations; and to counter female charms Seneca sought to enlist a woman’s aid. He brought in the freedwoman Acte, who was worried both about her own parlous situation and the disgrace facing Nero. Acte was to report to the emperor that the incest common knowledge since his mother boasted of it, and that his soldiers would not accept the sovereignty of a depraved emperor. Fabius Rusticus claims that the desire for such relations was not Agrippina’s, but Nero’s, and it was then frustrated by the freedwoman’s ploy. But the other sources give the same version as Cluvius, and popular opinion leans that way, too. Possibly Agrippina really did envision such a ghastly act, or perhaps contemplating this sexual deviation seemed more plausible in her case. She had, after all, had illicit intercourse with Marcus Lepidus as a girl because of her lust for power; with that same craving she had abandoned herself to the appetites of Pallas; and she had been trained in all manner of immorality through marriage to her uncle.

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

Cluvius records that, desirous of retaining power, Agrippina went so far – at midday, when Nero was heated by wine and dining – as to offer herself more than once, he being drunk, she groomed and ready for incest. Already wanton kisses and caresses signalling depravity were noticed by insiders, Cluvius says, when Seneca sought a woman’s help against female allurements. The freedwoman Acte, anxious about her own danger and Nero’s shame, was dispatched with a denunciation: Incest talk is widespread – your mother’s boasting! – and soldiers will not tolerate an unclean emperor’s rule. Fabius Rusticus reports the impulse as not Agrippina’s but Nero’s, and as thwarted by the same freedwoman’s ingenuity. Cluvius’ story other authors, too, recount and reputation inclines this way: either Agrippina did intend this enormity or contemplation of strange lust seemed perfectly believable in one who as a girl defiled herself with Lepidus in hope of mastery, and from the same impulse submitted to Pallas’ desires and trained for every disgrace by wedding her uncle.

 

Book XIV, Chapters 3-8, Nero’s murder of his mother.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

Nero accordingly avoided secret interviews with her, and when she withdrew to her gardens or to her estates at Tusculum and Antium, he praised her for courting repose. At last, convinced that she would be too formidable, wherever she might dwell, he resolved to destroy her, merely deliberating whether it was to be accomplished by poison, or by the sword, or by any other violent means. Poison at first seemed best, but, were it to be administered at the imperial table, the result could not be referred to chance after the recent circumstances of the death of Britannicus. Again, to tamper with the servants of a woman who, from her familiarity with crime, was on her guard against treachery, appeared to be extremely difficult, and then, too, she had fortified her constitution by the use of antidotes. How again the dagger and its work were to be kept secret, no one could suggest, and it was feared too that whoever might be chosen to execute such a crime would spurn the order. An ingenious suggestion was offered by Anicetus, a freedman, commander of the fleet at Misenum, who had been tutor to Nero in boyhood and had a hatred of Agrippina which she reciprocated. He explained that a vessel could be constructed, from which a part might by a contrivance be detached, when out at sea, so as to plunge her unawares into the water. “Nothing,” he said, “allowed of accidents so much as the sea, and should she be overtaken by shipwreck, who would be so unfair as to impute to crime an offence committed by the winds and waves? The emperor would add the honour of a temple and of shrines to the deceased lady, with every other display of filial affection.”

Nero liked the device, favoured as it also was by the particular time, for he was celebrating Minerva's five days' festival at Baiae. Thither he enticed his mother by repeated assurances that children ought to bear with the irritability of parents and to soothe their tempers, wishing thus to spread a rumour of reconciliation and to secure Agrippina’s acceptance through the feminine credulity, which easily believes what joy. As she approached, he went to the shore to meet her (she was coming from Antium), welcomed her with outstretched hand and embrace, and conducted her to Bauli. This was the name of a country house, washed by a bay of the sea, between the promontory of Misenum and the lake of Baiae. Here was a vessel distinguished from others by its equipment, seemingly meant, among other things, to do honour to his mother; for she had been accustomed to sail in a trireme, with a crew of marines. And now she was invited to a banquet, that night might serve to conceal the crime. It was well known that somebody had been found to betray it, that Agrippina had heard of the plot, and in doubt whether she was to believe it, was conveyed to Baiae in her litter. There some soothing words allayed her fear; she was graciously received, and seated at table above the emperor. Nero prolonged the banquet with various conversation, passing from a youth's playful familiarity to an air of constraint, which seemed to indicate serious thought, and then, after protracted festivity, escorted her on her departure, clinging with kisses to her eyes and bosom, either to crown his hypocrisy or because the last sight of a mother on the even of destruction caused a lingering even in that brutal heart.

A night of brilliant starlight with the calm of a tranquil sea was granted by heaven, seemingly, to convict the crime. The vessel had not gone far, Agrippina having with her two of her intimate attendants, one of whom, Crepereius Gallus, stood near the helm, while Acerronia, reclining at Agrippina's feet as she reposed herself, spoke joyfully of her son’s repentance and of the recovery of the mother's influence, when at a given signal the ceiling of the place, which was loaded with a quantity of lead, fell in, and Crepereius was crushed and instantly killed. Agrippina and Acerronia were protected by the projecting sides of the couch, which happened to be too strong to yield under the weight. But this was not followed by the breaking up of the vessel; for all were bewildered, and those too, who were in the plot, were hindered by the unconscious majority. The crew then thought it best to throw the vessel on one side and so sink it, but they could not themselves promptly unite to face the emergency, and others, by counteracting the attempt, gave an opportunity of a gentler fall into the sea. Acerronia, however, thoughtlessly exclaiming that she was Agrippina, and imploring help for the emperor's mother, was dispatched with poles and oars, and such naval implements as chance offered. Agrippina was silent and was thus the less recognized; still, she received a wound in her shoulder. She swam, then met with some small boats which conveyed her to the Lucrine lake, and so entered her house.

There she reflected how for this very purpose she had been invited by a lying letter and treated with conspicuous honour, how also it was near the shore, not from being driven by winds or dashed on rocks, that the vessel had in its upper part collapsed, like a mechanism anything but nautical. She pondered too the death of Acerronia; she looked at her own wound, and saw that her only safeguard against treachery was to ignore it. Then she sent her freedman Agerinus to tell her son how by heaven's favour and his good fortune she had escaped a terrible disaster; that she begged him, alarmed, as he might be, by his mother's peril, to put off the duty of a visit, as for the present she needed repose. Meanwhile, pretending that she felt secure, she applied remedies to her wound, and fomentations to her person. She then ordered search to be made for the will of Acerronia, and her property to be sealed, in this alone throwing off disguise.

Nero, meantime, as he waited for tidings of the consummation of the deed, received information that she had escaped with the injury of a slight wound, after having so far encountered the peril that there could be no question as to its author. Then, paralysed with terror and protesting that she would show herself the next moment eager for vengeance, either arming the slaves or stirring up the soldiery, or hastening to the Senate and the people, to charge him with the wreck, with her wound, and with the destruction of her friends, he asked what resource he had against all this, unless something could be at once devised by Burrus and Seneca. He had instantly summoned both of them, and possibly they were already in the secret. There was a long silence on their part; they feared they might remonstrate in vain, or believed the crisis to be such that Nero must perish, unless Agrippina were at once crushed. Thereupon Seneca was so far the more prompt as to glance back on Burrus, as if to ask him whether the bloody deed must be required of the soldiers. Burrus replied “that the praetorians were attached to the whole family of the Caesars, and remembering Germanicus would not dare a savage deed on his offspring. It was for Anicetus to accomplish his promise.” Anicetus, without a pause, claimed for himself the consummation of the crime. At those words, Nero declared that that day gave him empire, and that a freedman was the author of this mighty boon. “Go,” he said, “with all speed and take with you the men readiest to execute your orders.” He himself, when he had heard of the arrival of Agrippina's messenger, Agerinus, contrived a theatrical mode of accusation, and, while the man was repeating his message, threw down a sword at his feet, then ordered him to be put in irons, as a detected criminal, so that he might invent a story how his mother had plotted the emperor's destruction and in the shame of discovered guilt had by her own choice sought death.

Meantime, Agrippina’s peril being universally known and taken to be an accidental occurrence, everybody, the moment he heard of it, hurried down to the beach. Some climbed projecting piers; some the nearest vessels; others, as far as their stature allowed, went into the sea; some, again, stood with outstretched arms, while the whole shore rung with wailings, with prayers and cries, as different questions were asked and uncertain answers given. A vast multitude streamed to the spot with torches, and as soon as all knew that she was safe, they at once prepared to wish her joy, till the sight of an armed and threatening force scared them away. Anicetus then surrounded the house with a guard, and having burst open the gates, dragged off the slaves who met him, till he came to the door of her chamber, where a few still stood, after the rest had fled in terror at the attack. A small lamp was in the room, and one slave-girl with Agrippina, who grew more and more anxious, as no messenger came from her son, not even Agerinus, while the appearance of the shore was changed, a solitude one moment, then sudden bustle and tokens of the worst catastrophe. As the girl rose to depart, she exclaimed, "Do you too forsake me?" and looking round saw Anicetus, who had with him the captain of the trireme, Herculeius, and Obaritus, a centurion of marines. “If,” said she, “you have come to see me, take back word that I have recovered, but if you are here to do a crime, I believe nothing about my son; he has not ordered his mother's murder.” The assassins closed in round her couch, and the captain of the trireme first struck her head violently with a club. Then, as the centurion bared his sword for the fatal deed, presenting her person, she exclaimed, “Smite my womb,” and with many wounds she was slain.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

Nero, therefore, began to avoid private meetings with her; when she left for her gardens or the estates at Tusculum and Antium, he commended her intention of resting; finally, convinced that, wherever she might be kept, she was still an incubus,  he decided to kill her, debating only whether by poison, the dagger, or some other form of violence. The first choice fell on poison. But, if it was to be given at the imperial table, then the death could not be referred to chance, since Britannicus had already met a similar fate. At the same time, it seemed an arduous task to tamper with the domestics of a woman whose experience of crime had made her vigilant for foul play; and, besides, she had herself fortified her system by taking antidotes in advance. Cold steel and bloodshed no one could devise a method of concealing: moreover, there was the risk that the agent chosen for such an atrocity might spurn his orders. Mother wit came to the rescue in the person of Anicetus the freedman, preceptor of Nero's boyish years, and detested by Agrippina with a vigour which was reciprocated. Accordingly, he pointed out that it was possible to construct a ship, part of which could be artificially detached, well out at sea, and throw the unsuspecting passenger overboard: – “Nowhere had accident such scope as on salt water; and, if the lady should be cut off by shipwreck, who so captious as to read murder into the delinquency of wind and wave? The sovereign, naturally, would assign the deceased a temple and the other displays of filial piety.”

This ingenuity commended itself: the date, too, was in its favour, as Nero was in the habit of celebrating the festival of Minerva​ at Baiae.​ Thither he proceeded to lure his mother, observing from time to time that outbreaks of parental anger had to be tolerated, and that he must show a forgiving spirit; his aim being to create a rumour of reconciliation, which Agrippina, with the easy faith of her sex in the agreeable, would probably accept. – In due course, she came. He went down to the beach to meet her (she was arriving from Antium), took her hand, embraced her, and escorted her to Bauli,​ the name of a villa washed by the waters of a cove between the promontory of Misenum and the lake of Baiae.​ Here, among others, stood a more handsomely appointed vessel; apparently one attention the more to his mother, as she had been accustomed to use a trireme with a crew of marines. Also, she had been invited to dinner for the occasion, so that night should be available for the concealment of the crime. It is well established that someone had played the informer, and that Agrippina, warned of the plot, hesitated whether to believe or not, but made the journey to Baiae in a litter. There her fears were relieved by the blandishments of a cordial welcome and a seat above the prince himself. At last, conversing freely, – one moment boyishly familiar, the next grave-browed as though making some serious communication, – Nero, after the banquet had been long protracted, escorted her on her way, clinging more closely than usual to her breast and kissing her eyes; possibly as a final touch of hypocrisy, or possibly the last look upon his doomed mother gave pause even to that brutal spirit.

A starlit night and the calm of an unruffled sea appeared to have been sent by Heaven to afford proof of guilt. The ship had made no great way,​ and two of Agrippina’s household were in attendance, Crepereius Gallus standing not far from the tiller, while Acerronia, bending over the feet of the recumbent princess, recalled exultantly the penitence of the son and the re-entry of the mother into favour. Suddenly the signal was given: the canopy above them, which had been heavily weighted with lead, dropped, and Crepereius was crushed and killed on the spot. Agrippina and Acerronia were saved by the height of the couch-sides, which, as it happened, were too solid to give way under the impact. Nor did the break-up of the vessel follow: for confusion was universal, and even the men accessory to the plot were impeded by the large numbers of the ignorant. The crew then decided to throw their weight on one side and so capsize the ship; but, even on their own part, agreement came too slowly for a sudden emergency, and a counter-effort by others allowed the victims a gentler fall into the waves. Acerronia, however, incautious enough to raise the cry that she was Agrippina, and to demand aid for the emperor's mother, was despatched with poles, oars, and every nautical weapon that came to hand. Agrippina, silent and so not generally recognised, though she received one wound in the shoulder, swam until she was met by a few fishing-smacks, and so reached the Lucrine lake,​ whence she was carried into her own villa.

There she reflected on the evident purpose of the treacherous letter of invitation and the exceptional honour with which she had been treated, and on the fact that, hard by the shore, a vessel, driven by no gale and striking no reef, had collapsed at the top like an artificial structure on land. She reviewed as well the killing of Acerronia, glanced simultaneously at her own wound, and realized that the one defence against treachery was to leave it undetected. Accordingly she sent the freedman Agermus to carry word to her son that, thanks to divine kindness and to his fortunate star, she had survived a grave accident; but that, however great his alarm at his mother’s danger, she begged him to defer the attention of a visit: for the moment, what she needed was rest. Meanwhile, with affected unconcern, she applied remedies to her wound and fomentations to her body: Acerronia’s will, she gave instructions was to be sought, and her effects sealed up, – the sole measure not referable to dissimulation.

Meanwhile, as Nero was waiting for the messengers who should announce the doing of the deed, there came the news that she had escaped with a wound from a light blow, after running just sufficient risk to leave no doubt as to its author. Half-dead with terror, he protested that any moment she would be here, hot for vengeance. And whether she armed her slaves or inflamed the troops, or made her way to the senate and the people, and charged him with the wreck, her wound, and the slaying of her friends, what counter-resource was at his own disposal? Unless there was hope in Seneca and Burrus! He had summoned them immediately: whether to test their feeling, or as cognizant already of the secret, is questionable. – There followed, then, a long silence on the part of both: either they were reluctant to dissuade in vain, or they believed matters to have reached a point at which Agrippina must be forestalled or Nero perish. After a time,  p119 Seneca so far took the lead as to glance at Burrus and inquire if the fatal order should be given to the military. His answer was that the guards, pledged as they were to the Caesarian house as a whole, and attached to the memory of Germanicus, would flinch from drastic measures against his issue: Anicetus must redeem his promise. He, without any hesitation, asked to be given full charge of the crime. The words brought from Nero a declaration that that day presented him with an empire, and that he had a freedman to thank for so great a boon: Anicetus must go with speed and take an escort of men distinguished for implicit obedience to orders. He himself, on hearing that Agermus had come with a message from Agrippina, anticipated it by setting the stage for a charge of treason, threw a sword at his feet while he was doing his errand, then ordered his arrest as an assassin caught in the act; his intention being to concoct a tale that his mother had practised against the imperial life and taken refuge in suicide from the shame of detection.

