by Ken Parejko
As the bier passed between the Lacus Curtius and the Basilica Julia the sound of the drums, flutes, and wailing choruses echoed off the buildings. The Lacus Curtius, a tiny pond, was the remnant of a larger wetland where now rose the magnificent Forum. By legend it was one of Vespasian’s countrymen, the Sabine Mettius Curtius, who centuries before flung himself into the deep swamp as a sacrifice in Rome’s name. Vespasian’s sacrifice, in his everyday duties as emperor, I meditated, was not so grandiose, but just as real, and more effective.
The musicians, with the bier following, passed the temple of the Divine Julius, the Basilica Aemilia and the Curia and came up in front of the Rostra. Here for a century the country’s heroes proclaimed in the precise language of imperial victors the greatest orations of all time -- Julius Caesar, Augustus, the Gracchi, Drusus and Tiberius, Claudius, Vespasian himself. Just off the Rostra on one side was the Umbilicus Urbis Roma, a stone marking the precise center of the empire, and on its other side the column called the Aureum which showed, in gold, the distances from the Umbilicus to all the different provinces of the empire-- many of which Vespasian and I had visited. Behind the Rostra was the Volcanal, the dark stone which covered the opening down into the underworld. Less than two months from now, on August 23 and 24, during the celebration of the Volcanalia the Volcanal would be lifted back, opening a way into the underworld, allowing the spirits of the underworld into our world, where they could cause havoc.
Into the midst of all these the most important monuments in Rome walked Titus and Domitian, who sat in ivory chairs on the Rostra. Titus would soon stand to offer the crowds his laudatio, his eulogy for his father. But first we waited while the eight centurions who had borne the heavy casket from Vespasian’s house lowered him off their shoulders and set him on the purple-draped bier in front of the Rostra. The pallbearers backed away. The martial drums and flutes which had played during the procession went quiet. The last of the funeral offerings were set in place around the Rostra, where the gold and silver glinted in the sun, and together with the flowers and ivory flashed in glorious display. The seated dignitaries surrounding me, like myself dressed in black wool despite the heat, coughed and sighed uncomfortably, whispered to one another, waved their hands lightly in the air for a slave-boy to bring water, fanned themselves, trying against all odds to cool themselves.
Light had not yet come to the morning when Lucius and I packed and left Josephus’ villa. My litter moved slowly through the suburbs, large estates with formal gardens planted in among more ancient, rustic farms. Then the road took us through a necropolis where elaborate tombs held the ashes of countrymen dead two hundred years. That put me in an even darker mood.
I was tired, I was worried, I seemed at a loss of what to do and where to turn. My plant studies, which I’d pursued so long and enthusiastically, seemed to have faded off into an unreachable distance and lost their meaning. I traveled through an unfamiliar emotional landscape.
I’d written, in true Stoic form, that because it frees us from the never-ending chain of life’s troubles, death is the greatest boon nature has given us. This I believe is true for our own death, after which we feel neither pain nor loss. But the death of a friend or loved-one, which we experience as a loss of companionship, opportunities, and hopes, is no boon. Though inevitable, death is still a shock. But why, I then asked myself, this brooding over death? Vespasian may already be cured and on his way back to the capitol.
We'd not long since reached the road to Reate and begun the journey eastward, traveling along with the oxcarts, horse-carts, and pedestrians who made up the steady stream of traffic on all our roads. The morning was already warming. I drifted into a short nap. I awoke to hear Lucius talking to a courier. I stuck my head out the door of the sedan-chair.
“What’s the matter?” I said. The officers on their white horses were Praetorians.
“They’ve just come from Aquae Cutiliae,” Lucius said. “With news of Vespasian’s health.”
“Well?” I said, looking the nearest centurion in the eye. “I am Gaius Plinius Secundus, admiral of the fleet and Vespasian’s friend and adviser. I’m on my way to him now.”
“Our message is for the consuls. We can tell no one else.”
Though in my heart I knew, I asked anyway. “Is it good news, or bad?”
The centurion replied “It’s not good,” brought his horse around and clattered off in a hurry down the road.
The cloth window of the sedan-chair fell shut. I was left alone in the darkness. I breathed deeply, then against my will could feel my breaths coming harder and harder. Lucius opened the cloth, and the light was nearly blinding.
“Anything I can do?” Lucius asked.
I stared at Lucius, this man with whom I’d lived so intimately for more than thirty years, who with the exception of Vespasian himself understood me like no other man on earth, and hardly recognized him. I felt my hand fall out of the sedan-chair, and Lucius' grip around it.
In the high halls of Roman power no father and son had ever been so close. Vespasian delayed his triumph in Rome until Titus could arrive from the East. He'd named Titus Praefect of the Guard and consul. Every day he turned to his son for advice. Titus was co-emperor. There was no question who would follow Vespasian onto the throne.
From his chair on the Rostra Titus surveyed the thousands who’d come to bid his father farewell. He knew many, nearby and in the seats below. But sprawling behind and all around was a sea of strangers come to thank them for leading Rome out of chaos and into burgeoning prosperity. It was time. They were waiting.
He rose, put a hand on Domitian’s shoulder, and stepped to the front of the platform. Dressed in purple Imperial robes he had his father’s build, walk, and much of his father’s face. He seemed almost to be his father, thirty years ago.
As he stepped forward a great cheer rose from the crowd.
“Titus!” they shouted, again and again, until the sacred space of the Forum resounded like an amphitheater full of clamor for a favorite gladiator.
He waited them out. When they’d quieted down he began, with the strong clear voice which resembled his father’s.
“Rome has lost it’s finest!” he shouted, and the crowd cheered in response.
“Titus Flavius Vespasianus, who came into this world not into the luxury but into the rustic villa at Reate which you always loved and called home. We have neither senators nor consuls in our ancestry. Only great grand-papa Flavius Petro, who’d fought beside Pompey, and when mustered out returned to Reate a tax collector.”
An involuntary boo went up from the publican crowd, a response quickly stifled as they realized its impropriety.
“Our parents were often away earning a living, so you spent many months at Cosa with grandma Tertulla Sabina. After she died you returned to her house as a sanctuary when life’s storms troubled you. It was there that the portents of your greatness occurred. You've heard the stories, the cypress on great-grandmama’s estate which, without a wind, uprooted itself then the next day rose again. The ox which broke into the house and lay at your feet. The oak branches, how only yours grew strong and tall. We see these portents and omens many times and hope they’ll come true. They do for some; those, like you, who are blessed by the Fates.”
“I don’t remember my sister. I was too young when she died. I know how much you kept the memory of her in your heart, and always spoke of her with sadness.’
“Your journey on the Cursus Honorum was not so straight as many. Colonel, queastor, aedile. In Britain, commander of a legion, which gained you a triumph. Senator, then consul, as you so longed for. But then Nero sent you back to Reate then called you once again, to serve in Judea.”
“There, after years of bloody civil war we finally brought lasting peace.” A great shout went up from the crowd. “Often you quoted to me, from the Illiad:
“In peace the sick are cured, but in war the healthy die;
In peace the young bury the old, in war the old bury the young”.
“You knew firsthand the horrors of war. We fought together, and there was no end to your courage. You demanded we spare the killing, whenever possible. In the midst of the war you started the path to emperorship, insisting your rise to power be bloodless as possible. In holding to that you lost your brother, my uncle Sabinus, your closest friend.”
“Nothing troubled you more than an execution; no other principate had so few.”
“You served in Thrace, Cyrenaica, Germania, and Britain, where you captured twenty towns and all of the Isle of Wight. The Jews themselves foretold that the ruler of the world would come from Judea, and so you did.”
“While emperor you served as censor and guided the morals of the land with the sure hand of one whose life sprouted out of a soil rich with integrity. You returned Rome to the simpler ways of old, and no one helped our farmers more.”
“You could not bear luxury at home, in the court, or in the army. I remember once a young officer being brought before you to be given a medal. As he stepped forward the young man reeked of perfume. You turned your head away in disgust, and canceled his promotion. When he’d left, you turned to me. “Better if he had reeked of garlic.”
