cooperate, he could provide Dolabella with five hundred Spartan horsemen of the finest reputation. It was not an essential visit, but once he learned that Nero was in Campania as well, Dolabella decided it would not hurt to spend a few days courting the great man for the sake of the finest cavalrymen in Greece. In the worst case, he could expect to eat and drink quite well; Nero was rather famous for the spreads he put on. In the best circumstances, Nero might actually deliver the needed cavalry for the promise of a praetorship.
I expected Dolabella to pull his claws in and present only his best manners. That was the kind of behaviour I had witnessed all summer, but my patron had a real genius for divining moral depravity. With Nero he came charging in with the sort of wickedness he generally reserved for his transvestite and gladiator friends.
Nero was a good two decades older than Dolabella, in his late-forties or perhaps early fifties. That seems a vigorous age to me these days. At the time, he appeared to be a veritable ancient, all the more so once I discovered his new bride was an adolescent cousin from some branch of the far-flung Claudii gens. Nero was a tall man with thick, flabby limbs and a great gut. He had a long wobbly neck topped by a solemn square face that might have been carved of stone for all the animation it demonstrated. He generally wore a grim, pasty expression that never quite seemed sociable. He was slow moving and slow thinking, a man of extreme gravitas without so much as a spark of wit to make it bearable. Dolabella announced he had come to his ‘old friend’ hoping they might ‘crack cups, get drunk, and throw up together.’
Nero reacted to this banter exactly as a man does who’s been slapped and doesn’t know what to do about it. Nor did Dolabella give the poor dolt a chance to respond. He dropped names the moment he arrived, choosing from among the nobility he had courted that summer. He disparaged and sniggered at their pompous airs and middling fortunes, a bleating flock of hypocrites, the whole bunch of them. It was blasphemy and slander to Nero’s ears; it was also delicious gossip. Soon enough Nero was drinking it down in gulps. To give Dolabella his due: not a word of his chatter was untrue.
‘A fine villa,’ Dolabella said of one senator’s country estate, ‘even if it is mortgaged to the hilt with three different lenders. Better hope they don’t find out about each other. Oh, I mean it’s a perfect fraud: up to his ears in it with other people’s money.’
Of another: ‘Besotted with one of his own slaves. A pretty boy, no doubt of that, but I mean, really. When the master plays wife to his own slave it’s not going to end well.’
Of one senator’s wife Dolabella said, ‘I tell you, friend, I’ve seen prettier horses.’ This comment was part of Dolabella’s rant against men who married ugly women. Nero’s bride was not only sweet and unspoiled, she was gorgeous. I say this without exaggeration and with no argument from any man living in those days. All who met Claudia Livia Drusilla found her small stature and round, sweet face the very essence of sensuality. One can find a well-formed body and a pretty face at every bend in the road. It’s the distinguishing feature of youth. They are babbling brooks of delights, soon enough enjoyed and forgotten. But there are some young girls with a sensuality that smoulders for decades in a man’s memory.
Such was Livia’s power. Rather than pretend he did not appreciate her delicious beauty, Dolabella declared he could only respect a man who married a beautiful woman. By that standard he put Claudius Nero above all other men in the senate. Nor did Dolabella offer the usual formulaic praise for a good wife, nonsense muttered about docility and homemaking skills with a passing reference to her stature and self-possession. No, he was mad for the girl’s pert round arse, and he made sure to let Nero watch him drool
I expected Dolabella to pull his claws in and present only his best manners. That was the kind of behaviour I had witnessed all summer, but my patron had a real genius for divining moral depravity. With Nero he came charging in with the sort of wickedness he generally reserved for his transvestite and gladiator friends.
Nero was a good two decades older than Dolabella, in his late-forties or perhaps early fifties. That seems a vigorous age to me these days. At the time, he appeared to be a veritable ancient, all the more so once I discovered his new bride was an adolescent cousin from some branch of the far-flung Claudii gens. Nero was a tall man with thick, flabby limbs and a great gut. He had a long wobbly neck topped by a solemn square face that might have been carved of stone for all the animation it demonstrated. He generally wore a grim, pasty expression that never quite seemed sociable. He was slow moving and slow thinking, a man of extreme gravitas without so much as a spark of wit to make it bearable. Dolabella announced he had come to his ‘old friend’ hoping they might ‘crack cups, get drunk, and throw up together.’
Nero reacted to this banter exactly as a man does who’s been slapped and doesn’t know what to do about it. Nor did Dolabella give the poor dolt a chance to respond. He dropped names the moment he arrived, choosing from among the nobility he had courted that summer. He disparaged and sniggered at their pompous airs and middling fortunes, a bleating flock of hypocrites, the whole bunch of them. It was blasphemy and slander to Nero’s ears; it was also delicious gossip. Soon enough Nero was drinking it down in gulps. To give Dolabella his due: not a word of his chatter was untrue.
‘A fine villa,’ Dolabella said of one senator’s country estate, ‘even if it is mortgaged to the hilt with three different lenders. Better hope they don’t find out about each other. Oh, I mean it’s a perfect fraud: up to his ears in it with other people’s money.’
Of another: ‘Besotted with one of his own slaves. A pretty boy, no doubt of that, but I mean, really. When the master plays wife to his own slave it’s not going to end well.’
Of one senator’s wife Dolabella said, ‘I tell you, friend, I’ve seen prettier horses.’ This comment was part of Dolabella’s rant against men who married ugly women. Nero’s bride was not only sweet and unspoiled, she was gorgeous. I say this without exaggeration and with no argument from any man living in those days. All who met Claudia Livia Drusilla found her small stature and round, sweet face the very essence of sensuality. One can find a well-formed body and a pretty face at every bend in the road. It’s the distinguishing feature of youth. They are babbling brooks of delights, soon enough enjoyed and forgotten. But there are some young girls with a sensuality that smoulders for decades in a man’s memory.
Such was Livia’s power. Rather than pretend he did not appreciate her delicious beauty, Dolabella declared he could only respect a man who married a beautiful woman. By that standard he put Claudius Nero above all other men in the senate. Nor did Dolabella offer the usual formulaic praise for a good wife, nonsense muttered about docility and homemaking skills with a passing reference to her stature and self-possession. No, he was mad for the girl’s pert round arse, and he made sure to let Nero watch him drool
Similar Books