In the interval, Agrippina’s jeopardy, which was attributed to accident, had become generally known; and there was a rush to the beach, as man after man learned the news. Some swarmed up the sea-wall,​ some into the nearest fishing-boats: others were wading middle-deep into the surf, a few standing with outstretched arms. The whole shore rang with lamentations and vows and the din of conflicting questions and vague replies. A huge multitude streamed up with lights, and, when the knowledge of her safety spread, set out to offer congratulations; until, at the sight of an armed and threatening column, they were forced to scatter. Anicetus drew a cordon around the villa, and, breaking down the entrance, dragged off the slaves as they appeared, until he reached the bedroom-door. A few servants were standing by: the rest had fled in terror at the inrush of men. In the chamber was a dim light and a single waiting-maid; and Agrippina’s anxiety deepened every instant. Why no one from her son – nor even Agermus? Had matters prospered, they would have worn another aspect. Now, nothing but solitude, hoarse alarms, and the symptoms of irremediable ill! Then the maid rose to go. “Dost thou too forsake me?” she began, and saw Anicetus behind her, accompanied by Herculeius, the trierarch, and Obaritus, a centurion of marines. “If he had come to visit the sick, he might take back word that she felt refreshed. If to do murder, she would believe nothing of her son: matricide was no article of their instructions.” The executioners surrounded the couch, and the trierarch began by striking her on the head with a club. The centurion was drawing his sword to make an end, when she proffered her womb to the blow. “Strike here,” she exclaimed, and was despatched with repeated wounds.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

So Nero avoided being alone with her. When she left for her gardens or country mansions at Tusculum and Antium, he praised her intention of taking a holiday.

Finally, however, he concluded that wherever Agrippina was she was intolerable. He decided to kill her. His only doubt was whether to employ poison, or the dagger, or violence of some other kind. Poison was the rst choice. But a death at the emperor’s table would not look fortuitous after Britannicus had died there. Yet her criminal conscience kept her so alert for plots that it seemed impracticable to corrupt her household. Moreover, she had strengthened her physical resistance by a preventive course of antidotes. No one could think of a way of stabbing her without detection. And there was another danger: that the selected assassin might shrink from carrying out his dreadful orders.

However, a scheme was put forward by Anicetus, an ex-slave who commanded the fleet at Misenum. In Nero’s boyhood Anicetus had been his tutor; he and Agrippina hated each other. A ship could be made, he now said, with a section which would come loose at sea and hurl Agrippina into the water without warning. Nothing is so productive of surprises as the sea, remarked Anicetus; if a shipwreck did away with her, who could be so unreasonable as to blame a human agency instead of wind and water? Besides, when she was dead the emperor could allot her a temple and altars and the other public tokens of filial duty.

This ingenious plan found favour. The time of year, too, was suitable, since Nero habitually attended the festival of Minerva at Baiae. Now he enticed his mother there. ‘Parents’ tempers must be borne!’ he kept announcing. ‘One must humour their feelings’. This was to create the general impression that they were friends again, and to produce the same effect on Agrippina. For women are naturally inclined to believe welcome news.

As she arrived from Antium, Nero met her at the shore. After welcoming her with outstretched hands and embraces, he conducted her to Bauli, a mansion on the bay between Cape Misenum and the waters of Baiae. Some ships were standing there. One, more sumptuous than the rest, was evidently another compliment to his mother, who had formerly been accustomed to travel in warships manned by the imperial navy. Then she was invited out to dinner. The crime was to take place on the ship under cover of darkness. But an informer, it was said, gave the plot away; Agrippina could not decide whether to believe the story, and preferred a sedan-chair as her conveyance to Baiae.

There her alarm was relieved by Nero’s attentions. He received her kindly, and gave her the place of honour next himself. The party went on for a long time. They talked about various things; Nero was boyish and intimate – or confidentially serious. When she left, he saw her o, gazing into her eyes and clinging to her. This may have been a final piece of shamming – or perhaps even Nero’s brutal heart was affected by his last sight of his mother, going to her death.

But heaven seemed determined to reveal the crime. For it was a quiet, star-lit night and the sea was calm. The ship began to go on its way. Agrippina was attended by two of her friends. One of them, Crepereius Gallus, stood near the tiller. The other, Acerronia, leant over the feet of her resting mistress, happily talking about Nero’s remorseful behaviour and his mother’s re-established influence. Then came the signal. Under the pressure of heavy lead weights, the roof fell in. Crepereius was crushed, and died instantly. Agrippina and Acerronia were saved by the raised sides of their couch, which happened to be strong enough to resist the pressure. Moreover, the ship held together.

In the general confusion, those in the conspiracy were hampered by the many who were not. But then some of the oarsmen had the idea of throwing their weight on one side, to capsize the ship. However, they took too long to concert this improvised plan, and meanwhile others brought weight to bear in the opposite direction. This provided the opportunity to make a gentler descent into the water. Acerronia ill-advisedly started crying out, ‘I am Agrippina! Help, help the emperor’s mother!’ She was struck dead by blows from poles and oars and whatever ship’s gear happened to be available. Agrippina herself kept quiet and avoided recognition. Though she was hurt – she had a wound in the shoulder – she swam until she came to some sailing-boats. They brought her to the Lucrine lake, from which she was taken home.

There she realized that the invitation and special compliment had been treacherous, and the collapse of her ship planned. The collapse had started at the top, like a stage-contrivance. The shore was close by, there had been no wind, no rock to collide with. Acerronia’s death and her own wound also invited reflection. Agrippina decided that the only escape from the plot was to profess ignorance of it. She sent an ex-slave Agerinus to tell her son that by divine mercy and his lucky star she had survived a serious accident. The messenger was to add, however, that despite anxiety about his mother’s dangerous experience Nero must not yet trouble to visit her – at present rest was what she needed. Meanwhile, pretending unconcern, she cared for her wound and physical condition generally. She also ordered Acerronia’s will to be found and her property sealed. Here alone no pretence was needed.

To Nero, awaiting news that the crime was done, came word that she had escaped with a slight wound – after hazards which left no doubt of their instigator’s identity. Half-dead with fear, he insisted she might arrive at any moment. ‘She may arm her slaves! She may whip up the army, or gain access to the senate or Assembly, and incriminate me for wrecking and wounding her and killing her friends! What can I do to save myself?’ Could Burrus and Seneca help? Whether they were in the plot is uncertain. But they were immediately awakened and summoned.

For a long time neither spoke. They did not want to dissuade and be rejected. They may have felt matters had gone so far that Nero had to strike before Agrippina, or die. Finally Seneca ventured so far as to turn to Burrus and ask if the troops should be ordered to kill her. He replied that the Guard were devoted to the whole imperial house and to Germanicus’ memory; they would commit no violence against his offspring. Anicetus, he said, must make good his promise. Anicetus unhesitatingly claimed the direction of the crime. Hearing him, Nero cried that this was the rest day of his reign – and the magnificent gift came from a former slave! ‘Go quickly!’ he said. ‘And take men who obey orders scrupulously!’

Agrippina’s messenger arrived. When Nero was told, he took the initiative, and staged a fictitious incrimination. While Agerinus delivered his message, Nero dropped a sword at the man’s feet and had him arrested as if caught red-handed. Then he could pretend that his mother had plotted against the emperor’s life, been detected, and – in shame – committed suicide.

Meanwhile Agrippina’s perilous adventure had become known. It was believed to be accidental. As soon as people heard of it they ran to the beach, and climbed on to the embankment, or fishing-boats nearby. Others waded out as far as they could, or waved their arms. The whole shore echoed with wails and prayers and the din of all manner of inquiries and ignorant answers. Huge crowds gathered with lights. When she was known to be safe, they prepared to make a show of rejoicing.

But a menacing armed column arrived and dispersed them. Anicetus surrounded her house and broke in. Arresting every slave in his path, he came to her bedroom door. Here stood a few servants – the rest had been frightened away by the invasion. In her dimly lit room a single maid waited with her. Agrippina’s alarm had increased as nobody, not even Agerinus, came from her son. If things had been well there would not be this terribly ominous isolation, then this sudden uproar. Her maid vanished. ‘Are you leaving me, too?’ called Agrippina. Then she saw Anicetus. Behind him were a naval captain and lieutenant named Herculeius and Obaritus respectively. ‘If you have come to visit me’, she said, ‘you can report that I am better. But if you are assassins, I know my son is not responsible. He did not order his mother’s death.’ The murderers closed round her bed. First the captain hit her on the head with a truncheon. Then as the lieutenant was drawing his sword to finish her off, she cried out: ‘Strike here!’ – pointing to her womb. Blow after blow fell, and she died.

[Woodman, 2004:]

Therefore Nero avoided private encounters with her and, on her withdrawal to her gardens or to her Tusculan or Antian estates, praised her pursuit of inactivity; finally, deeming her overburden some wherever she was, he decided to kill her, debating only whether by poison or the sword or some other violence.

The favorite at first was poison; but, if it were administered during a banquet of the princeps, it could not be referred to chance, such having already been the means of Britannicus’ extermination; and it seemed a steep task to manipulate the servants of a woman alerted against subterfuge by her own experience in crime; and in fact she had personally fortified her body by taking prophylactic remedies. As for slaughter by the sword, no one could devise how it might be concealed; and he dreaded that his orders might be spurned by anyone chosen for so great a deed.

An ingenious offer came from the freedman Anicetus, prefect of the fleet at Misenum, a tutor of Nero’s boyhood and resented by Agrippina with a hatred that was mutual. He explained that a ship could be assembled, part of which might be detached by artifice while out at sea, ejecting the unsuspecting woman. Nothing, he said, was so capable of chance occurrences as the sea; and, if she were cut off by shipwreck, who would be so unfair as to assign to crime something for which the winds and billows were to blame? The princeps could add a temple for the deceased, and altars and all the other manifestations of devotion. Such artfulness found favor, helped as it was by the moment too, since he was celebrating the festival days of the Quinquatrus at Baiae. There he lured his mother, insisting that the rages of parents should be borne and tempers calmed – all so that he might produce a rumor of reconciliation which Agrippina might accept, the credulity of females being responsive to joyful news.

On her subsequent arrival he met her on the shore (she was coming from Antium), welcomed her with his hand and an embrace and led her to Bauli. (That is the name of a villa which is lapped by the sea as it curves between the promontory of Misenum and the Baian lake.) There stood among other ships one more ornate, as if that too were a tribute to his mother’s honor (she had been accustomed to travel in a trireme with marines as oarsmen).And then she had been invited to a banquet, so that nighttime might be pressed into concealing the deed. There was general assent that a betrayer had presented himself and that Agrippina, after hearing of the subterfuge but ambivalent about believing it, had traveled to Baiae by the conveyance of a chair. But there blandishments removed her dread, after her affable reception and being placed above her host: for, when he had dragged out the party for a long time by numerous conversations, at one moment in youthful intimacy and at another frowning as if communicating something serious, Nero escorted her on her departure, fastening particularly closely upon her eyes and breast – either to complete his pretense or else the final gaze on his doomed mother checked even his bestial heart.

That the night was illuminated by stars and peaceful with a calm sea was ensured by the gods, as if to prove criminality. The ship had not made much progress (with Agrippina accompanied by two from the number of her establishment, of whom Crepereius Gallus was standing not far from the tiller, while Acerronia, leaning over the feet of her reclining mistress, was recalling in joy the remorse of the son and his mother’s recovery of favor), when at a given signal the shelter over the area collapsed from its heavy load of lead, and Crepereius was crushed and immediately rendered lifeless. Agrippina and Acerronia were sheltered by the bed’s towering sides, which by chance were too substantial to yield to the weight. Nor did the detachment of the vessel follow, given the general disturbance and because even the accomplices were impeded by the numbers of the ignorant. It seemed therefore to the rowers that they should lean to one side and so sink the ship; but there was no ready agreement among themselves as regards the emergency, and others straining in the opposite direction provided the opportunity for a gentler plunge into the sea. Yet Acerronia – misguidedly (she kept shouting that she was Agrippina and that the princeps’s mother must be rescued) – was dispatched with pikes and oars and whatever naval weapons chance offered. Agrippina, silent and therefore less recognized (she nevertheless received one wound to the shoulder), swam and then encountered some skiffs; conveyed thus to the Lucrine Lake, she was carried to her own villa.

Reflecting there that she had been deliberately summoned by a treacherous letter and had been the principal recipient of honor, and how it was next to the shore, not driven by winds or dashed on rocks, that her ship had collapsed from its uppermost part like a terrestrial device; observing too the execution of Acerronia, and at the same time looking at her own wound, she realized that her only remedy against subterfuge was to seem not to understand it. She sent her freedman Agermus to announce to her son that by the gods’ kindness and his good fortune she had escaped a serious disaster. She begged, she said, that, no matter how scared by the danger to his mother, he should defer any concern to visit her: what she needed at present was rest. Meanwhile, pretending unconcern, she applied medication to her wound and dressings to her body and ordered Acerronia’s will to be sought and her property sealed (that alone not in pretense).

As for Nero, waiting for news of the completed deed, he was told that she had escaped, injured by only a light blow, her brush with the crisis extending only to her being in no doubt as to its instigator. Thereupon, choking with panic, he claimed that she would soon – soon! – be here, hurrying for vengeance. If she armed the slaves or inflamed the soldiery, or if she made her way through to the senate and people with allegations of shipwreck and wounding and murdered friends, what would be his defense against her, unless Burrus and Seneca came up with something? To try them out, he had immediately summoned them (it being doubtful whether they were ignorant even before this).There was thus a long silence from each, lest their dissuasion be unavailing – or else they believed that things had reached such depths that, unless Agrippina were forestalled, Nero must perish. Afterward Seneca was the readier to the extent that he looked at Burrus and inquired whether her slaughter should be commanded of the soldiery; the other replied that the praetorians, bound to the whole house of the Caesars and mindful of Germanicus, would not venture anything frightful against his progeny: let Anicetus complete what he had promised. And he for his part had no hesitation but actually demanded the climax of the crime. In response to these words, Nero professed that that was the day on which command was being given to him, and the author of so great a gift was a freedman: Anicetus should go rapidly, he said, and take with him those readiest for his orders. He himself, on hearing that Agermus had arrived as a messenger on a mission from Agrippina, set the stage for an accusation of his own and, while the man was conveying her instructions, threw down a sword at his feet and then ordered him to be thrown into chains as if apprehended in the act – all so that he could fabricate a story to the effect that the extermination of the princeps had been set in motion by his mother and, in shame at the apprehension of the crime, she had chosen death of her own accord.

Meanwhile Agrippina’s danger had become public, the assumption being that it had happened by accident, and each person on hearing of it ran down to the shore. Some climbed on the piled breakwaters, some on the closest boats; others waded into the sea as far as their bodies allowed; still others stretched out their hands. The whole beach was filled with the complaints, vows, and shouting of those asking their different questions or answering in uncertain terms. A mighty multitude with lights streamed down, and, when it became known that she had been preserved, they prepared themselves to offer congratulations – until they scattered at the sight of an armed and menacing column.

Anicetus surrounded her villa with pickets and, breaking down the entrance, seized any slaves he encountered until he came to the doors of the bedroom, where a few still stood fast, the rest having been terrified away in terror of the onrushers. In the bedroom there was only a modest light and one of the maids, while Agrippina was more and more tense that no one, not even Agermus, arrived from her son. Welcome circumstances would wear a different face, she thought; as it was, there was isolation and sudden noises and the symptoms of a final affliction. When next the maid departed, she said “Are you too deserting me?”, then looked around to see Anicetus, accompanied by the trierarch Herculeius and Obaritus, a marine centurion. If he had come to visit, she said, he might report that she had recovered; but, if to perpetrate a crime, she would not believe it of her son: there had been no command for parricide. But the assailants surrounded her bed, and initially the trierarch struck her head with his cudgel; and, as the centurion was already drawing his sword for death, she proffered her womb, crying out “Stab my belly!”; and with many wounds she was dispatched.

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

Nero accordingly avoided private meetings with her, and applauded her for taking a break whenever she left for her gardens or her estate at Tusculum or Antium. Concluding finally that she was a real problem wherever she was kept, he decided to kill her off, considering only the question of whether to use poison, or the sword, or some other violent means. At first he favoured poison. If, however, it were administered at the imperial dinner, the incident could not be ascribed to chance, since Britannicus had already met a similar end; and it was evidently difficult to suborn servants of a woman whose own criminal experiences made her wary of treachery. Besides, she had already built up her body’s immunity by the prior taking of counter-agents. As for death by the sword, no one could find a method of concealment; and he was afraid that someone chosen for such a heinous crime might disregard his orders.

It was the freedman Anicetus who came up with the brilliant idea. He was prefect of the fleet at Misenum, had been the young Nero’s tutor, and was hated by Agrippina with a loathing that was mutual. Anicetus explained that a vessel could be constructed with a section designed to fall apart on the open sea, pitching the unsuspecting woman overboard. Nothing offered such latitude for accident as did the sea, he said, and, if Agrippina were overtaken by shipwreck, who would be so unreasonable as to attribute to crime the mischief done by winds and waves? The emperor would then also grant the deceased a temple, altars, and everything else for demonstrating filial devotion.

