The Four Emperors

by David Blixt

  Bewildered, Domitian sputtered. “I – I would, Caesar. If you have the time.”

  “We'll find the time, Domitianus. We'll find the time.” He gave the teen an appraising look from heel to head. “Yes… You'll do, young man. You'll certainly do.” Caesar turned to Calvia. “Make arrangements for young Domitian here to join my retinue.”

  Domitian's face contorted as if had been stabbed. Before the young man could make the blunder of protesting, Sabinus cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Caesar, I must have been misinformed. I thought I was to deliver Domitian to his father's care in Syria.”

  “No no no!” replied Nero with a honeyed smile. “As he and his elder son departed, my trusted friend and colleague Vespasianus suggested I take his younger boy into my own tutelage for the duration of this war. With such a martial father, the lad must require polish. So while your elder cousin learns the art of war with his father, young Domitian here shall learn the war of arts with us! Ha!”

  “Excellently said, Caesar,” replied Calvia, eyeing Domitian as a mongoose does a snake.

  Sabinus watched the fifteen year-old Domitian close himself off from the world, having just been stabbed by his father from afar. The beloved Titus was to have a war, while forgotten Domitian was to be Nero's pet. Worse, it was obvious what this truly was. Domitian was a hostage to his father's good behavior. After so many conspiracies these last few years, the Princeps was not handing over three legions without some form of security.

  But Sabinus feared that security for Caesar had a great cost for Domitian. If the lad was envious of Titus before, how will he feel now?

  Oblivious to Domitian's bitter disappointment, Nero talked on. “I do enjoy the company of young men. In fact, Domitian, I was just your age when I was first hailed Imperator and cheated of my own youth. So I like to relive my boyhood days through others such as yourself. You look fit. Have you ever raced?”

  Domitian's answer was mulish. “On the Campus Martius.”

  Nero erupted with laughter. “Not foot-races – chariots! We'll outfit you with a biga, and you shall take a turn with me!” Bigae were racing chariots pulled by two horses. Domitian's expression brightened infinitesimally, and Nero turned to Tertius and Clemens. “You fellows should join! A proper team, two pairs. Me and Domitian against the brothers Sabinus. That is, if your father allows.”

  Ignoring the hairs rising on the back of his neck, Sabinus said, “If Caesar wishes it, of course.”

  Nero applauded. “Excellent! I love racing. In my blood. You're such a good fellow, Sabinus. I wish the current aediles were half your worth. You discovered that fellow Gaudentius, who uses concrete so well. Thanks to him, my Golden House will be finished by next year. I have made quite the innovation, you know – I've covered whole walls with those tiled pictures. Mosaics are no longer to be trod upon, but appreciated as art. And I've dealt smartly with those odious people who refuse to bathe. My engineers have hidden jets of perfume in doorways so when you walk through, you're covered in a divine scent.”

  Sabinus' brows furrowed. “How does that work?”

  Clearly Nero had never considered this. “Hmm. Perhaps children within the walls to man the bellows? Or dwarfs?” He clapped Sabinus on the shoulder. “Such a practical mind! Just like your uncle. It's why I chose him for Judea.”

  “I hope his mulish practicality recovers our lost eagle,” said a bass voice from behind a nearby column.

  Sabinus knew that voice. Aulus Vitellius, wastrel son of a patrician father who served as Nero's chief claque. A man who brought out the worst in Sabinus, and had ever since they were young. For a Stoic, there was nothing worse than enduring someone's self-indulgence, and Vitellius was as indulgent as a man could be. An Epicurean to his core – though that core would take days of digging to find. It was amazing that the pillar had hidden such a distended belly.

  Sabinus replied with cold politeness. “I'm surprised Caesar didn't give the command in Judea to you, Aulus. But perhaps he thought you might conquer Judea by eating it.”

  “He offered it, Titus Flavius. But I chose to remain close to Caesar.”

  “Ah, of course!” said Sabinus, driving in the knife. “The prophecy. Your father often talked about your star-chart – how if you were ever put in command of an army, disaster would follow for all Romans. Nearly as bad as speaking Rome's secret name aloud. Very patriotic of you, placing the future of Roma ahead of your own career.”

  Vitellius turned as purple as the stripe on his tunic, his embarrassment made worse by Nero's peals of laughter. “Well spoken, Sabinus! And so very true. We must all put lady Roma first, even ahead of our families. Now, you are coming to my recital, yes? Original poetry, from my own pure brain!”

  Sabinus made sure to smile, not wince. “I look forward to it, Caesar.”

  “Do you? Excellent! Alas, for all his practical military sense, your uncle suffers from a shocking lack of appreciation for the arts. I fear that too many years among the mules made him rather bestial himself.”

  “Perhaps if I yawned every so often,” interjected Vitellius bitterly, “you might give me a war.”

  Nero arched an eyebrow – an eyebrow, Sabinus noted, darkened with stibium. The ludicrous nature of Caesar wearing women's paint did not prevent Vitellius from nearly swallowing his tongue. It was amazing how the red glint in Caesar's eye could make his hair turn pale in comparison. And it was frightening how quickly that red glow kindled. Some said it was the Ahenobarbi blood in him. Others whispered that he was just mad. One thing was certain – when Caesar's face took on that look, someone would suffer.

  Vitellius was rescued by the arrival of Nero's steward, Epaphroditus. His name meaning handsome, he was that and more. It had been Epaphroditus who had uncovered the plot that led to Corbulo's disgrace, and he was a rich man because of it. Freed, he still served his master faithfully, signing edicts and writing out the business of state that was too prosaic for the poetic Nero to trouble with. “Caesar, it is time to begin.”

  “Ah. Good.” Nero perfunctorily beckoned his new wife, Statilia Messalina, off chatting with other senatorial wives. The last time Sabinus had seen her was the previous summer, when she'd been dressed all in black, mourning the death of her husband at his funeral. Not that she'd truly mourned. Her husband had been commanded to commit suicide so that Statilia might be unencumbered of her marriage vows and so become free to marry Nero.

  The Princeps' rush to wive was both shocking and completely unsurprising. He had always needed strong women about him. First his mother, Agrippina, who had married Claudius Caesar and gotten her son adopted as Caesar's heir. Next had come Acte, the slave he had tried to marry against his mother's will. Then he'd replaced his mother with Poppaea, going so far as to murder his mother at his future wife's request. Or so it was rumoured.

  At the time of Agrippina's death, Poppaea had been temporarily married to Nero's best friend, Marcus Salvius Otho, and Nero married to his own step-sister, Claudia Octavia. Otho was finally persuaded to part with his wife, and was in turn rewarded with a governorship in Further Hispania. For four years Poppaea had served as Nero's favourite mistress. But when she became pregnant, Nero divorced Claudia on the ironic grounds of adultery and had her imprisoned and executed. Two years before the Great Fire, Nero and Poppaea had wed.

  They were oddly suited to each other, full of passionate quarrels and venomous love-making, often in public. Mated at the soul, Nero indulged his ardour for her as deeply as he did his art and his sport.

  The pregnancy had not been easy, and produced a daughter who died after four brief months of life. The couple had wept and mourned quite publicly, earning the sympathy of all Rome. In those months, Nero had seemed his most normal.

  When Poppaea had again become pregnant, she was again forced to retire to her bed to suffer months of discomfort. Knowing what lay ahead, Nero had taken the beautiful Statilia as a mistress. One day, just over a year ago, Poppaea had greeted her husband's return from his circus and revels with
bitter recriminations of neglect. In the argument that followed, Nero had launched a kick at his wife's pregnant belly. Something had ruptured, and both Poppaea and the child had died that night.

  'It is a youthful failing to be unable to control one's impulses.' So had written Nero's tutor, Seneca. But Nero was twenty-nine years old, the twelfth year of his reign as Princeps, and he showed no sign of growing up. His impulses still controlled him in every way, as was proven by his reaction to Poppaea's death. He'd gone mad with grief, refusing to have her cremated, instead having her stuffed with spices and embalmed in the Eastern style. More, he'd ordered her a state funeral, burning ten year's worth of Parthian incense in the streets before entombing her in the mausoleum of the Divine Augustus. He'd even forced the Senate to declare her a goddess, granting her immortality a month too late.

  After all that, no one expected Nero to wed again. Yet just a few months later he'd ordered Statilia's husband to fall upon his sword, on the pretext that he'd been part of the latest conspiracy. The moment the funeral was over, the Princeps took her before a pontifex and had her pass her hand through fire and water for his house. Then he'd given her into the care of Calvia Crispinilla for instruction on how to be Caesar's bride.

  This trip to Greece was their first public time as husband and wife. Watching her now, Sabinus saw that Statilia was not nearly as flamboyant as Poppaea. Yet she knew what her husband liked, and when he waved for her, she raced over and cooed in his ear like a trollop, clinging to his arm as though her life depended upon it. It was a very un-Roman display, but entirely Neronian. Calvia had done her work well. Statilia had learned how to please the god, her husband.

  Nero looked to Vitellius and Sabinus. “Before we go in, I want you both to kiss and swear your friendship.”

  Sabinus felt his jaw set, but he stepped forward and kissed Vitellius on the mouth, as men did in friendly greeting. They shook hands, and leaned forward to offer private words in each other's ears.

  Unwilling to apologize, Sabinus dredged his memory for a Senecan quote appropriate to the moment. “Copia ciborum, subtilitas impeditur.” 'The abundance of food hampers intelligence.'

  A thin smile hovering over his fat chins, Vitellius murmured back, “Mentulam caco.” Literally it meant, 'I shit on your prick.'

  Sabinus smiled through gritted teeth and turned to face Nero, beaming knowingly at them both. Then Caesar turned and nodded for the event to begin.

  With the great artist and his bride in the lead, people streamed into Apollo's temple. Sabinus hung back, seething, not wishing to compete with Vitellius for passage. Watching his sons go inside, Sabinus noted Tertius was girded for a painful hour, whereas Clemens entered bearing a look of genuine anticipation. