The Four Emperors

by David Blixt

  Corbulo stood, and a hush fell over the assembled senators. He took a moment to straighten his toga, making sure it was properly draped over his left shoulder, wrapped just so about his left arm. Then without a word he turned and strode to the consul's right.

  Old Sabinus suddenly roused and leapt up, knocking his stool over. He walked swiftly, reaching the right side before the stately Corbulo, so that he might say he was the first to support his brother. The rest of the senators stampeded to follow, Sabinus among them. No one passed to the left, again making the vote unanimous.

  At another time in Rome's history, there would have been a vigorous debate. Certainly there were objections. Vespasian was closer to sixty than fifty, and owned little in the way of tact. Certainly he was a hopeless politician. It could be said that the only mar to his long list of senatorial incompetences was his surprisingly successful campaign against the blue-painted barbarians in Britannia, twenty years past.

  But Nero had spoken. The general for the Judean War was Titus Flavius Vespasianus, the Old Muleteer, a member of the gens Flavia. Across the whole world, Caesar's word was law.

  Which it was now up to the Flavians to prove.

  * * *

  There was little more to do, and most of it was religious. When Bolanus dismissed the meeting, Sabinus left his father to bask in their newfound importance. Exiting Jupiter's temple in a rush, he brushed against Plautius, green with disgusted envy. “Congratulations,” said Corbulo's son-in-law, fifteen years Sabinus' junior. For a few hours he had seen glory and riches in his immediate future, only to watch it be snatched away and given to the Flavian family.

  “Thank you, Lucius Aelius.” Though he sympathized, Sabinus found the unmasked bitterness in the younger senator's tone offensive. As ever, his thoughts went to the philosopher Seneca, dead only a year. 'A man is only as unhappy as he has convinced himself he is.' I was not unhappy before, so this change in fortune is no change to my happiness. He was unhappy before, so he is unhappy again. Worth remembering.

  But quoting Seneca at Plautius would not only be patronizing, it would be dangerous. Seneca had been Nero's tutor and advisor before the pupil accused him of treason. Having known Seneca well, Sabinus firmly believed in the philosopher's innocence. Something else to be kept within the hedge of his teeth.

  Finding himself surrounded by a sudden sea of well-wishers, Sabinus thought wryly, I never knew I had so many friends. Extricating himself as politely as he could, he descended the marble Capitoline steps two at a time and plunged into the Forum. Already men were speaking from the Rostra, the speaker's platform, addressing the huge crowd, praising Vespasian and demanding Judean blood. Closing his ears, Sabinus pushed through the mob. The moment he cleared the Forum he paused a moment to undrape his toga and roll it under his arm, careful never to let it touch the ground. Thus unencumbered, he was able to travel more swiftly.

  As he walked, he mentally catalogued what this unlooked-for war meant for the Flavian family. Wealth, certainly. But far importantly, it meant advancement. Despite his Stoic nature, it would have taken the stony heart of a cynic for Sabinus not to think of his own fortunes.

  It was the ambition of every Roman man to rise through the cursus honorum, the Course of Honour. Senator was the first stage, then the office of quaestor, then perhaps aedile, then praetor, then consul. The first man in a family to reach the consulship ennobled his ancestors forever after. Sabinus' father and been consul, and his uncle. It would be up to him to continue the upward trend. And there was no surer way to attain high office than to perform well in war.

  Sabinus had served in the legions, but never in a great campaign. He felt his palm itching, imagining holding his sword again. This is my chance. Uncle Vespasian will need men he can trust as his legates. A legate was the most senior man on a general's staff, answering to no one else. They were often placed in command of whole legions and were charged with carrying out strategic plans and leading men.

  Who else would he choose? Some up-and-coming men, to be sure. But it was tradition to bring family men of fighting age into the command tent. Uncle Vespasian did have two sons, but Domitian was under-age. Even if the newly-minted general took his elder boy Titus with him, that still left plenty of room in the command structure for Vespasian's only nephew. Not senior legate, then, but perhaps junior, with my choice of legions…

  With these heady dreams racing through his mind, Sabinus swiftly crossed a mile along the Servian Wall towards Quirinal, the northernmost hill inside Rome's walls. Everywhere there were signs of building as Rome continued to recover from the Great Fire. Two years past, the city still bore its scars. But the inferno had never reached the Quirinal, leaving his father's house untouched.