The plan’s ingenuity won approval, and the timing helped, too, as Nero used to celebrate the festival of the Quinquatrus at Baiae. To this spot he enticed his mother, frequently remarking that should tolerate the outbursts of parents and try to soothe their anger – all this to generate a rumour of their reconciliation, which Agrippina would swallow with the gullibility of a woman receiving good news. When she arrived Nero went to the shore to meet her (she was coming from Antium). He welcomed her with outstretched hands and an embrace, and took her to Bauli. (This was the name of a villa lapped by the waters of an inlet between the promontory of Misenum and he lake of Baiae.) At anchor amongst the others was one particularly fine vessel – apparently a further mark of respect for his mother, for she had been used to sailing in a trireme with a crew of marines. She was also now invited to dinner, so that there should be darkness, too, to hide the crime.

It is well established that there was an informer, and that when Agrippina heard of the plot she could not decide whether to believe it, and used a litter as her transport to Baiae. There, some sweet talk alleviated her concerns; and she was warmly welcomed and seated above Nero himself. As conversation flowed freely, Nero alternating a juvenile chattiness with an earnest expression as he apparently communicated some serious points, the dinner-party became a protracted affair. Nero then escorted Agrippina as she departed, hanging on her gaze and clinging closely to her. Either he was putting the finishing touch to his charade or the last sight of his mother going to her end made even his heart falter, inhuman though it was.

As if to provide proof of the crime, heaven provided a night bright with stars and peaceful with a tranquil sea. The ship had not gone far. Two of Agrippina’s personal friends were with her: Crepereius Gallus stood near the helm, and Acceronia was leaning over the feet of her mistress (who was lying down), cheerfully talking about the son’s change of heart and the mother’s reinstatement in his good graces. Then a signal was given, the ceiling covering the spot collapsed, weighted as it was with a large quantity of lead, and Crepereius was immediately crushed to death. Agrippina and Acceronia were protected by the sides of the bed that jutted up above them and which happened to be too strong to crumple under the weight. The disintegration of the vessel did not follow, either; there was general confusion, and most of the sailors, unaware of the plot, kept obstructing the conspirators. The oarsmen then thought it best to throw their weight on one side and capsize the ship like that, but they could not reach a quick consensus about dealing with the emergency, and others countered their efforts, making it possible for the victims to slip gently into the sea. Acceronia, misreading the situation, cried out that she was Agrippina and that the emperor’s mother should be helped, whereupon she was battered to death with poles, oars, and marine implements that came to hand. Remaining silent, Agrippina decreased the chance of recognition (though she did receive one wound to the shoulder). Then, swimming off, she met some skiffs that took her to the Lucrine lake, and from there was transported to her own villa.

There Agrippina reflected on the motive for the duplicitous letter of invitation, and for her particularly respectful treatment. Also, she noted, the ship had been close to shore, was not driven by the winds, and had not struck any rocks; and yet it had collapsed from the top like some apparatus on land. She also thought about Acceronia’s murder, and at the same time looked at her own wound; and she realized that the only way of dealing with the plot was by seeming not to recognize its existence. She sent her freedman Agermus to report to her son that, because of the benevolence of the gods and Nero’s own good fortune, she had escaped a serious accident. Despite his alarm over the danger his mother had faced, she added, she begged him to postpone the visit he was anxious to make – she had need of rest for the moment. Meanwhile, feigning nonchalance, she applied medication to her wound and lotions to her body. She ordered a search for Acceronia’s will and had her belongings sealed up – her one act that was not a pretence.

Nero was waiting for news that the deed was done when word came that Agrippina had escaped with a slight wound and had been close enough to danger for no doubt to be left about who was responsible. He was petrified with fear, declaring that she would be there at any moment, intent on swift revenge. She would arm her slaves, or incite the soldiery; she would get to the Senate and the people, laying at his door the shipwreck, her wound, the killing of her friends. And what help was there for him? Unless Burrus and Seneca could come up with something... He had them summoned immediately, though whether they had no prior knowledge of the plot is unclear.

Both were silent for a long while. Either they feared that trying to hold him back would fail, or else they believed that things had gone so far that Nero was done for unless Agrippina were stopped. Then Seneca took the lead to the extent of looking at Burrus and asking whether soldiers should be ordered to kill her. Burrus replied that the praetorian guards had sworn loyalty to the entire house of the Caesars, and that, remembering Germanicus, they would take no violent action against his progeny. Anicetus should live up to his promise, he added.

With no hesitation, Anicetus asked to put in charge of the crime. Responding to his request, Nero declared that this was the day on which he was given an empire, and the giver of such a great gift was his freedman. Anicetus should go swiftly, he said, and take with him the men most ready to follow orders. On being told that Agermus had arrived with a message from Agrippina, Nero took the initiative and provided the scenario for an accusation of his own. He threw a sword at Agermus’ feet as the freedman delivered the message entrusted to him, then ordered him clapped in irons as though caught in a treasonous act. He would fabricate a story of his mother plotting the emperor’s assassination, and then committing suicide from shame when the crime was detected.

Meanwhile news had spread of Agrippina’s perilous episode, which was represented as an accident, and as people learned of it they all rushed to the shore. Some clambered up the embankments, some boarded the closest skiffs; others waded into the sea as far as was physically possible; some stood with arms outstretched. The whole shoreline was filled with the noise of moaning, prayers, and cries as people asked various questions or gave vague replies. A huge crowd surged to the spot with torches, and when it was known that Agrippina was safe they prepared to offer their felicitations, until they were scattered by the sight of a column of men, armed and menacing.

Anicetus cordoned off the villa and broke down the door. He threw aside any slaves in his way until he reached the bedroom door. Before it stood only a few attendants; the rest had been frightened off, terrified by the break-in. In the bedroom there was a dim light and one of the maids, and Agrippina, growing more and more worried that nobody had come from her son, not even Agermus. Things would look different had her plan gone well, she thought; as it was, there was only solitude broken by sudden uproar, and indications that it had gone very badly.

Her maid then began to leave. ‘Are you deserting me, too?’ asked Agrippina and, looking round, she saw Anicetus, who was accompanied by the trierarch Herculeius and by Obaritus, a centurion of the marines. If Anicetus had come to visit the patient, she said, he could report that she was recovered. If he had come to commit a crime, she did not believe her son was involved – he had not given the order for parricide. The assassin stood around the bed, and the trierarch took the lead, striking her on the head with a club. The centurion then drew his sword to deliver the death blow. ‘Strike me in the belly,’ she cried, thrusting out to them her womb, and was finished off by a welter of stab-wounds.             

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

Nero avoided private concourse and when Agrippina left for her park or her estates in Tusculum or Antium he commended her for relaxing. Eventually finding her insufferable wherever she was housed, he decided to kill her, deliberating only as to poison, sword or other method. He favoured poison first. But if given at the Emperor’s table it could not be ascribed to chance, Britannicus already having died thus. And it seemed toilsome to rest the servants of a woman alert, from criminal experience, to plots. Plus, by taking antidotes in advance she had fortified her body. How sword and slaughter might be hidden no one discovered, and the possibility that someone selected for so momentous an action might defy orders was frightening. The freedman Anicetus, commander of the Misenum fleet, offered an idea. He was Nero’s boyhood tutor and was hated – the feeling was mutual – by Agrippina. He explained: A ship can be built such that, at sea, part will come loose by design, disgorging her unawares. Nothing contains as many accidents as the sea, and if she is cut short by shipwreck, who is so unjust as to assign to crime damage done by wind and wave? The Emperor will give the deceased a temple, plus altars and other signs of devotion.

The cleverness was pleasing, and the date helped: Minerva’s festival was spent at Baiae. Nero lured his mother there, repeating, Parental ill-humour must be endured and my own temper calmed, in order to generate a reconciliation rumour that Agrippina would accept, women being gullible for happy report. Meeting her at the shore – she was coming from Antium – with hand clasp and embrace, he took her to Bauli. (This is the name of a sea-washed villa on an inlet between Cape Misenum and Baiae’s lagoon.) Among the boats stood one more ornate – this, too, apparently, in his mother’s honour; she had been used to conveyance by trireme and fleet rowers. Then she was invited for dinner, so that night would help conceal the crime. There was clearly a traitor. Agrippina, either after hearing about the boat plot or uncertain whether to believe it, went to Baiae in a chair. Attentiveness alleviated fear: she got a friendly reception and a seat next to Nero. There was much conversation, sometimes with youthful intimacy on Nero’s part, then again reserved, as if sharing serious matters. The party went on long and he escorted her out, clinging fast to eyes and person, either to complete the illusion or else the last sight of his doomed mother checked a spirit however bestial.

A night star-bright and, with sea calm, quiet – practically proving the crime! – was provided by the gods. The boat did not go far. (Two of Agrippina’s household accompanied her: Crepereius Gallus, standing near the tiller, and Acerronia, leaning back near the foot of Agrippina’s couch, speaking happily of the son’s penitence, the mother’s recovered influence.) At a signal, the canopy collapsed from a heavy load of lead. Crepereius, crushed, expired immediately. Agrippina and Acerronia, the couch’s projecting ends being by chance too strong to succumb to the weight, were protected. Nor did the ship’s dissolution result, since there was universal confusion and the plotters were hampered by the many unaware. The rowers’ next plan was to tilt the boat to one side and sink it that way. But not even they reached quick consensus in the crisis, and the others, opposing, made an easier opportunity for going overboard. Acerronia, crying out unwisely, I am Agrippina! Help the Emperor’s mother! was killed by naval weaponry, poles and oars and whatever chance offered. Agrippina was silent and therefore less visible; she did, however, receive a shoulder wound. By swimming, then encountering rowboats, she found conveyance to Lake Lucrinus and was taken to her villa.

Pondering the purpose behind the invitation – Deceitful letter! – and the particularly honorific reception, the fact that the boat – near shore, no wind pushing, not on the reef – collapsed top-down like a structure on land; observing, too, the murder of Acerronia and considering her own wound, Agrippina realized the trap’s only remedy lay in not being understood. She sent her freedman Agermus to report to her son: By the gods’ kindness and your good fortune I escaped grave accident. I beg you, however frightened you are by your mother’s danger, to defer your intention of visiting. At present I need repose. Meanwhile, simulating unconcern, she applied medicines to her wound and bandages to her body. She ordered Acerronia’s will found and her property sealed – this alone without pretence.

Nero, awaiting word of deed complete, was informed: She got away, lightly wounded but having come close enough to danger to be sure about its source. He was unstrung by panic, insisting: Soon, soon she will arrive quick to avenge! She’ll arm slaves or rouse soldiers, or else approach senate and people – and blame me for shipwreck and wound and murdered friends! What prop do I have against her, unless Seneca and Burrus have something? (Reviving, he had summoned them immediately. It is unclear whether they were ignorant earlier, too.) A long silence from both ensued, lest they dissuade in vain. Or else they believed matter so far deteriorated that unless Agrippina was forestalled Nero must perish. Seneca was the readier in that he turned to Burrus and asked whether the soldiers should get the order to kill. Guardsmen pledged to the whole house of the Caesars and, remembering Germanicus, will venture no atrocity against his progeny, Burrus replied. Let Anicetus finish what he promised. Anicetus, unhesitating, demanded crime’s culmination. At this, Nero declared: Today, finally, I am being given power. The source of so great a gift? A freedman! Anicetus, go quickly and take the men readiest to orders. Hearing that the messenger Agermus had come from Agrippina, Nero himself set the stage for incrimination: as Agermus relayed his message, Nero threw a sword between his feet and, as if Agermus had been caught in the act, ordered chains – to pretend that his mother, having contrived the Emperor’s exit and from shame at crime apprehended, took her own life.    

News of Agrippina’s accident spread – as if it had happened by chance! When people heard, they went to the shore. Some mounted embankments, some nearby boats, others went as far as body permitted into the sea, some stretched up hands. With protests, prayers and shouts from people, questioning variously and replying uncertainly, every shore was full. There streamed in a huge crowd with lights. At knowledge of her safety people hurried as for congratulation, until deflected by sight of an armed and menacing column. Anicetus surrounded the villa with sentries. He demolished the gate and seized the slaves he encountered, eventually reaching Agrippina’s bedroom door. A small number stood there, the rest having been dismayed by terror at the invaders. In the bedroom there was a modest light, a single slave girl. Agrippina was more and more anxious at there being no one from her son, not even Agermus. A happy outcome would look otherwise than solitude and sudden noises and indications of the worst. When the girl started to leave, ‘You too desert me?’ she cried. And turned to see Anicetus, accompanied by ship captain Herculeius and fleet centurion Obaritus. If you are paying a call, report me recovered. But if you intend to accomplish the deed – I don’t believe it of my son. No order has been given for kin-murder! The killers surrounded her couch. First was the captain, with a club to the head. To the centurion, then drawing sword for death, she thrust forward her middle and cried, ‘Hit the belly!’ Many wounds finished her.

 

Book XIV, Chapters 52-56, Nero and Seneca.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

The death of Burrus was a blow to Seneca’s power, for virtue had not the same strength when one of its companions, so to say, was removed, and Nero too began to lean on worse advisers. They assailed Seneca with various charges, representing that he continued to increase a wealth which was already so vast as to be beyond the scale of a subject, and was drawing to himself the attachment of the citizens, while in the picturesqueness of his gardens and the magnificence of his country houses he almost surpassed the emperor. They further alleged against him that he claimed for himself alone the honours of eloquence, and composed poetry more assiduously, as soon as a passion for it had seized on Nero. “Openly inimical to the prince's amusements, he disparaged his ability in driving horses, and ridiculed his voice whenever he sang. When was there to be an end of nothing being publicly admired but what Seneca was thought to have originated? Surely Nero’s boyhood was over, and he was all but in the prime of youthful manhood. He ought to shake off a tutor, furnished as he was with sufficiently noble instructors in his own ancestors.”

Seneca, meanwhile, aware of these slanders, which were revealed to him by those who had some respect for merit, coupled with the fact that the emperor more and more shunned his intimacy, besought the opportunity of an interview. This was granted, and he spoke as follows: – “It is fourteen years ago, Caesar, that I was first associated with your prospects, and eight years since you have been emperor. In the interval, you have heaped on me such honours and riches that nothing is wanting to my happiness but a right use of it. I will refer to great examples taken not from my own but from your position. Your great-grandfather Augustus granted to Marcus Agrippa the calm repose of Mitylene, to Caius Maecenas what was nearly equivalent to a foreign retreat in the capital itself. One of these men shared his wars; the other struggled with many laborious duties at Rome; both received awards which were indeed splendid, but only proportioned to their great merits. For myself, what other recompense had I for your munificence, than a culture nursed, so to speak, in the shade of retirement, and to which a glory attaches itself, because I thus seem to have helped on the early training of your youth, an ample reward for the service. "You on the other hand have surrounded me with vast influence and boundless wealth, so that I often think within myself, Am I, who am but of an equestrian and provincial family, numbered among the chief men of Rome? Among nobles who can show a long succession of glories, has my new name become famous? Where is the mind once content with a humble lot? Is this the man who is building up his garden terraces, who paces grandly through these suburban parks, and revels in the affluence of such broad lands and such widely-spread investments? Only one apology occurs to me, that it would not have been right in me to have thwarted your bounty.

“And yet we have both filled up our respective measures, you in giving as much as a prince can bestow on a friend, and I in receiving as much as a friend can receive from a prince. All else only fosters envy, which, like all things human, sinks powerless beneath your greatness, though on me it weighs heavily. To me relief is a necessity. Just as I should implore support if exhausted by warfare or travel, so in this journey of life, old as I am and unequal even to the lightest cares, since I cannot any longer bear the burden of my wealth, I crave assistance. Order my property to be managed by your agents and to be included in your estate. Still I shall not sink myself into poverty, but having surrendered the splendours which dazzle me, I will henceforth again devote to my mind all the leisure and attention now reserved for my gardens and country houses. You have yet before you a vigorous prime, and that on which for so many years your eyes were fixed, supreme power. We, your older friends, can answer for our quiet behaviour. It will likewise redound to your honour that you have raised to the highest places men who could also bear moderate fortune.”

Nero’s reply was substantially this: – “My being able to meet your elaborate speech with an instant rejoinder is, I consider, primarily your gift, for you taught me how to express myself not only after reflection but at a moment's notice. My great-grandfather Augustus allowed Agrippa and Maecenas to enjoy rest after their labours, but he did it at an age carrying with it an authority sufficient to justify any boon, of any sort, he might have bestowed. But neither of them did he strip of the rewards he had given. It was by war and its perils they had earned them; for in these the youth of Augustus was spent. And if I had passed my years in arms, your sword and right hand would not have failed me. But, as my actual condition required, you watched over my boyhood, then over my youth, with wisdom, counsel, and advice. And indeed your gifts to me will, as long as life holds out, be lasting possessions; those which you owe to me, your parks, investments, your country houses, are liable to accidents. Though they seem much, many far inferior to you in merit have obtained more. I am ashamed to quote the names of freedmen who parade a greater wealth. Hence I actually blush to think that, standing as you do first in my affections, you do not as yet surpass all in fortune.

“Yours too is a still vigorous manhood, quite equal to the labours of business and to the fruit of those labours; and, as for myself, I am but treading the threshold of empire. But perhaps you count yourself inferior to Vitellius, thrice a consul, and me to Claudius. Such wealth as long thrift has procured for Volusius, my bounty, you think, cannot fully make up to you. Why not rather, if the frailty of my youth goes in any respect astray, call me back and guide yet more zealously with your help the manhood which you have instructed? It will not be your moderation, if you restore me your wealth, not your love of quiet, if you forsake your emperor, but my avarice, the fear of my cruelty, which will be in all men's mouths. Even if your self-control were praised to the utmost, still it would not be seemly in a wise man to get glory for himself in the very act of bringing disgrace on his friend.” To these words the emperor added embraces and kisses; for he was formed by nature and trained by habit to veil his hatred under delusive flattery. Seneca thanked him, the usual end of an interview with a despot. But he entirely altered the practices of his former greatness; he kept the crowds of his visitors at a distance, avoided trains of followers, seldom appeared in Rome, as though weak health or philosophical studies detained him at home.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

The death of Burrus shook the position of Seneca: for not only had the cause of decency lost in power by the removal of one of its two champions, but Nero was inclining to worse counsellors. These brought a variety of charges to the assault on Seneca, “who was still augmenting that enormous wealth which had transcended the limits of a private fortune; who was perverting the affection of his countrymen to himself; who even in the charm of his pleasure-grounds and the splendour of his villas appeared bent on surpassing the sovereign. The honours of eloquence,” so the count proceeded, “he arrogated to himself alone; and he was writing verse more frequently, now that Nero had developed an affection for the art. For of the emperor’s amusements in general he was an openly captious critic, disparaging his powers when he drove his horses and deriding his notes when he sang! How long was nothing to be counted brilliant in Rome, unless it was believed the invention of Seneca? Beyond a doubt, Nero’s boyhood was finished, and the full vigour of youth had arrived: let him discharge his pedagogue – he had a sufficiently distinguished staff of teachers in his own ancestors.”

Seneca was aware of his maligners: they were revealed from the quarters where there was some little regard for honour, and the Caesar’s avoidance of his intimacy was becoming marked. He therefore asked to have a time fixed for an interview; it was granted, and he began as follows: – “It is the fourteenth year, Caesar, since I was associated with your hopeful youth, the eighth that you have held the empire: in the time between, you have heaped upon me so much of honour and of wealth that all that is lacking to complete my happiness is discretion in its use. I shall appeal to great precedents, and I shall draw them not from my rank but from yours. Augustus, the grandfather of your grandfather, conceded to Marcus Agrippa the privacy of Mytilene, and to Gaius Maecenas, within the capital itself, something tantamount to retirement abroad.​ One had been the partner of his wars, the other had been harassed by more numerous labours at Rome, and each had received his reward – a magnificent reward, it is true, but proportioned to immense deserts. For myself, what incentive to your generosity have I been able to apply except some bookish acquirements, cultivated, I might say, in the shadows of the cloister? Acquirements to which fame has come because I am thought to have lent a helping hand in your own first youthful efforts – a wage that overpays the service! But you have invested me with measureless influence, with countless riches; so that often I put the question to myself: – “Is it I, born in the station of a simple knight and a provincial,​who am numbered with the magnates of the realm? Among these nobles, wearing their long-descended glories, has my novel name swum into ken? Where is that spirit which found contentment in mediocrity? Building these terraced gardens? – Pacing these suburban mansions? – Luxuriating in these broad acres, these world-wide investments?” – A single defence suggests itself – that I had not the right to obstruct your bounty.

“But we have both filled up the measure: you, of what a prince may give to his friend; and I, of what a friend may take from his prince. All beyond breeds envy! True, envy, like everything mortal, lies far beneath your greatness; but by me the burden is felt – to me a relief is necessary. As I should pray for support in warfare, or when wearied by the road, so in this journey of life, an old man and unequal to the lightest of cares, I ask for succour: for I can bear my riches no further. Order my estates to be administered by your procurators, to be embodied in your fortune. Not that by my own action I shall reduce myself to poverty: rather, I shall resign the glitter of wealth which dazzles me, and recall to the service of the mind those hours which are now set apart to the care of my gardens or my villas. You have vigour to spare; you have watched for years the methods by which supreme power is wielded: we, your older friends, may demand our rest. This, too, shall redound to your glory – that you raised to the highest places men who could also accept the lowly.”

Nero’s reply, in effect, was this: – “If I am able to meet your studied eloquence with an immediate answer, that is the first part of my debt to you, who have taught me how to express my thought not merely after premeditation but on the spur of the moment. Augustus, the grandfather of my grandfather, allowed Agrippa and Maecenas to rest after their labours, but had himself reached an age, the authority of which could justify whatever boon, and of whatever character, he had bestowed upon them. And even so he stripped neither of the rewards conferred by himself. It was in battle and jeopardy they had earned them, for such were the scenes in which the youth of Augustus moved; and, had my own days been spent in arms, your weapons and your hand would not have failed me; but you did what the actual case demanded, and fostered first my boyhood, then my youth, with reason, advice, and precept. And your gifts to me will be imperishable, so long as life may last; but mine to you – gardens, capital, and villas – are vulnerable to accident. They may appear many; but numbers of men, not comparable to you in character have held more. Shame forbids me to mention the freedmen who flaunt a wealth greater than yours! And hence I even blush that you, who have the first place in my love, do not as yet excel all in fortune. Or is it, by chance, the case that you deem either Seneca lower than Vitellius,​ who held his three consulates, or Nero lower than Claudius, and that the wealth which years of parsimony won for Volusius​ is incapable of being attained by my own generosity to you?

“On the contrary, not only is yours a vigorous age, adequate to affairs and to their rewards, but I myself am but entering the first stages of my sovereignty. Why not recall the uncertain steps of my youth, if here and there they slip, and even more zealously guide and support the manhood which owes its pride to you. Not your moderation, if you give back your riches; not your retirement, if you abandon your prince; by my avarice, and the terrors of my cruelty, will be upon all men’s lips. And, however much your abnegation may be praised, it will still be unworthy of a sage to derive credit from an act which sullies the fair fame of a friend.” He followed his words with an embrace and kisses – nature had fashioned him and use had trained him to veil his hatred under insidious caresses. Seneca – such is the end of all dialogues with an autocrat – expressed his gratitude:​ but he changed the established routine of his former power, banished the crowds from his antechambers, shunned his attendants, and appeared in the city with a rareness ascribed to his detention at home by adverse health or philosophic studies.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

Burrus’ death undermined the influence of Seneca. Decent standards carried less weight when one of their two advocates was gone. Now Nero listened to more disreputable advisers. These attacked Seneca, rst for his wealth, which was enormous and excessive for any subject, they said, and was still increasing; secondly, for the grandeur of his mansions and beauty of his gardens, which outdid even the emperor’s; and thirdly, for his alleged bids for popularity. They also charged Seneca with allowing no one to be called eloquent but himself. ‘He is always writing poetry,’ they suggested, ‘now that Nero has become fond of it. He openly disparages the emperor’s amusements, underestimates him as a charioteer, and makes fun of his singing. How long must merit at Rome be conferred by Seneca’s certificate alone? Surely Nero is a boy no longer! He is a grown man and ought to discharge his tutor. His ancestors will teach him all he needs.’ Seneca knew of these attacks. People who still had some decency told him of them. Nero increasingly avoided his company.

Seneca, however, requested an audience, and when it was granted, this is what he said. ‘It is nearly fourteen years, Caesar, since I became associated with your rising fortunes, eight since you became emperor. During that time you have showered on me such distinctions and riches that, if only I could retire to enjoy them unpretentiously, my prosperity would be complete.

‘May I quote illustrious precedents drawn from your rank, not mine? Your great-great-grandfather Augustus allowed Marcus Agrippa to withdraw to Mytilene, and allowed Gaius Maecenas the equivalent of retirement at Rome itself. The one his partner in wars, the other the bearer of many anxious burdens at Rome, they were greatly rewarded, for great services. I have had no claim on your generosity, except my learning. Though acquired outside the glare of public life, it has brought me the wonderful recompense and distinction of having assisted in your early education.

‘But you have also bestowed on me measureless favours, and boundless wealth. Accordingly, I often ask myself: “Is it I, son of a provincial knight, who am accounted a national leader? Is mine the unknown name which has come to glitter among ancient and glorious pedigrees? Where is my old self, that was content with so little? Laying out these ne gardens? Grandly inspecting these estates? Wallowing in my vast revenues?” I can only nd one excuse. It was not for me to obstruct your munificence.

‘But we have both filled the measure – you, of what an emperor can give his friend, and I, of what a friend may receive from his emperor. Anything more will breed envy. Your greatness is far above all such mortal things. But I am not; so I crave your help. If, in the eld or on a journey, I were tired, I should want a stick. In life’s journey, I need just such a support.

‘For I am old and cannot do the lightest work. I am no longer equal to the burden of my wealth. Order your agents to take over my property and incorporate it in yours. I do not suggest plunging myself into poverty, but giving up the things that are too brilliant and dazzle me. The time now spent on gardens and mansions shall be devoted to the mind. You have abundant strength. For years the supreme power has been familiar to you. We older friends may ask for our rest. This, too, will add to your glory – that you have raised to the heights men content with lower positions.’

The substance of Nero’s reply was this. ‘My first debt to you is that I can reply impromptu to your premeditated speech. For you taught me to improvise as well as to make prepared orations. True, my great-great-grandfather Augustus permitted Agrippa and Maecenas to rest after their labours. But he did so when he was old enough to assure them, by his prestige, of everything – of whatever kind – that he had given them. Besides, he certainly deprived neither of the rewards which they had earned from him in the wars and crises of Augustus’ youthful years. If my life had been warlike, you too would have fought for me. But you gave what our situation demanded: wisdom, advice, philosophy, to support me as boy and youth. Your gifts to me will endure as long as life itself! My gifts to you, gardens and mansions and revenues, are liable to circumstances.

‘They may seem extensive. But many people far less deserving than you have had more. I omit, from shame, to mention ex-slaves who aunt greater wealth. I am even ashamed that you, my dearest friend, are not the richest of all men. You are still vigorous and t for State affairs and their rewards. My reign is only beginning. Or do you think you have reached your limit? If so you must rank yourself below Lucius Vitellius, thrice consul, and my generosity below that of Claudius, and my gifts as inferior to the lifelong savings of Lucius Volusius Saturninus (II).

‘If youth’s slippery paths lead me astray, be at hand to call me back! You equipped my manhood; devote even greater care to guiding it! If you return my gifts and desert your emperor, it is not your unpretentiousness, your retirement, that will be on everyone’s lips, but my meanness, your dread of my brutality. However much your self-denial were praised, no philosopher could becomingly gain credit from an action damaging to his friend’s reputation.’

Then he clasped and kissed Seneca. Nature and experience had fitted Nero to conceal hatred behind treacherous embraces. Seneca expressed his gratitude (all conversations with autocrats end like that). But he abandoned the customs of his former ascendancy. Terminating his large receptions, he dismissed his entourage, and rarely visited Rome. Ill-health or philosophical studies kept him at home, he said.

[Woodman, 2004:]

The death of Burrus broke Seneca’s powerfulness, because good practice lacked its previous strength with the removal of one of its two (so to speak) leaders, and Nero was all for inclining toward baser men. These rose up against Seneca with various charges, to the effect that he was still increasing his mighty wealth, which had exceeded all private limits, and that he was turning the affections of the citizens toward himself; and in the attractiveness of his gardens and the magnificence of his villas it was as if he were surpassing the princeps. They cast against him too the charge that he was arrogating praise for eloquence to himself exclusively and was scribbling poems more frequently, now that Nero’s love of them had emerged (he was, they said, being openly prejudiced against the princeps’s delectations, depreciating his power in controlling horses and making sport of his voice whenever he sang): what pass would need to be reached before there was nothing brilliant in the state which was not believed to be of Seneca’s devising? Surely Nero’s boyhood had passed and he now had the strength of a young man: he should cast off his master, equipped as he was with sufficiently plentiful teachers in his own ancestors. But Seneca, not unaware of his accusers (betrayed as they were by those who had some concern for honorableness), and as Caesar increasingly spurned familiarity with him, begged time for a conversation, and, on receiving it, began thus:

“It is the fourteenth year, Caesar, since I became associated with your prospects, the eighth that you have held command: in that interval of time you have heaped such honors and wealth upon me that my happiness lacks nothing except its moderation. I shall resort to great exemplars, and not of my situation but of yours. Your great-great-grandfather Augustus permitted a Mytilenean seclusion to Marcus Agrippa and (so to speak) a foreign furlough within the City itself to C. Maecenas: the one an ally in war, the other buffeted by numerous toils at Rome, they had of course received plentiful rewards, but in return for mighty deserts. In my case, what else could I contribute to your munificence than my studies, nurtured as they were (if I may so express it) in the shade, and which have emerged with brilliancy only because I am seen to have attended to the rudiments of your youth – a great prize for such a thing? Yet you have surrounded me with immeasurable favor, with money uncountable, so much so that often within myself I turn over these thoughts: ‘Am I really counted among the leaders of the community, born as I was in an equestrian and provincial station? Has my newness sparkled amid the nobles and those flaunting a long line of adornments? Where is that spirit, content with modestness? Does it construct such gardens as mine and walk through these suburban areas and abound in such large stretches of land and such wide investment?’ I am confronted with only one defense, that I was obliged not to defy your gifts.

“But each of us has reached our full measure – you, as much as a princeps could grant to a friend, and I, as much as a friend receive from a princeps. Every surplus increases resentment, which of course (like all mortal things) occupies a level far beneath your greatness but hangs over me and requires me to be rescued. Just as, if exhausted by campaign or travel, I might beg the ministration of a stick, so, as an old man at this point in his journey through life and unequal to even the slightest of cares, I seek support, since I cannot sustain my wealth further. Order my estate to be administered by your procurators and accepted as part of your fortune. Not that I shall drag myself down into poverty, but, having handed over the things which dazzle me by their flash, I shall reclaim for my mind the time which is set aside for the care of my gardens and villas. In front of you lie your strength and, as seen over so many years, the control which comes with eminence; we older friends can demand our due rest. This too will redound to your glory – to have conveyed to the heights those who could tolerate modest levels too.”

To this Nero replied approximately thus: “The fact that I can confront immediately your prepared speech I hold to be your first gift to me, since you taught me to express not only foreseen but also improvised words. My great-greatgrandfather Augustus allowed Agrippa and Maecenas to take up furloughs after their toils but was himself at an age when his authority could protect whatever he granted and whatever its nature; and yet he stripped neither of them of the rewards he had given them. They had deserved them, in war and danger: for it was in such areas that Augustus’ youth was spent. Not that I would have lacked your weapons and brawn in a life of arms; but, as the immediate situation demanded, you fostered my boyhood and then my youth with reasoning, counsel, and precepts. And of course your gifts to me will be everlasting as long as my life continues; what you have from me – gardens and investments and villas – is susceptible to hazard. And, although it seems a lot, more has been held by numerous men who are in no way equal to your artistic skills. It is too shaming to refer to the freedmen who are conspicuously richer: hence I blush also at the fact that you, the principal in my affection, do not yet surpass all in fortune. On the other hand, not only are you at an effective age which is adequate to affairs and to the fruits of affairs, but I am embarking on the first stretches of command – unless perchance you consider either yourself inferior to Vitellius, three times consul, or me to Claudius, and my lavishness toward you is unable to match the fulfilment which lifelong frugality brought to Volusius. If in any respect there is a decline in the slippery slope of my adolescence, why not reclaim it and provide more emphatic control for the youthful strength which you graced with your support? It will be neither your moderation, should you return the money, nor your rest, should you abandon your princeps, but my greed and the dread of my cruelty which will be on the lips of all; and, however much your self-denial may be praised, it will certainly not be appropriate for a wise man to accept glory from the same circumstance as procures infamy for his friend.”

To these words he added an embrace and kisses, being constituted by nature and trained by habit to screen his hatred by treacherous blandishments. Seneca (such being the end of all conversations with one’s master) expressed his gratitude; but he reversed the routines of his previous powerfulness: he stopped the throngs of well-wishers, avoided companions and was rarely in the City, as if detained at home by adverse health or the study of wisdom

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

The death of Burrus broke the power of Seneca. Good qualities carried less weight with one of their champions removed, and in addition Nero was turning more towards worse characters. These attacked Seneca on various charges. He was, they said, still adding to his huge riches, which were already excessive for any private citizen; he was turning to himself the support of the citizens; and in the charm of his gardens and the magnificence of his country homes he was apparently trying to outdo the emperor. They also accused him of monopolizing all recognition given for oratory, and of composing verses more frequently after Nero developed a passion for them. He was openly hostile to the emperor’s diversions, they said; he was dismissive of his ability in driving horses and ridiculed his singing voice. How long would nothing in the state have distinction unless it were thought to be Seneca’s creation? Nero’s boyhood was certainly over, they added, and a young man’s vigour was upon him. He should slough off his teacher – he had brilliant enough educators in his ancestors!

Seneca, in fact, was not unaware of the allegations; people with some regard for decency disclosed them to him, and the emperor was avoiding his company more than usual. He therefore requested time for a word with him, and when granted it he began like this:

‘Caesar: it is the fourteenth year since I was brought in to assist your prospects for the future, and the eighth that you have been in power. During that time you have heaped upon me so many honours and riches that nothing is lacking to complete my good fortune, except the ability to make proper use of them. I shall cite great examples, not from my station of life, but yours. Your great-great-grandfather, Augustus, granted Marcus Agrippa retirement at Mytilene, and to Gaius Maecenas he granted, within the city itself, what was tantamount to a retreat abroad. One had been his partner in the wars, and the other beleaguered by many heavy responsibilities at Rome. They had then received their rewards, large indeed, but in line with the greatness of their services. In my case, what have I been able to contribute to justify your munificence, other than my studies, which have been fostered in the shade, so to speak, and become renowned only because I am thought to have aided your education in your youth (a great reward for such service)? Even so you have surrounded me with enormous influence, and wealth beyond measure, so much so that I often inwardly wonder, “Am I, born of an equestrian father in the provinces, actually numbered among the leaders of the state? Has my newcomer presence achieved distinction amongst noblemen who can put on display a long series of glittering decorations? Where is that spirit that was happy with little? Is it out building gardens such as mine? Is it strutting through these suburban retreats? Is it awash with such extensive lands and such far-flung investments?” Only one line of defence comes to mind – I had no right to resist your generous gifts.’

‘But we have both reached the limit, you of what an emperor could bestow on a friend, and I of what a friend could accept from an emperor. Everything beyond that increases envy. Like all mortal things, this lies beneath your greatness, but it weighs heavily on me, and I need help. Just as I would ask for a stick if I were exhausted on military service or a journey, so on this journey through life, as an old man and one unequal to the most insignificant cares, I am seeking assistance since I can no longer bear the burden of my riches. Give the order for my property to be managed by your procurators and to be incorporated into your fortune. I shall not be forcing myself into poverty, but after surrendering the things whose lustre dazzles me I shall direct back to the intellect the time now reserved for the care of my gardens and country homes. You have an abundance of stamina, and over many years you have wielded supreme power. We older friends of yours can claim their repose. This, too, will be counted to your credit – that you elevated to the highest positions men who could also put up with modest ones.’

Nero’s response was much like this:

‘The fact that I can reply immediately to your prepared speech is what I consider your first gift to me – you have thought me impromptu as well as prepared delivery. My great-great-grandfather Augustus did permit Agrippa and Maecenas to enjoy a period of rest after their labours, but at a time in his life when his prestige could guarantee anything he conceded them, whatever its nature. And yet he did not strip either of them of the rewards earlier granted by him. They had earned them in warfare and danger – for that was where Augustus’ youth was spent. Not that your weapons and sword-hand would have failed me had I been in combat; but, instead, as the immediate circumstances required, you nourished my boyhood and then my youth with your reason, advice, and principles. And, in fact, your gifts will always be with me as long as my life goes on, while those that you have from me – gardens, investments, villas – are all exposed to the vagaries of fortune. And while they may seem a lot, many men had had more, men in no way equal to you in accomplishments. I am ashamed to mention the freedmen who have greater riches than you on display. And so it makes me blush that you, who come first in my affections, do not yet surpass them all in prosperity.

‘But you are vigorous in your years, capable of conducting state business and enjoying its rewards, and I am taking my first steps in power. Or perhaps you think less of yourself than you do of Vitellius, who was three times consul, or less of me than you do of Claudius – and perhaps my generosity to you cannot accumulate as much as Volusius’ long-lasting thrift did for him! If my youthful unsteadiness goes awry at some point, why not bring me back to the path and guide my strength more intensely, providing it with your support? It is not your moderation that will be on the lips of all if you return the money, nor your retirement if you leave the emperor. Rather it will be my greed and the fear of my cruelty. Even if your restraint is praised to the skies, it will still prove dishonourable for a philosopher to acquire glory from something that brings infamy to his friend.’

These words he followed with an embrace and kisses, for he had a natural propensity, further trained by habit, for cloaking his hatred with treacherous flattery. Seneca offered the thanks that mark the conclusion of all conversations with a master. However, he changed the routine associated with his former authority. He kept away the crowds of well-wishers, avoided entourages, and was rarely in evidence in the city, ostensibly kept at home by poor health or philosophical studies.

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

Burrus’ death shattered Seneca’s power. Rectitude did not have the same strength with one of its two ‘guides’ removed, and Nero was inclining to worse men. With various accusations these attacked Seneca: huge wealth, beyond private measure and still increasing; turning the citizens’ favour towards himself; in the pleasure of his parks and his villas’ magnificence practically surpassing the Emperor. Another reproach: Seneca wants eloquence’s palm for himself alone and produces poems more frequently now that you have become passionate about poetry. For he is openly opposed to his emperor’s amusements: he disparages your power commanding horses and ridicules your voice when you sing. How long will there be nothing renowned in the republic except Seneca’s ‘discoveries’? Certainly your boyhood is over, manhood’s vigour at hand. Shed your tutor, sufficiently equipped as you are with impressive teachers in your ancestors.

Seneca was aware of his accusers; they were exposed by people who cared about probity. Since Nero increasingly shunned his companionship, Seneca begged an opportunity for conversation, which was granted. He began thus:

‘This is now the fourteenth year, Nero, from when I was associated with your potential, the eighth of your rule. Meanwhile, you have so heaped me with offices and wealth that nothing is lacking to my prosperity except moderation. The impressive parallels I will cite suit not my fortune but yours. Your ancestor Augustus permitted to Agrippa retirement in Mytilene, and to Maecenas nearly a visitor’s leisure in Rome itself. The one was his partner in wars, the other active in Rome’s many tasks, and they had received rewards ample indeed but proportionate to huge services. Myself, with what could I prompt your generosity except teachings trained up, so to speak, in the shade, now in bright renown, because I am seen as having been attendant to your youth’s beginnings – a magnificent reward. You have surrounded me with immense influence, uncountable riches, so much that I often ponder: “Am I, with my equestrian, indeed provincial, origin, counted with Rome’s pre-eminent? Among noblemen boasting trains of honours does my new rank shine out? Where is that soul content with the middle? Does it lay out urban parks like this, tread these suburban estates, run riot with fields so extensive, revenues so vast?” One defence only is at hand: I was not to resist your gifts.

‘Both of us have reached capacity, you of what emperor can bestow upon a friend, I of what friend can accept from emperor; surplus grows envy. This, like all mortal concerns, is beneath your majesty, but it weighs on me. I need relief. Just as if weary from warfare or travel I were begging a prop, so in this journey of life, an old man unfit for even the lightest cares, unable any longer to sustain my wealth, I seek support. Order my property administered by your agents and received into your fortune. I will not be reducing myself to poverty. Relieved of things whose flash dazzles, I will reclaim time now devoted to parks and villas for my soul. You have abundant strength and many years of rule at the highest eminence. We your older friends can seek repose. This, too, will tend to your glory: that you carried men to the top for whom even the middle was bearable.’

To this Nero replied approximately thus: ‘My prompt rebuttal to your prepared speech is the first of your gifts, you who taught me to expound not only set pieces but also extempore. My ancestor Augustus granted leisure’s employment to Agrippa and Maecenas after their labours, but when he was at an age whose authority would defend his tributes, whatever they be. Still, he stripped neither of his rewards. They had earned them through war and perils, for in these Augustus’ youth was occupied. I would not have lacked your weapon and hand, had I been in arms, but with what circumstances then demanded – reason, advice, instruction – you nurtured my boyhood and youth. Your gifts to me, while life lasts, will be eternal. The things you have from me – parks and revenues and villas – are subject to chance. Granted, they seem numerous. But many men scarcely your equal in attainments have had more. I am abashed to mention the freedmen we see wealthier. Indeed it is a reproach to me that though pre-eminent in my affection you do not yet outstrip all in fortune.

‘Your age, too, is sound and adequate to both affairs and their emoluments, while I am but in the first phase of my rule. Unless, perhaps, you rate yourself behind Vitellius, consul three times, and me behind Claudius? The sum Volusius acquired with long-continued thrift, can my generosity not top it up for you? Wherever youth’s slippery ground sends me sliding, won’t you call me back and provide, to vigour equipped with your assistance, a more unstinting guidance? Not your moderation, if you return your money, or your “repose”, if you abandon your emperor, but my greed and my cruelty’s terror will be on everyone’s lips. However great the praise for your self-command, it would not become a philosopher to accept glory for himself that produces infamy for his friend.’ To these words Nero added an embrace and a kiss, a man fashioned by nature and trained by habit to veil hatred with deceptive charm. Seneca  - this was the conclusion of every conversation with the ruler – thanked him. But the practices of his former power he changed: he forbade assemblies of callers, avoided escorts and was rarely in Rome. Health prevents me, he said, or Philosophical pursuits keep me home.

 

Book XV, Chapter 44, Nero persecutes the Christians after the Fire of Rome.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

But all human efforts, all the lavish gifts of the emperor, and the propitiations of the gods, did not banish the sinister belief that the conflagration was the result of an order. Consequently, to get rid of the report, Nero fastened the guilt and inflicted the most exquisite tortures on a class hated for their abominations, called Christians by the populace. Christus, from whom the name had its origin, suffered the extreme penalty during the reign of Tiberius at the hands of one of our procurators, Pontius Pilatus, and a most mischievous superstition, thus checked for the moment, again broke out not only in Judaea, the first source of the evil, but even in Rome, where all things hideous and shameful from every part of the world find their centre and become popular. Accordingly, an arrest was first made of all who pleaded guilty; then, upon their information, an immense multitude was convicted, not so much of the crime of firing the city, as of hatred against mankind. Mockery of every sort was added to their deaths. Covered with the skins of beasts, they were torn by dogs and perished, or were nailed to crosses, or were doomed to the flames and burnt, to serve as a nightly illumination, when daylight had expired. Nero offered his gardens for the spectacle, and was exhibiting a show in the circus, while he mingled with the people in the dress of a charioteer or stood aloft on a car. Hence, even for criminals who deserved extreme and exemplary punishment, there arose a feeling of compassion; for it was not, as it seemed, for the public good, but to glut one man’s cruelty, that they were being destroyed.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

But neither human help, nor imperial munificence, nor all the modes of placating Heaven, could stifle scandal or dispel the belief that the fire had taken place by order. Therefore, to scotch the rumour, Nero substituted as culprits, and punished with the utmost refinements of cruelty, a class of men, loathed for their vices,​ whom the crowd styled Christians.​ Christus, the founder of the name, had undergone the death penalty in the reign of Tiberius, by sentence of the procurator Pontius Pilatus,​ and the pernicious superstition was checked for a moment, only to break out once more, not merely in Judaea, the home of the disease, but in the capital itself, where all things horrible or shameful in the world collect and find a vogue. First, then, the confessed members of the sect were arrested; next, on their disclosures, vast numbers​ were convicted, not so much on the count of arson as for hatred of the human race. And derision accompanied their end: they were covered with wild beasts' skins and torn to death by dogs; or they were fastened on crosses, and, when daylight failed were burned to serve as lamps by night. Nero had offered his Gardens for the spectacle, and gave an exhibition in his Circus, mixing with the crowd in the habit of a charioteer, or mounted on his car. Hence, in spite of a guilt which had earned the most exemplary punishment, there arose a sentiment of pity, due to the impression that they were being sacrificed not for the welfare of the state but to the ferocity of a single man.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

But neither human resources, nor imperial munificence, nor appeasement of the gods, eliminated sinister suspicions that the fire had been instigated. To suppress this rumour, Nero fabricated scapegoats – and punished with every refinement the notoriously depraved Christians (as they were popularly called). Their originator, Christ, had been executed in Tiberius’ reign by the governor of Judaea, Pontius Pilatus. But in spite of this temporary setback the deadly superstition had broken out afresh, not only in Judaea (where the mischief had started) but even in Rome. All degraded and shameful practices collect and flourish in the capital.

First, Nero had self-acknowledged Christians arrested. Then, on their information, large numbers of others were condemned – not so much for incendiarism as for their anti-social tendencies. Their deaths were made farcical. Dressed in wild animals’ skins, they were torn to pieces by dogs, or crucified, or made into torches to be ignited after dark as substitutes for daylight. Nero provided his Gardens for the spectacle, and exhibited displays in the Circus, at which he mingled with the crowd – or stood in a chariot, dressed as a charioteer. Despite their guilt as Christians, and the ruthless punishment it deserved, the victims were pitied. For it was felt that they were being sacrificed to one man’s brutality rather than to the national interest.

[Woodman, 2004:]

But despite the human help, despite the princeps’s lavishments and the appeasements of the gods, there was no getting away from the infamous belief that the conflagration had been ordered. Therefore, to dispel the rumor, Nero supplied defendants and inflicted the choicest punishments on those, resented for their outrages, whom the public called Chrestiani. (The source of the name was Christus, on whom, during the command of Tiberius, reprisal had been inflicted by the procurator Pontius Pilatus; and, though the baleful superstition had been stifled for the moment, there was now another outbreak, not only across Judaea, the origin of the malignancy, but also across the City, where everything frightful or shameful, of whatever provenance, converges and is celebrated.)

The first to be seized were those who confessed, then, on their information, a mighty number was convicted, not so much on the charge of the conflagration as for their hatred of the human race. And, as they perished, mockeries were added, so that, covered in the hides of wild beasts, they expired from mutilation by dogs or, fixed to crosses and made flammable, on the dwindling of daylight they were burned for use as nocturnal illumination. Nero had offered his gardens for the spectacle and he produced circus games, mingling with the plebs in the dress of a charioteer or standing in his racer. Hence there arose – albeit for culprits who deserved the ultimate exemplary treatment – a feeling of pity, as though it were not in the public interest, but for one man’s savagery, that they were being eliminated.