The crowd cheered these stories. Though they'd all heard them, they didn’t tire of them.
“Out walking one day you met the cynic Demetrius who refused to rise and salute you. He shouted an obscenity at you, like a barking dog. Your response was not, as Nero would, to have him executed. I was there. I heard it. You merely said…”
Here the crowd, which knew the story, shouted out the words. “Good dog!”
“We watched you, emperor, carry on your own back the stones to rebuild the Capitol, shining once again as a beacon of light and symbol of Roman unity.”
“Because of you those who teach have new-found respect and laurels at the poetry competitions are once again awarded on the quality of the poetry. Because of you the Marcellus' Theater has been rebuilt, where once again we can hear virtuoso performances rather than Nero's clumsy clawing.”
“It was because of you, father that I shared tutors with Claudius’ son Britannicus, and because of you I stayed close to that court. You learned much from Claudius, admired him much, so after his death you renovated the Temple of the Divine Claudius.”
“As Claudius lay dying from the mushrooms fed him by his wife Agrippina, Nero’s mother, a woman you could never bear, and who could not bear you, Claudius lost all control of his bowels. His last words were: “I fear I’ve soiled myself.” From those words Claudius went on to become a god.
“You were bothered too, at the end, with intestinal troubles. As you felt yourself dying you insisted we raise you from your bed. Domitian and I stood you up. An emperor, you said, should die standing. Then, another bout of diarrhea. You shook your head, embarrassed. “Vae, puto deus fio,” you said, through the pain managing a tight smile. “I fear,” you said, “I fear I feel myself becoming a god.”
Vespasian’s last words had by word of mouth already made their way across the City, his sense of humor not deserting him in his final moments. Though they’d heard it all before, the gathered crowds gave up a great cheer in his memory. For what is life if it can’t be laughed at, even at the moment we lose it?
Titus cleared his throat. “It’s hot and getting hotter,” he said, “and father wouldn’t have you sit through long praise of his accomplishments, for he always felt he was but a common man thrust into uncommon circumstances. In a moment I will release you. But now, we offer encomiums to our greatest emperor since Augustus.” The actor Favor, still dressed as Vespasian, rose from his seat on the Rostra as Titus began a laudatory litany, the two men alternately shouting lines to the crowd:
“Father of your country!” Titus shouted.
“Mule dealer!” Favor responded.
“Victorious general,”
“Architect of peace!”
“Lover of art,”
“Patron of authors.”
“Beloved father,”
“Dutiful son.”
There was a moment’s pause. Favor broke the silence. “Is that all? Surely we’ve forgotten something?”
“Loyal husband,” Titus went on.
Favor wiggled his hips, put on a sensuous Greek accent. “Lover extraordinaire!” The crowd loved it; ten thousand hips wiggled in response.
“Praetor.”
“Senator.”
“Consul.”
“Imperator!” Titus finished.
Favor shrugged his shoulders, put his hands out palms up. “What can I say? It’s all true. Only, remember me as a good man!”
“Good man!” Titus echoed.
The crowd took up the cry:
“Roma resurgens!”
“Roma resurgens!”
“Roma resurgens!”
Their chant resounded off the temples of the Forum, up to the Palatine, past the Capitol until it could be heard far out beyond the city gates, where it rumbled like a storm passing over the horizon far across the world and into history.
The eulogy ended. I'd expected better of Titus. Somehow I felt Vespasian deserved more. Well, how do you sum up seventy years of life, seventy years of a complex personality who was equally pragmatic and idealist, in a thousand words? Or capture the twinkling eye and sense of humor that showed up at the least expected times? Or replay the deep horror and high glory of the wars he’d fought? Well, you just couldn’t.
As Titus moved aside to join Domitian the bier holding their father's coffin was taken off the Rostra, along with the wax effigy, which like a specter had his son’s oration. Now would come the final procession to the Campus Martius, where both Vespasian’s real remains inside the coffin, and the waxen effigy of him were to be cremated.
I was hot, and thirsty, and emotionally exhausted. I watched legionary standards making their way slowly toward the head of the procession. Someone passed me a cup of water. It would be a quarter hour before my turn to join the procession would come.
There was time for a quick nap to regain my energies. I closed my eyes, drifted far from the noisy Forum and the chaos around me. As I slid into sleep my mind ran through the past few days.
Lucius and I were in Rome waiting for news of Vespasian’s health. I spent the morning with the sailors from the fleet who were training to raise the huge awnings over the Colosseum's top tier of seats. Everything was in order.
Lucius followed me to the Forum Holitorium, the city’s central vegetable market, the one Antonius Castor would go to each day to browse the many kinds of vegetables, herbs and mushrooms on display, brought in from the four corners of the empire. But this particular morning I couldn’t seem to focus and the market left me feeling washed out and indifferent. Lucius encountered someone he knew, who he hadn't seen since our move to Misenum. It seemed they had a lot to talk about. I overheard their surprise that they'd both taken on the city’s newest religion, and shared names of their favorite Christian preachers.
While they chatted I wandered off aimlessly into the market. I found myself in the shadow of the high curving walls of the Theater of Marcellus and sat for a moment on the steps of Apollo's Temple. The city's bustling market-life, the vitality of its commerce and diversity of the crowds seemed uncharacteristically distant and uninteresting to me. I closed my eyes, drifted.
“We’ve done well, you and I,” a voice said from nearby. I opened my eyes. Vespasan sat on the step beside me. How could this be, I thought, you are in Aquae Cutilae, sick. But I didn’t say anything. Vespasian was here, and Vespasian wanted to talk.
“We?” I objected. “No, you.”
“No, no,” Vespasian disagreed. “You, you’ve been a paradigm of admirals, you’ve written what, sixty books, a hundred or more volumes of journals, rescuing our history from the shades of oblivion. You’ve cataloged everything we know in your remarkable Natural History, which will outlast any of my monuments. But most importantly you’ve been my friend and irreplaceable adviser.” Vespasian beamed.
&
nbsp; “Thank you,” I smiled. “And you, you will be remembered not just for a century, but for millennia. You’ve rebuilt Rome, returned it to the people. Your biggest accomplishments are not the stone temples and amphitheaters you’ve built, but the reforms you’ve brought about.”
“I’m just a poor farm boy,” Vespasian differed, “a soldier who became general, a general who saw an opening and walked through it to become emperor. But still, here, in my heart, a farm boy from Reate.”
“Perhaps you are right,” I concurred. “Perhaps we have done well.”
Behind us rose the temple of Apollo, it’s doors open to sacrifice. Apollo, the god of art, reason, the order in creation.
“Best of all, eh?” Vespasian said, “we’ve pried old Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the stinking warlord, out of his seat, and set Apollo in his place.”
“Yes. It’s something, after all,” I admitted. “So, my friend, what’s next?”
“I’m afraid it’s nothing but a long journey, for both of us,” Vespasian said enigmatically.
My eyes caught a new light, glinting off the columns of the Theater, which seemed to come from within the Temple of Apollo behind us. I turned to see it; the light was bright, and momentarily blinded me. When I turned back Vespasian was gone. I wondered if he’d ever been there.
Now the marketplace seemed suddenly dark, the busy crowds chattering in tongues I couldn’t understand. The sun slipped behind a cloud and a light sprinkle of rain fell. I felt utterly, suddenly alone. I looked around, recognized no-one. Lost in time, now in space, too.
I was getting wet. With some difficulty -- I was day by day growing more overweight, less fit -- I stood, creaking and aching. What was this he'd said about a long journey? I was tired of journeys, had made enough in my life for two people. I wanted to be home, in Misenum, surrounded by my family, my books and herbarium. I slipped beneath a columned portico, whose protection from the rain I shared with a small knot of humanity. I was just an aging man now, shivering wet, standing with the others staring cow-like out at the shower. Then as suddenly as it had started, the rain came to an end, and the crowd dispersed.