  Racing up the via alta semita, Sabinus burst through the door. Racing through the atrium, he tossed his rolled toga to a surprised slave and broke every rule of etiquette by calling out. “Lads! To me, instantly!”

  Tertius was first to arrive, full of concern. “What's happened?”

  “Get dressed,” ordered his father crisply. “Religious ceremony.”

  Clemens arrived at his own pace, a copy of Menander in hand. Unlike the dark-haired Tertius, who took after his father, Clemens carried the features of the woman he was named for: a thin face with sharp cheekbones, a slightly pugnacious jaw, a mop of straw-coloured hair, and eyes blue as cornflowers.

  Sabinus felt a stab of nostalgia, a Greek word made up of two parts – 'pain' and 'homecoming.' Sometimes he had difficulty looking at this younger son, who looked so much like the mother who had died bearing him. Oh Clementia, how I wish…

  For all his precociousness, Clemens did not understand the effect his features had upon his sire. Painfully, he believed his father just did not much like him. Still he asked, “What religious ceremony?”

  The question went unanswered as a third young man arrived. Fifteen years old, Titus Flavius Domitianus was tall for his age, thickly built but graceful except for slightly in-turned feet. He owned a very long neck, almost serpentine, granting him a surprisingly deep voice. Owning none of the squashed features of his father or brother, Domitian's face was the most handsome in the family, with over-large eyes and long lashes. Sabinus had already been forced to dismiss two slave girls because of him.

  But though his outer-self was handsomer, he was far less genial than his brother Titus, who Uncle Vespasian had taken with him to Greece. Domitian never understood why his father preferred his brother's company to his own, and envy had set in quite young. If things were not mended, it would turn to outright jealousy.

  Domitian was wearing a black tunic, befitting his state of mourning. His sister had died earlier this year, depriving him of the sibling nearest his age. Born long after Titus, Domitian did not admire his bold and genial brother.

  Sabinus decided to share the news baldly. “Domitian, your father has been given the war in Judea.”

  “What?” gasped Tertius.

  “Judea!” cried Domitian, his surprise fused with joy.

  “How did that happen?” asked Clemens curiously.

  Sabinus was certain he knew the answer to that. But this was hardly the time. “We'll talk after the ceremony. Quickly, lads! Hop!”

  * * *

  Preparations were underway all over the city. At Caesar's command, the Temple of Janus was opened, the two doubtful faces peering both forward and back. Their uncertainty did not stop the investors from speculating, and prices on both slaves and gold fell sharply. Those two commodities were about to flood the markets.

  Just before sunset, all of Rome turned out for the official declaration of war, a ritual so old it beggared imagination. Led by the flamen martialis, the special priest of war, twenty priests in blood-red togas made their way from the Temple of the Victorious Mars to the Temple of Bellona, Rome's goddess of War. Unlike Mars, who was just a variation of the Greek god Ares, Bellona was a fearsome, faceless entity and belonged to Rome alone.

  At the front of the crowd of senators, kn
ights, pontifices, augurs, and common citizens stood the whole gens Flavia, the general's family here in Rome. Vespasian's two little grand-daughters were trotted out, confused and wide-eyed. One belonged to Titus, the other to the late Flavia. Sabinus realized he was remiss in not visiting them, since both their fathers were absent and their mothers dead.

  Sabinus himself was flanked by his own sons while his father, Old Sabinus, rested a hand upon Domitian's shoulder. The paterfamilias had never had much use for the boy before, often grumbling at the cost of housing and raising him. But today he chose to present himself as the lad's proud foster-father. Sometimes Sabinus was disgusted by his father.

  All three young men wore crimson tunics, and both Tertius and Domitian were old enough to wear a toga. Tertius' was plain white, while Domitian's was black. Both puffed out their chests in pride. “Will we be rich, then, uncle?” asked Domitian.

  “If little brother doesn't make a cock of it,” answered Old Sabinus coolly. “He's far too much a stickler for protocol, has no sense how the world truly works. If he'd shown a little more sense, he would have left both Britannia and Africa with more wealth than Midas.”

  “Refusing to rape the locals is hardly a vice, pater,” countered Sabinus softly.

  “Not making enough money to support your family certainly is!”

  “That is about to be mended. Nothing like a war to repair one's fortunes.” Sabinus noticed the excited look that passed between Domitian and Clemens. They were bosom friends, these two, both fascinated with literature and low art.

  “Quite a show,” said Clemens. “Very theatrical.”

  “Makes sense,” said Domitian, eyeing the drugged boar being led to sacrifice. “Theatre is rooted in religion.”

  Clemens nodded enthusiastically at that. “And isn't it interesting that Bellona's other name is Nerio?”

  Domitian frowned. “So?”

  “Nero gives your father this war, and now we sacrifice to Nerio to declare it. There has to be meaning in that. Though Nerio is female – as are all the old gods, come to think of it…”

  “Tace, boy!” growled Old Sabinus. “No time for idiot irrelevancies!”

  Though he had failed to follow the path of Clemens' leapfrog thoughts, Sabinus rose to his son's defense. “It is fascinating to see the old gods trotted out this way.”

  After he said it, Sabinus reflected that it was true. These were the ancient gods, the powerful forces that had shaped Rome at its founding. Today Romans preferred pretty Greek gods to the faceless, shapeless, and terrifying gods of old. Moreover, Clemens was correct – most of the ancient gods were feminine. True, there were a few exceptions. Sol Indiges, a sun god, was male. The multitudes of lares, spirits brought by Aeneas to Italia that looked after crossroads, homes, doorways, and such, owned no sex at all. But the ancient gods still reverenced – Bellona, Bona Dea, Ceres, Juturna, Opisconsiva, Vesta – were all, in fact, goddesses. Though if they own no face and no shape, how do we know their sex? Is gender more than genitalia? Is gender spiritual?

  Forgetting about the procession, Sabinus turned towards his fourteen year-old son. The tutors all agreed that Clemens had a fine mind, only lamenting his laziness. “He refuses to jump through the hoops we hold out for him,” one had said – which said as much about the tutor as the pupil.

  Was it truly laziness? Aversion to authority? Or simple apathy? Other than theatre, did Clemens actually care about anything at all? What goes on inside that head of yours, son? And what will it take to make you live up to your potential?

  The lad was definitely engaged now, watching the priests ascend the open-air temple and recite words in a tongue older than Latin. At least Clemens was no coward – he didn't shy away when they sacrificed the drugged boar, raising and lowering its head before cutting its throat with a flint knife, fulfilling the legal contracts with the gods that sacrificial victims assent to their demise.

  The priest of Mars dipped a spear in the boar's fresh blood and descended to face Enemy Territory, a full iugerum of land ringed by stone plinths. Each plinth supported a likeness of a great Roman general, painted so lifelike one could almost imagine the faces breathing.

  “Rome, thou art threatened! Here before me is the Enemy Territory, guarded by Rome's greatest generals! I declare that the name of Enemy Territory is Judea! With the casting of this spear, we, the Senate and People of Rome, embark upon a holy war against Judea and the rebellious peoples there!”

  The priest spoke slowly and deliberately. Prayers were a legal contract with the gods, and it was vital that the prayer be spoken precisely, or else the contract was voided. Any error would force them to perform the whole ritual again – and again, until it was done flawlessly. Gods cared about such things.

  Sabinus looked at the sky. They'd better hurry. It was almost dusk. If the sun set before they finished, they would have to do it all again on the morrow. Fortunately there was just one more task.

  Lifting it level with his ear, the flamen martialis put some real art on the casting of the spear, sending the weapon sailing over a blood-red marble pillar to land squarely in the center of Enemy Territory – an excellent sign.

  The quivering spearhead was shaped like a leaf and coloured with age. The shaft was new, but made from an ancient tree. Upon it was carved a single word: JUDEA.

  “Quite a show,” repeated Clemens.

  * * *

  The ceremony complete, there was to be a feast. Arriving home to change clothes, Sabinus paused in the atrium of his father's house to gaze at the fresco upon the wall. It was a favourite of his, a depiction of the ancient oak that had stood on the old family farm in Reate for generations. The clever artist had incorporated the family myth about the tree being struck by lightning, showing Jupiter throwing fire at the tree. But instead of immolating it, the fire had only made the tree grow larger, sprout more branches.

  In reality the tree had been dead before the lightning struck, splitting the old oak in half. Yet in the spot where the lightning had landed, a new green shoot had burst forth. When it had come time to design his senatorial seal ring, Sabinus had chosen that old oak with the fiery lightning bolt rising from it.

  Until today, it had seemed coincidence that the lightning strike had occurred on the night of Uncle Vespasian's birth. Now it seemed that his old avia had been correct, that her son Vespasian would be a great man and bring glory to the family.

  Thinking that this was a harmless tale to tell at tonight's feast, Sabinus set off for his quarters. Arriving there, he was surprised to find his steward not laying out dinner clothes. Instead the man was packing his trunks.

  “Your father sent word,” the steward reported. “You and master Domitianus are leaving Rome at once.”

  “Oh, are we?” asked Sabinus angrily, turning about at once.

  In his father's dressing chamber, slaves were draping a fresh toga about the old man's shriveled frame. Taking a moment to calm himself, Sabinus entered and stood beside the lamp. “Leaving for where?”

  “Brundisium. Your ship is waiting.”

  It was often hard to understand those gummy words from the toothless mouth, and it took Sabinus a moment to parse this information. “Ship? What ship?”

  Old Sabinus waved a paper in the air. “The same ship that brought Caesar's orders carried a letter from my brother. It reached me during the ceremony. The general demands I deliver Domitian to Greece with all speed. Demands! He demands that I deliver his son, whom I've fed and housed for years? He demands that I travel on some rotting ship? Well, the great general can stuff his demands. Most likely he's hoping I end up at the bottom of the Mare Nostrum. I'm certainly not going, so it has to be you.”

  Clearly Domitian was not the only one feeling fraternal envy. For many years, Old Sabinus had been Prefect of the City, in charge of the local militia. Mostly an honourary title, though in troubled times he was empowered to call up the locals and maintain order. It was as close to generaling as he had ever gotten, while his plodding, unambi
tious brother was getting his own war. It had to sting.

  However cantankerous the speech, though, the crux of it made Sabinus swell with pleasure. “Uncle Vespasian has sent for me?”

  The old man cackled. “Oh-ho! Hope has blossomed in the Stoic's heart! Well disabuse yourself of the notion. He asked for his son. His son! Who is far too young to be on campaign. Pfah!”

  Sabinus quietly admonished himself, as much for letting his father see his ambition as for harbouring it in the first place. Living in this house, he was constantly reminded that the way of the Stoic was the best way to survive. Endurance, endurance was all.

  Domitian appeared at the door, followed by Tertius and Clemens. Clearly the boys had been eavesdropping. “I'm going to Judea?”

  “Perhaps Great-Uncle Vespasian will accept me to his staff,” said Tertius, unwittingly echoing his father's hope. “After all, I'm like a brother to Domitian.”

  Old Sabinus grunted. “Don't hold your breath! My little brother hasn't got a grateful bone in his body.”

  Clemens leaned against the doorframe. “Funny, Nero giving it to a Flavian. Shouldn't the job have gone to Corbulo? Ow!” He rubbed where Domitian had punched him. “I'm just saying General Corbulo is the obvious choice!”

  Chortling, Old Sabinus wagged a finger. “A lesson in manners! It's never polite to outshine a Caesar. And therein lies the brilliance of Caesar's choice! My little brother, hailed Imperator on the field? Ha! No, there's no fear of Vespasianus stealing the laurels. A shame he had to filch it out of the mouths of better men.” Naturally, he meant himself.

  “My father will win this war!” declared Domitian angrily.

  Old Sabinus scoffed. “Boy, given three legions and enough time, a Tingitanian Ape could conquer Judea. Knowing Jews, they'll do half the work for him.”

  “They took an eagle,” observed Clemens fairly. “From the Twelfth.”

  Well practiced in ignoring this grandson, the paterfamilias shook his head. “Little brother was chosen because he is not chosen, if you follow my meaning. He is not favoured by the gods. Caesar's been slowly murdering the men most able to compete with him for glory. The brothers Scribonii, dead, replaced by fools like Virginius and Fontius. Corbulo in disgrace. Caesar's staffing the provinces with non-entities and mediocrities. Galba is the best of them, but he's past it – older than I am!” He blew out his lips in derision, then paused. “So Nero believes little brother to be a mediocrity, too. Ha! First time I've known explicitly that a god agrees with me!”