by David Blixt
“Better than Caesar thinking him a prodigy,” observed Sabinus. “To Nero, birth, wealth, and ability are all capitol offenses.”
“Lucky then that little brother has none. Well boys, you must be off this instant. I shall represent the family at the feast.” With that haughty pronouncement, he exited the chamber in his crab-like gait.
“I'll pack,” said Domitian, racing off to his own chamber.
Tertius and Clemens lingered. Sabinus knew what question was coming, but was surprised by which of his sons uttered it. “Father,” said Clemens, “we're going with you, yes?”
Sabinus studied his sons. Nearly seventeen, Tertius was the proper age to join the legions. Whereas Clemens was days away from donning his adult toga. Did he have the stuffing to endure a war?
Yet perhaps war would do what his tutors could not – give a purpose to the young man's life. Sabinus nodded. “Very well. Get the slaves to pack your things.”
Whooping with joy, Tertius started for the door. Clemens paused, brushing his too-long hair from his eyes. “Did the Jews really take an eagle?”
“So it seems,” answered Sabinus, walking towards his own chamber.
Clemens walked with him. “You think great-uncle Vespasian will get it back?”
“Let's pray so, son. Every time an eagle has been lost, it's changed the world.”
Clemens considered this for a moment. Then he said something curious. “Maybe the world needs changing.”
Hair standing on end, an unsettled feeling in the pit of his belly, Sabinus watch his son walk away. He was certain he had just experienced an omen of some sort. But being a Stoic, he could do nothing but let the future unfold, and endure.
III
ROMA, ITALIA
24 DECEMBER 66 AD
Abigail and her daughter shuttled about the kitchens, cooking furiously. Nearby, Seth helped to prepare simple dishes. They were the only Jews in the household, and therefore the only ones not taking part in the revels of the festival of Saturnalia.
Honouring Saturn, the god of planting and sowing, the Saturnalia was one of the few Roman holidays that did not involve games or theatre. After the initial public feast, it was a time for bawdy, raucous revelry, a time of forced equality and gift-giving, and a time of freedom.
Originally held on a single day, over the centuries the celebrations had expanded to a full Roman week – eight days of singing, merry-making, and skylarking that culminated in a feast on December twenty-fourth. Augustus had tried to reduce the festivities to three days, and Caligula to five. But on both occasions the populace had cheerfully rebelled, and the festival continued unabated.
On the first day of the festival, four days after the Ides of December, a couch was placed in front of the god's temple at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, and the woolen ropes that bound Saturn's feet the rest of the year were cut away. This symbolized a relaxation of rules throughout the city – slaves were allowed to gamble, the toga was forbidden, and every man, be he noble, Head Count, or slave, donned the freedman's cap of liberty. Each household appointed a Lord of Misrule, and masters were obliged to serve their servants (rumor said that, in more adventurous households, this included the bedroom as well as the dining room). Groups of naked singers walked the streets, serenading house after house. From highest to lowest, it was a time of no work and all play.
Except for those who did not acknowledge Saturn as any god of theirs.
“Sweetness, make sure you keep the glaze even,” advised Abigail, glancing over her daughter's shoulder as she passed with a tray of honeyed sweet meats. Perel was using a horsehair brush to lay a sticky layer of sugar to a bowl of sea urchin gonads. Over by the hearth, Seth was grudgingly turning a spit, upon which was a massive suckling pig, roasting. Though their faith forbid them to eat such food, they were nevertheless charged with preparing it.
These days, food was status. Not the ability to feed one's family – there was the free grain dole for that. No, it was the overt consumption of expensive perishables that signaled a man's wealth. Nothing proclaimed a Roman's wealth more than their slaves in the market, purchasing the most expensive and rare delicacies found under the sun. Lucius Aelius Plautius Lamia Aelianus was not of an ancient family, but he was wealthy, and the dowry Domitia had brought was considerable in its own right. Thus the Aelian household was ever swimming in rich fare, despite the fact that the master's sensitive stomach meant he rarely touched any of it.