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

But neither human resourcefulness nor the emperor’s largesse nor appeasement of the gods could stop belief in the nasty rumour that an order had been given for the fire. To dispel the gossip Nero therefore found culprits on whom he inflicted the most exotic punishments. These were people hated for their shameful offences whom the common people called Christians. The man who gave them their name, Christus, had been executed during the rule of Tiberius by the procurator Pontius Pilate. The pernicious superstition had been temporarily suppressed, but it was starting to break out again, not just in Judaea, the starting point of that curse, but in Rome, as well, where all that is abominable and shameful in the world flows together and gains popularity.

And so, at first, those who confessed were apprehended, and subsequently, on the disclosures they made, a huge number were found guilty – more because of their hatred of mankind than because they were arsonists. As they died they were further subjected to insult. Covered with hides of wild beasts, they perished by being torn to pieces by dogs; or they would be fastened to crosses and, when daylight had gone, burned to provide lighting at night. Nero had offered his gardens as a venue for the show, and he would also put on circus entertainments, mixing with the plebs in the charioteer’s outfit or standing up in his chariot. As a result, guilty though these people were and deserving exemplary punishment, pity for them began to well up because it was felt that they were being exterminated not for the public good, but to gratify one man’s cruelty.

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

But it was not within human power, either by princely outlay or divine appeasement, to remove the shame. The fire was ordered, people believed. To destroy this rumour Nero supplied as perpetrators, and executed with elaborate punishments, people popularly called Christians, hated for their perversions. (The name’s source was one Christus, executed by the governor Pontius Pilatus when Tiberius held power. The pernicious creed, suppressed at the time, was bursting forth again, not only in Judaea, where this evil originated, but even in Rome, into which from all directions everything appalling and shameful flows and foregathers.) At first, those who confessed were arrested. Then, on their evidence, a huge multitude was convicted, less for the crime of fire than for hatred of humankind. Their deaths were accompanied by derision: covered in animal skins they were to perish torn by dogs, or affixed to crosses to be burned for nocturnal illumination when light faded. Nero offered his park for the show and staged games in the Circus, mixing with the crowd in the garb of a driver or riding a chariot. This roused pity. Guilty and deserving of extreme measures though they were, the Christians’ annihilation seemed to arise not from public utility but for one man’s brutality.

 

Book XV, Chapters 48-49, the Pisonian conspirators and their motives.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

Silius Nerva and Atticus Vestinus then entered on the consulship, and now a conspiracy was planned, and at once became formidable, for which senators, knights, soldiers, even women, had given their names with eager rivalry, out of hatred of Nero as well as a liking for Caius Piso. A descendant of the Calpurnian house, and embracing in his connections through his father's noble rank many illustrious families, Piso had a splendid reputation with the people from his virtue or semblance of virtue. His eloquence he exercised in the defence of fellow-citizens, his generosity towards friends, while even for strangers he had a courteous address and demeanour. He had, too, the fortuitous advantages of tall stature and a handsome face. But solidity of character and moderation in pleasure were wholly alien to him. He indulged in laxity, in display, and occasionally in excess. This suited the taste of that numerous class who, when the attractions of vice are so powerful, do not wish for strictness or special severity on the throne.

The origin of the conspiracy was not in Piso’s personal ambition. But I could not easily narrate who first planned it, or whose prompting inspired a scheme into which so many entered. That the leading spirits were Subrius Flavus, tribune of a praetorian cohort, and Sulpicius Asper, a centurion, was proved by the fearlessness of their death. Lucanus Annaeus, too, and Plautius Lateranus, imported into it an intensely keen resentment. Lucanus had the stimulus of personal motives, for Nero tried to disparage the fame of his poems and, with the foolish vanity of a rival, had forbidden him to publish them. As for Lateranus, a consul-elect, it was no wrong, but love of the State which linked him with the others. Flavius Scaevinus and Afranius Quintianus, on the other hand, both of senatorian rank, contrary to what was expected of them, undertook the beginning of this daring crime. Scaevinus, indeed, had enfeebled his mind by excess, and his life, accordingly, was one of sleepy languor. Quintianus, infamous for his effeminate vice, had been satirised by Nero in a lampoon, and was bent on avenging the insult.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

Silius Nerva and Vestinus Atticus then entered upon their consulate – the year of a conspiracy, no sooner hatched than full-grown,​1 for which senators, knights, soldiers, and women themselves had vied in giving their names, not simply through hatred of Nero, but also through partiality for Gaius Piso.​ Piso, sprung from the Calpurnian house, and, by his father's high descent, uniting in his own person many families of distinction, enjoyed with the multitude a shining reputation for virtue, or for spectacular qualities resembling virtues.​ For he exercised his eloquence in the defence of his fellow-citizens, his liberality in the service of his friends; and even with strangers his conversation and intercourse were marked by courtesy. He was favoured also with those gifts of chance, a tall figure and handsome features. But weight of character and continence in pleasure were absent: he gave full scope to frivolity, to ostentation, and at times to debauchery – a trait which was approved by that majority of men, who, in view of the manifold allurements of vice, desire no strictness or marked audacity in the head of the state.

The beginning of the conspiracy did not come from his own wish. At the same time, it is not easy for me to say who was its original author, whose the initiative that called into being a project which so many embraced. That its most resolute adherents had been found in Subrius Flavus, the tribune of a praetorian cohort, and the centurion Sulpicius Asper, was proved by the firmness of their end; while Annaeus Lucanus and Plautius Lateranus​ contributed the vivacity of their hatreds. Lucan had private motives to inflame him, since Nero was stifling the reputation of his poems and had ordered him not to seek publicity – for he had the vanity to count himself his peer. Lateranus, a consul designate, was brought to the cause, not by an injury, but by affection for the commonwealth. On the other hand, Flavius Scaevinus and Afranius Quintianus, both of senatorial rank, belied their repute when they took the lead in so desperate an enterprise. For the mental powers of Scaevinus had been wrecked by debauchery, and his life was one of corresponding languor and somnolence; Quintianus, a notorious degenerate, had been attacked by Nero in a scurrilous poem, and was now intent upon avenging the affront.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

The consuls for the following year were Aulus Licinius Nerva Silanus Firmus Pasidienus and Marcus Julius Vestinus Atticus. As soon as they had assumed oce, a conspiracy was hatched and instantly gained strength. Senators and knights, officers, even women, competed to join. They hated Nero; and they liked Gaius Calpurnius Piso. His membership of the aristocratic Calpurnian house linked him, on his father’s side, with many illustrious families. Among the masses, too, he enjoyed a great reputation for his good qualities, real or apparent. For he employed his eloquence to defend his fellow-citizens in court; he was a generous friend – and gracious and affable even to strangers; and he also possessed the accidental advantages of impressive stature and a handsome face. But his character lacked seriousness or self-control. He was superficial, ostentatious, and sometimes dissolute. But many people are fascinated by depravity and disinclined for austere morals on the throne. Such men found Piso’s qualities attractive.

However, his ambitions were not what originated the conspiracy. Who did, who initiated this enterprise which so many joined, I could not easily say. Subrius Flavus, a colonel of the Guard, and Sulpicius Asper, company-commander, were in the forefront – as their courageous deaths showed. Violent hatred was what brought in Lucan and Plautius Lateranus. Lucan’s animosity was personal. For Nero had the impudence to compete with Lucan as a poet, and had impeded his reputation by vetoing his publicity. Lateranus joined from no personal grievance; his motive was patriotism. Two other senators, Flavius Scaevinus and Afranius Quintianus, belied their reputations by becoming leaders in so important a project. For Scaevinus’ brain was ruined by dissipation, and he led a languid sleepy life. Quintianus was a notorious degenerate who had been insulted by Nero in an offensive poem, and desired revenge.

[Woodman, 2004:]

There next embarked on the consulship Silius Nerva and Atticus Vestinus, after the start and simultaneous augmentation of a conspiracy for which senators, equestrians, soldiery, and even females had competed to sign up, through both hatred of Nero and goodwill toward C. Piso. Born of Calpurnian lineage and incorporating through his father’s nobility many distinguished families, he enjoyed a brilliant reputation among the public for his virtue – or displays which resembled virtues. He employed his fluency for the protection of citizens, and lavishness toward his friends; and with strangers too he was affable in conversation and encounter. He also had the chance advantages of a lofty physique and a handsome appearance. But gravity of behavior and frugality in pleasures were alien to him: he indulged in levity, magnificence, and sometimes luxuriousness, and that earned him the approval of the numerous persons who, given the sweetness of the vices surrounding them, do not wish the supreme command to be either restrictive or oversevere.

Embarking on the conspiracy came not from any desire of his own, and yet I could not easily recall who was initially the author or at whose instigation came the summons which so many took up. That the readiest proved to be Subrius Flavus, the tribune of a praetorian cohort, and Sulpicius Asper, a centurion, was learned from the steadfastness of their deaths; and Lucanus Annaeus and Plautius Lateranus each contributed vital hatred. (Lucanus had his own reasons inflaming him, since Nero, in a vain attempt at assimilation, was trying to suppress the fame of his poems and had prevented him from showing them off. As for Lateranus, the consul designate, it was no injustice but love for the state which made him an ally.) Flavius Scaevinus and Afranius Quintianus, each of senatorial rank, belied their own reputations by undertaking principal parts in so great a deed: for Scaevinus’ mind was dissolute from luxuriousness, and his life correspondingly languid from somnolence; Quintianus was infamous for physical softness and, defamed by Nero in an abusive poem, was proceeding to avenge the insult.

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

Silius Nerva and Atticus Vestinius then entered their consulship, at a time when a conspiracy had begun and immediately escalated. Senators, knights, soldiers, and even women raced to enrol in it, from hatred of Nero and also because of the popularity of Gaius Piso. Piso was of the Calpurnian line and was well connected with many distinguished families because of his father’s noble breeding; and he enjoyed a brilliant reputation amongst the lower orders thanks to his virtue, or qualities that looked like virtues. For he used his oratorical ability to defend his fellow-citizens, showed generosity towards his friends, and was affable in his conversation and interaction even with strangers. He also enjoyed the fortuitous advantages of a tall physique and handsome looks. But he was far from possessing depth of character or moderation of his pleasures; he immersed himself in frivolity, luxury, and, sometimes, dissipation. And this had the blessing of most people who, surrounded by such sweet vices, do not want to see austerity or great strictness in the supreme power.

The conspiracy did not start from ambition on Piso’s part; but I would not find it easy to say who the prime mover was, or who provided the inspiration for a coup that so many espoused. Its most fervent supporters proved to be Subrius Flavus, tribune of a praetorian cohort, and the centurion Sulpicius Asprus, as their resolve in facing death demonstrated. Annaeus Lucanus and Plautius Lateranus brought to it impassioned hatred. Lucanus had personal motives for anger: Nero, fatuously thinking himself a rival, was trying to suppress the fame of his poems, and had forbidden him to give them public exposure. In the case of Lateranus, a consul-designate, it was no personal slight but rather patriotism that brought him into the plot. Flavius Scaevinus and Afranius Quintianus, both of senatorial rank, belied their reputations in embracing such a bold enterprise from the start. For Scaevinus’ mental powers had been weakened by his excesses, and he therefore led a life of languid indolence. Quintianus was notorious for his effeminacy, and having been insulted by Nero in a scurrilous poem he was now set on revenge for the humiliation.   

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

(65 CE) Then began the consular year of Silius Nerva and Vestinius Atticus, with a quick-growing conspiracy in which senators, equestrian-ranked, soldiers and even women vied to enlist, from both hatred of Nero and favour towards Gaius Piso.

By birth a Calpurnius, and including in his lineage many eminent families through his father’s noble birth, Piso was a popular celebrity for his virtue – or qualities that looked like virtues: eloquence in defence of fellow citizens, generosity towards friends, and even for strangers a friendly word and presence. He had Fortune’s gifts, too, being tall and good-looking. Seriousness of character and thrift in pleasure were absent: he favoured leniency and magnificence and occasionally dissipation. This was widely approved: so sweet are their vices that people want a government neither disciplined nor over severe.

The conspiracy did not begin from Piso’s desire. Nor would I find it easy to record who caused or at whose instigation was roused what so many sustained. The most stalwart were Subrius Flavus, a Guard officer, and the centurion Sulpicius Asper, as their deaths’ constancy showed. Lucan and Plautius Lateranus wielded lively hatreds. Lucan’s grievance had personal causes: Nero was limiting his poems’ fame and had forbidden their display, vainly thinking to match him. Not injury but love of country made consul-designate Lateranus an ally. Flavius Scaevinus and Afranius Quintianus, senators both, and contrary to their reputations, headed the momentous act. Scaevinus’ intellect was slack with dissipation, his life languid with sleep. Quintianus, notoriously soft and vilified by Nero’s abusive poem, intended to avenge the insult.

 

Book XV, Chapter 57, the heroic sacrifice of Epicharis.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

Nero, meanwhile, remembering that Epicharis was in custody on the information of Volusius Proculus, and assuming that a woman's frame must be unequal to the agony, ordered her to be torn on the rack. But neither the scourge nor fire, nor the fury of the men as they increased the torture that they might not be a woman’s scorn, overcame her positive denial of the charge. Thus the first day's inquiry was futile. On the morrow, as she was being dragged back on a chair to the same torments (for with her limbs all dislocated she could not stand), she tied a band, which she had stript off her bosom, in a sort of noose to the arched back of the chair, put her neck in it, and then straining with the whole weight of her body, wrung out of her frame its little remaining breath. All the nobler was the example set by a freedwoman at such a crisis in screening strangers and those whom she hardly knew, when freeborn men, Roman knights, and senators, yet unscathed by torture, betrayed, every one, his dearest kinsfolk. For even Lucanus and Senecio and Quintianus failed not to reveal their accomplices indiscriminately, and Nero was more and more alarmed, though he had fenced his person with a largely augmented guard.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

In the meantime, Nero recollected that Epicharis was in custody on the information of Volusius Proculus; and, assuming that female flesh and blood must be unequal to the pain, he ordered her to be racked. But neither the lash nor fire, nor yet the anger of the torturers, who redoubled their efforts rather than be braved by a woman, broke down her denial of the allegations. Thus the first day of torment had been defied. On the next, as she was being dragged back in a chair to a repetition of the agony – her dislocated limbs were unable to support her – she fastened the breast-band (which she had stripped from her bosom) in a sort of noose to the canopy of the chair, thrust her neck into it, and, throwing the weight of her body into the effort, squeezed out such feeble breath as remained to her. An emancipated slave and a woman, by shielding, under this dire coercion, men unconnected with her and all but unknown, she had set an example which shone the brighter at a time when persons freeborn and male, Roman knights and senators, untouched by the torture, were betraying each his nearest and his dearest. For Lucan himself, and Senecio and Quintianus, did not omit to disclose their confederates wholesale; while Nero’s terror grew from more to more, though he had multiplied the strength of the guards surrounding his person.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

Nero now remembered the information of Volusius Proculus and consequent arrest of Epicharis. Thinking no female body could stand the pain, he ordered her to be tortured. But lashes did not weaken her denials, nor did branding – nor the fury of the torturers at being deed by a woman. So the first day’s examination was frustrated. Next day her racked limbs could not support her, so she was taken for further torments in a chair. But on the way she tore o her breast-band, fastened it in a noose to the chair’s canopy, and placed her neck inside it. Then, straining with all her weight, she throttled the little life that was still in her. So, shielding in direst agony men unconnected with her and almost strangers, this former slavewoman set an example which particularly shone when free men, Roman knights and senators, were betraying, before anybody had laid a hand on them, their nearest and dearest. For Lucan and Senecio and Quintianus gave away their fellow-conspirators wholesale.

[Woodman, 2004, 57-58:]

Meanwhile Nero, recalling that on Volusius Proculus’ information Epicharis was being detained, and deeming her womanly body unequal to pain, ordered her to be mauled by torture. But in her case neither beatings nor fires nor the torturers’ anger (all the fiercer, lest they be spurned by a female) prevailed over her denials of the imputations. Thus was the first day of inquisition passed. On the next, when she was being dragged back to the same rackings by the conveyance of a chair (she was unable to stand on her dislocated limbs), she attached to the canopy of the chair, in the manner of a noose, the banded fastening which she had torn from her bosom, and, inserting her neck and straining with the weight of her body, she expelled her now faint breath – a woman and freedwoman defending, by her more brilliant example in such an extremity, others whom she scarcely knew, when the freeborn – men and Roman equestrians and senators, all untouched by torture – were each betraying the dearest of those to whom they were bound.

For Lucanus too and Senecio and Quintianus were not neglecting to give up their accomplices on all sides, to the ever increasing panic of Nero, although he had surrounded himself without redoubled lookouts.

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics, 57-58:]

Now in the meantime Nero remembered that Epicharis was being detained on information laid by Volusius Proculus and, believing that a woman’s constitution could not cope with pain, he had her subjected to body-rending torture. But no lashing, no burning, no furious treatment from her torturers – who piled on the pressure so as not to be bested by a woman – could break her denial of the charges. Thus the first day of the inquisition was a failure. On the next she was being brought back by means of a chair (her limbs were now dislocated and she could not stand) to face the same torments when she took the band from her breast, attached it to the chair’s canopy in the form of a noose, put her neck into it and, throwing the weight of her body into the effort, choked out what little life she had left. Thus a freedwoman set all the more brilliant an example in such dire circumstances, protecting people unrelated, indeed almost  strangers, to her – and that when male free persons, who were Roman knights and senators, were all betraying their nearest and dearest, without being subjected to torture. For Lucanus, too, and Senecio and Quintianus did not fail to tell on their accomplices, one after the other, while Nero grew more and more frightened, despite having redoubled the guards with which he surrounded himself.

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

Nero, remembering Epicharis detained on Proculus’ evidence and thinking a woman’s body unequal to pain, ordered torture. But neither whips nor fire nor the ever sharper anger of her tormentors – We will not be scorned by a woman! – overcame her denial. Thus was the inquisition’s first day flouted. When she was being dragged back the next day for the same torments – she was conveyed by carrying-chair, unable to stand on limbs undone – tying the band from her chest like a noose to the chair’s frame, she inserted her neck and by applying her body’s weight blocked her now scanty breath. She was an example all the brighter, a freedwoman in such straits, aiming to protect people not hers, practically strangers, when freeborn men of equestrian and senatorial rank, untouched by torture, betrayed each his dearest ties.

 

Book XV, Chapters 60-64, the death of Seneca.

[Church-Brodribb, 1876:]

Then followed the destruction of Annaeus Seneca, a special joy to the emperor, not because he had convicted him of the conspiracy, but anxious to accomplish with the sword what poison had failed to do. It was, in fact, Natalis alone who divulged Seneca’s name, to this extent, that he had been sent to Seneca when ailing, to see him and remonstrate with him for excluding Piso from his presence, when it would have been better to have kept up their friendship by familiar intercourse; that Seneca’s reply was that mutual conversations and frequent interviews were to the advantage of neither, but still that his own life depended on Piso’s safety. Gavius Silvanus, tribune of a praetorian cohort, was ordered to report this to Seneca and to ask him whether he acknowledged what Natalis said and his own answer. Either by chance or purposely Seneca had returned on that day from Campania, and had stopped at a countryhouse four miles from Rome. Thither the tribune came next evening, surrounded the house with troops of soldiers, and then made known the emperor’s message to Seneca as he was at dinner with his wife, Pompeia Paulina, and two friends.

Seneca replied that Natalis had been sent to him and had complained to him in Piso’s name because of his refusal to see Piso, upon which he excused himself on the ground of failing health and the desire of rest. “He had no reason,” he said, for “preferring the interest of any private citizen to his own safety, and he had no natural aptitude for flattery. No one knew this better than Nero, who had oftener experienced Seneca's freespokenness than his servility.” When the tribune reported this answer in the presence of Poppaea and Tigellinus, the emperor's most confidential advisers in his moments of rage, he asked whether Seneca was meditating suicide. Upon this the tribune asserted that he saw no signs of fear, and perceived no sadness in his words or in his looks. He was accordingly ordered to go back and to announce sentence of death. Fabius Rusticus tells us that he did not return the way he came, but went out of his course to Faenius, the commander of the guard, and having explained to him the emperor's orders, and asked whether he was to obey them, was by him admonished to carry them out, for a fatal spell of cowardice was on them all. For this very Silvanus was one of the conspirators, and he was now abetting the crimes which he had united with them to avenge. But he spared himself the anguish of a word or of a look, and merely sent in to Seneca one of his centurions, who was to announce to him his last doom.

Seneca, quite unmoved, asked for tablets on which to inscribe his will, and, on the centurion’s refusal, turned to his friends, protesting that as he was forbidden to requite them, he bequeathed to them the only, but still the noblest possession yet remaining to him, the pattern of his life, which, if they remembered, they would win a name for moral worth and steadfast friendship. At the same time he called them back from their tears to manly resolution, now with friendly talk, and now with the sterner language of rebuke. “Where,” he asked again and again, “are your maxims of philosophy, or the preparation of so many years’ study against evils to come? Who knew not Nero’s cruelty? After a mother’s and a brother’s murder, nothing remains but to add the destruction of a guardian and a tutor.”

Having spoken these and like words, meant, so to say, for all, he embraced his wife; then softening awhile from the stern resolution of the hour, he begged and implored her to spare herself the burden of perpetual sorrow, and, in the contemplation of a life virtuously spent, to endure a husband’s loss with honourable consolations. She declared, in answer, that she too had decided to die, and claimed for herself the blow of the executioner. There upon Seneca, not to thwart her noble ambition, from an affection too which would not leave behind him for insult one whom he dearly loved, replied: “I have shown you ways of smoothing life; you prefer the glory of dying. I will not grudge you such a noble example. Let the fortitude of so courageous an end be alike in both of us, but let there be more in your decease to win fame.” Then by one and the same stroke they sundered with a dagger the arteries of their arms. Seneca, as his aged frame, attenuated by frugal diet, allowed the blood to escape but slowly, severed also the veins of his legs and knees. Worn out by cruel anguish, afraid too that his sufferings might break his wife's spirit, and that, as he looked on her tortures, he might himself sink into irresolution, he persuaded her to retire into another chamber. Even at the last moment his eloquence failed him not; he summoned his secretaries, and dictated much to them which, as it has been published for all readers in his own words, I forbear to paraphrase.

Nero meanwhile, having no personal hatred against Paulina and not wishing to heighten the odium of his cruelty, forbade her death. At the soldiers' prompting, her slaves and freedmen bound up her arms, and stanched the bleeding, whether with her knowledge is doubtful. For as the vulgar are ever ready to think the worst, there were persons who believed that, as long as she dreaded Nero's relentlessness, she sought the glory of sharing her husband's death, but that after a time, when a more soothing prospect presented itself, she yielded to the charms of life. To this she added a few subsequent years, with a most praise worthy remembrance of her husband, and with a countenance and frame white to a degree of pallor which denoted a loss of much vital energy. Seneca meantime, as the tedious process of death still lingered on, begged Statius Annaeus, whom he had long esteemed for his faithful friendship and medical skill, to produce a poison with which he had some time before provided himself, same drug which extinguished the life of those who were condemned by a public sentence of the people of Athens. It was brought to him and he drank it in vain, chilled as he was throughout his limbs, and his frame closed against the efficacy of the poison. At last he entered a pool of heated water, from which he sprinkled the nearest of his slaves, adding the exclamation, “I offer this liquid as a libation to Jupiter the Deliverer.” He was then carried into a bath, with the steam of which he was suffocated, and he was burnt without any of the usual funeral rites. So he had directed in a codicil of his will, when even in the height of his wealth and power he was thinking of his life’s close.

[Jackson, 1931/37, Loeb Classical Library:]

There followed the murder of Annaeus Seneca, a joyful event to the sovereign: not that he had established his connection with the plot, but, as poison had not worked, he was anxious to proceed by the sword. Only Natalis, in fact, mentioned Seneca; nor did his statement go further than that he had been sent to visit him when sick and to make a complaint: – “Why did he close his door on Piso? It would be better if they cultivated their friendship by meeting on intimate terms.” Seneca’s answer had been that "spoken exchanges and frequent interviews were to the advantage of neither; still, his own existence depended on the safety of Piso.” Gavius Silvanus, tribune of a praetorian cohort, was instructed to take this report and ask Seneca if he admitted Natalis’ words and his own reply. By accident or design, Seneca that day had returned from Campania and broke his journey at one of his country-houses four miles out of Rome. Evening was near when the tribune arrived and surrounded the villa with pickets of soldiers: then he delivered the imperial message to the owner, who was dining with his wife Pompeia Paulina and two friends.

Seneca rejoined that “Natalis had been sent to him, and had remonstrated in Piso’s name against his refusal to receive his visits. By way of excuse, he had pleaded considerations of health and love of quiet. He had had no reason for ranking the security of a private person higher than his own safety, and his temper was not one which was quick to flattery: no one was better aware of that than Nero, who had more often experienced the frankness of Seneca than his servility.” When the tribune made his report in the presence of Poppaea and Tigellinus – the emperor’s privy council in his ferocious moods – Nero demanded if Seneca was preparing for a voluntary death. The officer then assured him that there were no evidences of alarm, and that he had not detected any sadness in his words or looks. He was therefore directed to go back and pronounce the death-sentence. Fabius Rusticus​ states that, instead of returning by the road he had come, the tribune went out of his way to the prefect Faenius, and, after recapitulating the Caesar's orders, asked if he should obey them; only to be advised by Faenius to carry them out. Fate had made cowards of them all. For Silvanus, too, was numbered with the plotters; and now he was engaged in adding to the crimes he had conspired to avenge. However, he was so far considerate of his voice and his eyes as to send one of his centurions in to Seneca, to announce the last necessity.

Seneca, nothing daunted, asked for the tablets containing his will. The centurion refusing, he turned to his friends, and called them to witness that “as he was prevented from showing his gratitude for their services, he left them his sole but fairest possession – the image of his life. If they bore it in mind, they would reap the reward of their loyal friendship in the credit accorded to virtuous accomplishments.” At the same time, he recalled them from tears to fortitude, sometimes conversationally, sometimes in sterner, almost coercive tones. “Where,” he asked, “were the maxims of your philosophy? Where that reasoned attitude towards impending evils which they had studied through so many years? For to whom had Nero’s cruelty been unknown? Nor was anything left him, after the killing of his mother and his brother, but to add the murder of his guardian and preceptor.”

After these and some similar remarks, which might have been meant for a wider audience, he embraced his wife, and, softening momentarily in view of the terrors at present threatening her, begged her, conjured her, to moderate her grief – not to take it upon her for ever, but in contemplating the life he had spent in virtue to find legitimate solace for the loss of her husband. Paulina replied by assuring him that she too had made death her choice, and she demanded her part in the executioner's stroke. Seneca, not wishing to stand in the way of her glory, and influenced also by his affection, that he might not leave the woman who enjoyed his whole-hearted love exposed to outrage, now said: “I had shown you the mitigations of life, you prefer the distinction of death: I shall not grudge your setting that example. May the courage of this brave ending be divided equally between us both, but may more of fame attend your own departure!” Aforesaid, they made the incision in their arms with a single cut. Seneca, since his aged body, emaciated further by frugal living, gave slow escape to the blood, severed as well the arteries in the leg and behind the knee.​ Exhausted by the racking pains, and anxious lest his sufferings might break down the spirit of his wife, and he himself lapse into weakness at the sight of her agony, he persuaded her to withdraw into another bedroom. And since, even at the last moment his eloquence remained at command, he called his secretaries, and dictated a long discourse, which has been given to the public in his own words, and which I therefore refrain from modifying.

Nero, however, who had no private animosity against Paulina, and did not wish to increase the odium of his cruelty, ordered her suicide to be arrested. Under instructions from the military, her slaves and freedmen bandaged her arms and checked the bleeding – whether without her knowledge is uncertain. For, with the usual readiness of the multitude to think the worst, there were those who believed that, so long as she feared an implacable Nero, she had sought the credit of sharing her husband's fate, and then, when a milder prospect offered itself, had succumbed to the blandishments of life. To that life she added a few more years – laudably faithful to her husband’s memory and blanched in face and limb to a pallor which showed how great had been the drain upon her vital powers. Seneca, in the meantime, as death continued to be protracted and slow, asked Statius Annaeus, who had long held his confidence as a loyal friend and a skilful doctor, to produce the poison – it had been provided much earlier – which was used for despatching prisoners condemned by the public tribunal of Athens.​ It was brought, and he swallowed it, but to no purpose; his limbs were already cold, and his system closed to the action of the drug. In the last resort, he entered a vessel of heated water, sprinkling some on the slaves nearest, with the remark that he offered the liquid as a drink-offering to Jove the Liberator. He was then lifted into a bath, suffocated by the vapour, and cremated without ceremony. It was the order he had given in his will, at a time when, still at the zenith of his wealth and power, he was already taking thought for his latter end.

[Grant, 1956, rev. 1971, 1973, 1975 & 1977, Penguin Classics:]

Seneca’s death followed. It delighted the emperor. Nero had no proof of Seneca’s complicity but was glad to use arms against him when poison had failed. The only evidence was a statement of Antonius Natalis that he had been sent to visit the ailing Seneca and complain because Seneca had refused to receive Piso. Natalis had conveyed the message that friends ought to have friendly meetings; and Seneca had answered that frequent meetings and conversations would benefit neither: but that his own welfare depended on Piso’s.

A colonel of the Guard, Gavius Silvanus, was ordered to convey this report to Seneca and ask whether he admitted that those were the words of Natalis and himself. Fortuitously or intentionally, Seneca had returned that day from Campania and halted at a villa four miles from Rome. Towards evening the officer arrived. Surrounding the villa with pickets, he delivered the emperor’s message to Seneca as he dined with his wife Pompeia Paulina and two friends. Seneca replied as follows: ‘Natalis was sent to me to protest, on Piso’s behalf, because I would not let him visit me. I answered excusing myself on grounds of health and love of quiet. I could have had no reason to value any private person’s welfare above my own. Nor am I a flatterer. Nero knows this exceptionally well. He has had more frankness than servility from Seneca!’

The officer reported this to Nero in the presence of Poppaea and Tigellinus, intimate counsellors of the emperor’s brutalities. Nero asked if Seneca was preparing for suicide. Gavius Silvanus replied that he had noticed no signs of fear or sadness in his words or features. So Silvanus was ordered to go back and notify the death sentence. According to Fabius Rusticus, he did not return by the way he had come but made a detour to visit the commander of the Guard, Faenius Rufus; he showed Faenius the emperor’s orders, asking if he should obey them; and Faenius, with that ineluctable weakness which they all revealed, told him to obey. For Silvanus was himself one of the conspirators – and now he was adding to the crimes which he had conspired to avenge. But he shirked communicating or witnessing the atrocity. Instead he sent in one of his staff-officers to tell Seneca he must die.

Unperturbed, Seneca asked for his will. But the officer refused. Then Seneca turned to his friends. ‘Being forbidden’, he said, ‘to show gratitude for your services, I leave you my one remaining possession, and my best: the pattern of my life. If you remember it, your devoted friendship will be rewarded by a name for virtuous accomplishments.’ As he talked – and sometimes in sterner and more imperative terms – he checked their tears and sought to revive their courage. Where had their philosophy gone, he asked, and that resolution against impending misfortunes which they had devised over so many years? ‘Surely nobody was unaware that Nero was cruel!’ he added. ‘After murdering his mother and brother, it only remained for him to kill his teacher and tutor.’

These words were evidently intended for public hearing. Then Seneca embraced his wife and, with a tenderness very different from his philosophical imperturbability, entreated her to moderate and set a term to her grief, and take just consolation, in her bereavement, from contemplating his well-spent life. Nevertheless, she insisted on dying with him, and demanded the executioner’s stroke. Seneca did not oppose her brave decision. Indeed, loving her wholeheartedly, he was reluctant to leave her behind to be persecuted. ‘Solace in life was what I commended to you,’ he said. ‘But you prefer death and glory. I will not grudge your setting so fine an example. We can die with equal fortitude. But yours will be the nobler end.’

Then, each with one incision of the blade, he and his wife cut their arms. But Seneca’s aged body, lean from austere living, released the blood too slowly. So he also severed the veins in his ankles and behind his knees. Exhausted by severe pain, he was afraid of weakening his wife’s endurance by betraying his agony – or of losing his own self-possession at the sight of her sufferings. So he asked her to go into another bedroom. But even in his last moments his eloquence remained. Summoning secretaries, he dictated a dissertation. (It has been published in his own words, so I shall refrain from paraphrasing it.)

Nero did not dislike Paulina personally. In order, therefore, to avoid increasing his ill-repute for cruelty, he ordered her suicide to be averted. So, on instructions from the soldiers, slaves and ex-slaves bandaged her arms and stopped the bleeding. She may have been unconscious. But discreditable versions are always popular, and some took a different view – that as long as she feared there was no appeasing Nero, she coveted the distinction of dying with her husband, but when better prospects appeared life’s attractions got the better of her. She lived on for a few years, honourably loyal to her husband’s memory, with pallid features and limbs which showed how much vital blood she had lost.

Meanwhile Seneca’s death was slow and lingering. Poison, such as was formerly used to execute State criminals at Athens, had long been prepared; and Seneca now entreated his experienced doctor Annaeus Statius, who was also an old friend, to supply it. But when it came, Seneca drank it without eect. For his limbs were already cold and numbed against the poison’s action. Finally he was placed in a bath of warm water. He sprinkled a little of it on the attendant slaves, commenting that this was his libation to Jupiter. Then he was carried into a vapour-bath, where he suffocated. His cremation was without ceremony, in accordance with his own instructions about his death – written at the height of his wealth and power.

[Woodman, 2004:]

There followed the slaughter of Annaeus Seneca (a highly welcome prospect for the princeps, not because he had discovered him in the act of conspiracy but so that he could make progress with the sword, since poison had not succeeded). Natalis – and he alone – produced the statement, limited as it was, that he had been sent to visit the ailing Seneca and to issue the complaint of why he had barred Piso from access to him: it would be better if they gave practical expression to their friendship by meeting sociably. And Seneca had replied that conversational exchanges and frequent dialogues were of advantage to neither party, whereas his own life depended upon Piso’s preservation.

Gavius Silvanus, the tribune of a praetorian cohort, was ordered to convey all this to Seneca and to inquire whether he acknowledged the words of Natalis and his own reply. By chance or deliberately, Seneca had returned from Campania that day and had halted at the fourth milestone in the suburban countryside. It was there, on the approach of evening, that the tribune came and encircled the villa with clusters of soldiers; then, while the man himself was dining with his wife Pompeia Paulina and two friends, he issued the Commander’s instructions. Seneca replied that Natalis had been sent to him and had complained in Piso’s name that he was being kept from visiting him; his excuses had been the current state of his health and his love of quiet; he had had no reason for giving the life of a private individual precedence over his own preservation, nor did he have a ready temperament for sycophancy – and that was known to none better than Nero, who had more often experienced free speaking from Seneca than servitude.

When this was relayed by the tribune in the presence of Poppaea and Tigellinus (who constituted the princeps’s most intimate counselors when he was savage), Nero asked whether Seneca was intending a voluntary death. Thereupon the tribune confirmed that there had been no signs of panic; nothing gloomy had been detected in his language or look. So he was ordered to go back with the indictment of death. Fabius Rusticus transmits that his return was not along the route he had come but that he deviated to Faenius, the prefect, and, after explaining Caesar’s orders, asked whether he should comply; and was advised by the other that he should follow them through – the shirking of them all being fated. For Silvanus too was one of the conspirators and was augmenting the crimes to whose avenging he had consented. He nevertheless spared his voice and gaze, and sent in one of the centurions to announce to Seneca the final necessity.

The latter, unafraid, demanded the tablets of his will and testament; and, on the centurion’s refusal, he turned to his friends and testified that, since he was prevented from rendering thanks for their services, he was leaving them the image of his life, which was the only thing – but still the finest thing – he had; if they were mindful of it, men so steadfast in friendship would carry with them the reputation for good qualities. At the same time, partly by conversation and partly in the more intense role of a reprimander, he recalled them from their tears to fortitude, asking repeatedly where were the precepts of their wisdom? Where, after contemplating it for so many years, was that reasoning in the face of looming adversity? For who had not known of the savagery of Nero? Nothing else remained, after the killing of his mother and brother, except that he should add the execution of his tutor and preceptor.

When Seneca had spoken such words as these as if for general consumption, he embraced his wife and, softening for a moment in the face of her manifest alarm, asked and begged that she should moderate her pain and not accept it for ever, but, by reflecting upon a life lived in virtue, she should use this honorable consolation to make tolerable the loss of her husband. In reply she asserted that she too had designs on death, and demanded the assailant’s hand. Thereupon Seneca, not opposed to her glory, and at the same time tenderly reluctant to abandon his only beloved to injury, said: “I had pointed out the palliatives of life to you, but you prefer the prestige of death. I shall not begrudge you your example. In such a brave outcome as this, let equal steadfastness be within reach of us both – but the greater brilliancy in that ending of yours.” After that they sliced their arms with the same blow of the sword.

Seneca, because his elderly body had shrunk owing to his spare livelihood and it was providing only a slow escape for his blood, ruptured also the veins in his legs and the backs of his knees; and, exhausted by the savage rackings, he persuaded his wife to retire to another bedroom lest, by reason of his own pain, he should break her spirit and he himself, by seeing her torments, should slip into irresolution. And, since even at the very last moment his eloquence was in plentiful supply, he called his scribes and transmitted a very considerable amount which, issued to the public in his version, I forbear to convert. But Nero, with no personal hatred for Paulina, and lest resentment at his cruelty should swell, ordered her death to be stopped. To exhortations from the soldiers, the slaves and freedmen bound up her arms and staunched the bleeding, but whether she was unconscious remains uncertain. (For – such is the readiness of the public for baser alternatives – there was no lack of those who believed that, as long as she feared Nero’s implacability, she had sought the fame of a death allied to her husband’s; but then, with the offer of a gentler prospect, she had been overcome by the blandishments of life – to which, in fact, she added a few further years, laudably mindful of her husband, and with her complexion and limbs paling into such wanness as was a constant advertisement that much of her vital spirit had been discharged.) Seneca meanwhile, as the protracted slowness of his death endured, begged Statius Annaeus, long esteemed for the loyalty of his friendship and for his skill at medicine, to produce the poison, previously prepared, “by which those condemned by the Athenians’ public court had their lives extinguished.” But, when it was brought, he swallowed it in vain, being already cold in his joints, and his body blocked against the power of the poison. Finally he entered the hotwater pool, splashing the nearest of his slaves and adding the utterance that the liquid was his libation to Jupiter the Liberator. Thereafter, having been carried into the bath, where he was asphyxiated by the steam, he was cremated without any of the solemnity of a funeral. Such had been the prescription in his codicils, since, even when at the peak of his prosperity and power, he had been paying heed to his final moments.          

[Yardley, 2008, Oxford World’s Classics:]

Next came the killing of Annaeus Seneca, for the emperor the sweetest. Not that he had discovered any proof of Seneca’s involvement in the conspiracy, but after the failure of the poison he could now go to work with the sword. In fact, Natalis alone had implicated Seneca, and only to the extent of saying that he had been sent to visit him when he was ill, and to express dissatisfaction over his refusing Piso access to him. It would be better, Natalis had said to him, if the two men developed their friendship by meeting on cordial terms; and Seneca’s reply had been that conversations between the two, and frequent meetings, were advantage to neither, but his own life depended on Piso’s safety.

Gavius Silvanus, tribune of a praetorian order, was instructed to report these details to Seneca and ask if he acknowledged such to be Natalis’ words and his own reply. Seneca, perhaps intentionally, had been returning from Campania that day and had made a stop at his country estate four miles from Rome. The tribune came to this spot as evening was coming on, and surrounded the villa with some military units. Then, as Seneca was dining with his wife Pompeia Paulina and two friends, he brought him the emperor’s message.

Seneca replied that Natalis had been sent to him and had expressed dissatisfaction on Piso’s behalf that Piso had been kept from visiting him, and that he had then excused himself for this on the grounds of ill-health and his love of the quiet life. He had no reason to put the life of a private individual ahead of his own safety, he said, nor was he temperamentally prone to obsequiousness – and nobody knew that better than Nero, who had more often had experience of his outspokenness than his servility!

These remarks of Seneca’s were reported by the tribune to Nero while he was with Poppaea and Tigellinus – the emperor’s closest advisers in his savage periods. Nero asked Silvanus whether Seneca intended to commit suicide. The tribune then asserted that he had recognized no signs of apprehension, and no distress in his language or expression. He was therefore told to go back and deliver the death sentence. Fabius Rusticus reports that the tribune did not return the way he had come but made a detour to the prefect Faenius. Having told Faenius about Nero’s orders, he asked whether he should obey them, and was advised by him – with that fatal cowardice now common to all – to carry them out. For Silvanus, too, was one of the conspirators, and was now increasing the number of crimes he had plotted to avenge. He did, however, spare himself from saying or seeing anything, instead sending one of the centurions to Seneca with the announcement of his final obligation.

Undaunted, Seneca called for the tablets of his will. The centurion refused, and Seneca, turning to his friends, declared that, since he was barred from repaying them for their services, he was leaving them the one thing he still had, but the one that was also the best, the model of his life. If they kept that in mind, he said, they would gain a reputation for good character as their reward for loyal friendship. At the same time he alternated normal conversation with sterner, coercive tones to halt their tears and revive their courage. Where were their philosophical tenets, he asked, and where that rationality they had pondered on for so many years to counter impending misfortune? For who had been unaware of Nero’s ruthlessness? After killing his mother and his brother, nothing else remained but to add the murder of his guardian and tutor.

After these words, which had the air of a public address, Seneca embraced his wife. Then softening a little, despite his present resolve, he asked and entreated her to limit her grief, and not keep it up for ever – she should find honourable solace for the loss of her husband in reflecting on the life of virtue that he had lived. Her firm response was that she too had decided to die, and she demanded for herself the executioner’s blow.

Seneca was not opposed to her noble decision, and also his love prompted him not to leave the woman he cherished above all to be maltreated. ‘I showed you how to make life more palatable,’ he said, ‘but you prefer the glory of death, and I shall not begrudge you the fine example. For such a courageous end let us both have the same resolve, but may your leaving have the greater fame.’ After that they cut their arms with the same stroke of the blade.

Seneca’s ageing body, emaciated by his spare diet, allowed only slow escape for the blood, and so he also severed the veins in his legs and at the back of his knees. Worn down by the cruel torment, and not wishing to break his wife’s spirit with his suffering, or have himself lapse into indecision through seeing her agonies, he persuaded her to retire to another bedroom. And since his eloquence still remained even in his very last moments, he summoned his scribes and dictated a long work to them. As this has been published in his own words, I refrain from paraphrasing it.

Nero, in fact, had no personal grudge against Paulina, and fearing a surge of animosity over his cruelty he ordered her suicide to be arrested. Prompted by the soldiers, her slaves and freedmen bandaged her arms and staunched the bleeding, though whether she was unconscious is unclear. (For, the public being ever ready to believe the worst, there was no shortage of people who thought that she had sought the renown of dying with her husband as long as she feared Nero was implacable, but fell victim to life’s charms when offered a more favourable prospect.) To her life she then added only a few years, maintaining a laudable fidelity to her husband’s memory, and with face and body so pale and white as to show that much of her life force had been sapped away.

Meanwhile, Seneca’s death was long-drawn-out and slow. He begged Statius Annaeus, who had proved himself a steadfast friend and skilful doctor over a long period, to bring out the poison that was used for executing those condemned in the public court of Athens and which had been prepared some time before. When this was brought, Seneca drained it, but in vain – his limbs were already cold, rendering his body immune to the poison’s effects. Finally, he went into a pool of hot water, spattering the slaves closest to him, and adding the comment that with that liquid he was making a libation to Jupiter the Liberator. He was then taken into the bath, where he suffocated in the steam. He was cremated with no funeral ceremony. Such was the instruction he had left in his will when he was – even at the height of his wealth and power – thinking about his end.  

[Damon, 2012, Penguin Classics:]

Next came the killing of Seneca, a great happiness to the Emperor, not because he knew him a conspirator, but to get at him with sword, poison having disappointed. Only Natalis divulged Seneca’s name, and only so far. I was sent to visit an ailing Seneca and remonstrate: ‘Why do you keep Piso away? Better to exercise friendship with familiar concourse!’ Seneca responded that conversational exchange and frequent discussion served neither man, but that his own well-being depended on Piso’s safety. The Guard officer Gavius Silvanus was ordered to take this statement and ask whether Seneca acknowledged Natalis’ words and his own replies. By chance, or perhaps well-knowing, Seneca had returned from Campania that day, stopping in a suburban property four miles from Rome. Silvanus arrived near evening and surrounded the villa with groups of soldiers. Seneca was at dinner with his wife Pompeia Paulina and two friends when Silvanus revealed Nero’s instructions.

Seneca’s response: Natalis was sent to me and remonstrated on Piso’s account that he was kept from visiting me, and I gave considerations of health and love of repose as excuse. I have no reason to privilege a private person’s safety over my well-being, nor is my character inclined to flattery, as is familiar to no one more than Nero, who has more often experienced from me liberty than servility. At this report, given in the presence of Poppaea and Tigellinus – innermost council for an emperor infuriate – Nero asked whether Seneca was preparing a voluntary death. Silvanus: There were no signs of panic, nothing gloomy was detected in word or look. He was ordered back to dictate death. Fabius Rusticus reports that the return route was different; that Silvanus detoured to Rufus, his commander, and having revealed Nero’s orders asked whether to obey. And was advised by Rufus to carry on – inevitable and universal cowardice. For Silvanus, too, was one of the conspirators and augmented the crimes to whose punishment he had agreed. Silvanus spared himself, however, speech and sight of Seneca, sending in one of the centurions to announce the inevitable end.

Seneca, undismayed, called for his will. At the centurion’s refusal he turned to his friends: Prevented from rendering thanks for your services, I leave you my one last – and most beautiful – possession: the cast of my life. Mindful of this, you will have rectitude’s renown as reward for so constant a friendship. Their tears he recalled to firmness, now by conversation, now more forcefully, like someone applying the bit. Where are philosophy’s teachings, where is reason’s response to the future looming, pondered over so many years? Who is not familiar with Nero’s brutality? Nothing remains after murdered mother and brother but to add the slaughter of teacher and guide to the heap!

After these and like words for the world, so to speak, he embraced his wife and, relenting a little from present fortitude, asked and pleaded that she refrain from a burden of perpetual grief. In contemplation of a well-lived life, endure your longing for your husband with honourable consolations. She answered, Death is my intent, too, and demanded the killer’s stroke. Seneca, who was no opposed to her glory and was almost moved by love – he did not want to abandon to harm a woman singularly esteemed – said: ‘To life’s comforts I would have pointed you, but you prefer death’s honour. I will not begrudge you a name. In this brave death, constancy may belong equally to both, but in your end there is more renown.’

Thereafter, with a single stroke of the sword, they let flow their arms. Seneca, since his aged body, attenuated by scanty diet, gave slow release to blood, ruptured his shin and knee veins, too. Worn out by cruel pains, lest he damage his wife’s courage with his suffering or himself lapse into intolerance in the presence of her torments he persuaded her to withdraw into another room. Eloquence was at his disposal even in his final moments. Summoning scribes, he imparted to them much that, given to the public in his own words, I forbear to recast.

Nero, having no hatred for Paulina, and lest antipathy for his cruelty grow, kept her from death. At the soldiers’ urging, slaves and freedmen bound her arms and stopped the blood – she perhaps unconscious. People being inclined to the worse, some believed that as long as she feared Nero implacable, she sought the fame of a death allied to her husband’s, but was later – gentler hope on offer – overcome by life’s allurements. She added a few years in praiseworthy remembrance of her husband, face and limbs white to a pallor that showed much of her vital spirit to have been removed.

Seneca, with death still dragging and slow, requested that Statius Annaeus, a man long valued for loyal friendship and medical art, supply the poison prepared earlier – The poison by which those condemned in Athens’ court are deprived of life. It was brought, but Seneca took it in vain, cold already in limb, his body closed to the poison’s power. Finally he entered a hot bath. Sprinkling the nearest slaves, he added: This liquid is libation to Jupiter Liberator. Conveyed thence to a sauna, he expired in its heat and was cremated without funeral. Thus he prescribed in his will, for even when vastly wealthy and vastly powerful he took thought for his end.