But this evening the meal Abigail, Perel, and Seth prepared was not for their masters. At least nominally, it was for their fellow slaves. Plautius and Domitia Longina were playing the servants, wearing conical freedman caps and Greek clothes. But in truth no one in this household ever forgot who the master and mistress were, and the best of the food would go to them. Here as in most houses in Rome, this final feast was often as uncomfortable for the servants as for their masters. But again it was a symbol of wealth if one could afford to lavish rich food upon one's servants.
To bridge the awkward divide between 'master' and 'servant' tonight, everyone had settled upon games of chance. Dice were the most popular, but many were also trying their hands at cottabus, a game played by throwing the lees at the bottom of a wine cup into a flat bowl to see whose splash had the most rays. Since servants did not normally drink the master's fine wine, they were fascinated to partake in a game they'd often seen. As such games were administered by Fortuna, the slaves and their master could compete with free hearts, wagering trinkets or small coins, or even the gifts they had received the day before. The women were allowed to play as well, and there was an unusual amount of laughter ringing through the household.
Wine was another element buttering the axle of the evening. This was a night for drinking, and even Seth had allowed himself to partake of one jug of rich, unwatered Falernian wine. Domitia had removed a flagon for her own use, pretending to pour for her husband's Numidian groom. She had spilled and, replete with apologies, taken him away to dress him in one of her husband's tunics. They had been away for some time.
As Abigail slopped foul-smelling yet much-craved garum sauce into a bowl, someone stumbled towards the kitchen, calling for yet more wine. Abigail looked around, but there were no jugs left on the sideboard. But she spied one hanging suspended in a net from a hook, out of her reach. “Seth, could you—”
“I'll fetch it, mother!” Before Abigail could protest, Perel was hopping upon a stool and scrambling up the side of a sturdy cupboard, then reaching across and plucking the jug from the net. With a light hop, the eighteen year-old landed upon the floor and held the jug out to her mother. Her lopsided smile was tinged with shyness, but her eyes were alight with defiance. Perel was forever climbing things – swinging herself up to rooftops to skylark, or ascending tress to look at bird nests. Not that she was a lazy or disobedient girl. But she was an adventurous one. She had spent her childhood doing cartwheels and flipping herself upside-down to stand on her hands – entirely immodest! Even now, when she understood that a woman simply did not climb the walls like a monkey, Perel was eager to display her agility and nimbleness. It drove Abigail to distraction, for she saw too much of herself in her daughter.
The drunken slave entered and Abigail passed off the jug without a word, still staring at her daughter. As the reveler teetered off, Abigail shook her head. “Back to earth, my eaglet. There's more to do here on the ground.”
Which was true. Now was time for the next course – the final one, thank the Lord. Then it would only be a matter of cleaning up and making sure no one slept in their own vomit. It was amazing to Abigail that, given permission, her fellow slaves could so easily forget themselves. As if their manners were not a part of them, but merely a mask like those worn in the theatre. Abigail had a mask, too, but it was one that hid her intelligence, her shame, her grief, and her anxiety for her daughter. But Abigail's dignity was part of her. It was something that Symeon had always loved in her. That same spirit had alienated her from her family, sent her along
on all Symeon's travels, and allowed her to laugh at her detractors. She saw the same spirit in her daughter and was alternately proud and despairing.
“Io Saturnalia!”
Their heads turned at the traditional licentious greeting, expecting to see one of the household freedmen come to make drunken advances. It happened every year. Seth was already ready to grab the intruder and expel him from the kitchen. Most of the household was afraid of Seth, with his hard eyes and the wicked scar across his face.
But this intruder was not someone to be intimidated. Lucius Aelius Plautius was leaning on the doorframe, his conical hat askew, his face was flushed with wine. “They're calling for the next course.”
“Of course,” said Abigail, removing the tray from under her daughter's brush and placing it on the table.
But Plautius ignored it. Lurching from doorframe to table, he said, “Have you seen my wife?”
Suspecting where Domitia might be, and what she might be engaged in, Abigail schooled her face to innocence. “No, domine.”
Rather than frown, Plautius smiled at her. His hand rested atop hers. “Not domine tonight, Abigail. Tonight, you may call me Lucius.”
At that moment she knew. But better her than her daughter. Perhaps the master had had enough of children. Word was that he liked his whores older, experienced and uninhibited. Abigail could only hope he would be disappointed in her – or else that she might get him drunk enough to fall asleep. It had worked before.
Heart suddenly racing, she shot a quick glance at Seth. He was watching from the hearth, fuming. But they had discussed this. She was a woman already filled with sin. She had loved a man to whom she had not been married. Seth's task was to protect her daughter. Thus he obediently distracted Perel as Abigail smiled weakly back at her master. “Very well, Lucius. Would you like some more wine?”
* * *
CORINTH, GREECE
Sabinus had listened as Tertius, Clemens, and Domitian spent the entire sea voyage planning the Judean campaign as though they were proper generals. The trio had celebrated Clemens shipboard birthday by crowning him with a mock naval crown, rarely given these days now that Rome owned the seas. They talked incessantly of strategy and history and arms and tactics. Time and again Sabinus had to draw his sons aside and remind them that it was Domitian, and Domitian alone, who had been summoned by Vespasian.
He should have reminded himself, as well.
Yet it seemed a foregone conclusion that he would join his uncle on this campaign. Corbulo had certainly thought so.
Before leaving for Brundisium, Sabinus had felt compelled to call upon the old general. The interview was not unpleasant, merely strained. It was clear that the former general resented his exclusion from this war. It was equally obvious that he did not hold Vespasian or his family to blame. Sipping heated lemon water in the grand house on the Palatine, barely a stone's throw from Augustus' palace, the old war-horse offered advice to the young senator.
“I don't need to tell you the importance of this campaign. Judea may seem small, but its position makes it the lynchpin of the East. Above it stands Syria, below it lies Aegypt. Syria, in turn, is our buffer with the Kingdom of the Parthians. If the Judeans, in their attempt at revolt, stir up the Syrians to the same, we lose that buffer. Worse, to Parthian eyes, we lose clout, appear weak. Weak!” Corbulo paused, rubbing at his bald head in frustration. He had been the one to gain victory over the Parthians, to make it so that Caesar had to approve their choice of king. That tremendous victory was now threatened by this new unrest in the East.
Shaking himself, the general continued in a brisk tone. “A vast amount of our grain comes from Aegypt. It's how we distribute free bread to the flotsam of Rome. If Aegypt is stirred to revolt, we'll lose both the income and the pacification of our own poor. If the Parthians come spilling down through Judea into Aegypt, the same cascade of events. And if there is no grain in Italia, the people will rise up against Caesar and the Senate.”
On a vague level Sabinus had indeed understood all this, but he was impressed by the succinct summation. “So, to preserve the grain supply, the peace in the other provinces, the border with the Parthians, and civil harmony in Rome, Uncle Vespasian must grind the Judeans into the dust.”
“Just so. Now, humor me and tell me the whereabouts of all the legions at this moment.”
The figures came without thinking. “One in Italia, three in the Hispania, three in Britannia, seven in Germania Superior, six more in Germania Inferior. That's the West. In the East, Africa has one, Aegypt two, and the last three are in Syria, guarding the Parthian border. The Twelfth is, of course, destroyed.”
If Corbulo was satisfied, it did not show. “Vespasian has two of my Syrian legions and one from Aegypt. Perhaps the African one as well. Plus the dregs of the Twelfth. It means leaving those provinces denuded. For that reason, Nero will value speed. But the job requires thoroughness, Titus Flavius. Your uncle cannot just reduce a few cities and call it a war.”
“I'm sure Uncle Vespasian understands that, Gnaeus Domitius.”
“Even so, you must impress this upon him. He must stamp out resistance so thoroughly, so finally, that no one across the world will even dare consider questioning Rome's generosity again. We let them govern themselves, let them keep their languages and their customs. All Rome asks is a slight tax and a nod in Caesar's direction. I mean, there are always bad governors, venal men to squeeze the provinces like a sponge. With a little patience, they can be endured.” Corbulo paused for a moment, perhaps thinking on his own circumstance. “But the Judeans have revolted. We must display the cost of spurning Rome's generosity.”
“We will,” vowed Sabinus.
Corbulo leaned back and sighed. “I know it, Titus Flavius. With four full legions, a good commander can conquer anyone. Just promise me this – that you do it not for Nero, but for Rome.”
It was a promise easily made.
The discussion turned to tactics, provisions, and staff. “I have here a letter I penned last night. Please deliver it to your uncle. It has some advice, as well as several observations that may aid him.”
Taking the scroll as a dismissal, Sabinus rose to leave. Uncomfortably, he said, “Shall I carry your regards to anyone in Greece?”
“There is nothing to say.” Corbulo's tone was flat, hard, resigned. Both knew he was the right man for this war.
Which only means Uncle Vespasian has to do better than Corbulo would have done.
From Corbulo's house, Sabinus had journeyed to the port of Brundisium, where the young men awaited him. The winds were remarkably calm for the time of year, and the passage was smooth. As though Fortuna herself was overseeing their voyage.
This morning they'd disembarked at New Corinth, a port city five times as large of Athens. Built upon the ruins of the original, New Corinth had been created by Julius Caesar for his soldiers after their victory at Pharsalus. As legionaries liked the comforts of home, Greek traditions had succumbed to Latin habits – tunics were long, marble was painted, and streets were wide and straight.
Arriving at their lodging, Sabinus had found two letters awaiting him. The first was an invitation to hear Nero Caesar perform that very evening. The other was from a woman Sabinus knew mostly by reputation – Antonia Caenis, Uncle Vespasian's mistress. Evidently she had stayed in Greece while Vespasian headed East.
Sabinus frowned as he read. Her letter asked for an urgent audience. An awkward request, and impossible to fulfill. Sabinus could hardly call upon Vespasian's mistress before greeting Caesar. Caenis would have to wait.
As Clemens had turned fifteen, he was now allowed to don the toga of manhood. Thus the four togate Flavians trooped together to the Temple of Apollo, and Sabinus found himself receiving warm greetings from senators and knights who a month before would have cut him dead. Vespasian's sudden elevation had raised the whole family to prominence. It was a heady sensation, but Sabinus knew how quickly this favour would vanish if the war went poorly.
The divine performer was followed close by a woman Sabinus knew by reputation. Calvia Crispinilla, a woman of senatorial rank who nonetheless had turned whore for most of Nero's court. Tonight she was serving as Caesar's nomenclator, a servant paid to remember men's names.
But Nero required no prompting when he sighted Sabinus. “Titus Flavius! You arrived this morning? I hoped it would be you playing nursemaid to Vespasianus' second son. And these strapping fellows – might they belong to you?”
Though Nero had met them many times before, Sabinus dutifully introduced Tertius and Clemens. “And this, Caesar, is Titus Flavius Domitianus, second son to my uncle, your general.”
Nero examined Domitian carefully, from his well-muscled calf to his over-long neck. “Thank the gods he's handsomer than his father. Tell me, lad, do you enjoy poetry?”
Knowing his father's famous failing, Domitian put on an eager face. “I do, Caesar. Very much.”
“What a splendid voice you have!” cried Nero. “Tell me, do you sing?”
Clemens made a strangled sound as Domitian reddened. “No, Caesar.”
“Pity. With such a long neck, there was little hope. Seneca always said long necks make for low voices. You'll never be heard by a large crowd, I'm afraid. Fortunately, my neck is the exact right length for a tenor. But I strengthen it every day – I lie for an hour with lead bars upon my chest and stomach.” Caesar punched his belly, hard. “Solid as marble. I could give you lessons, if you like.”
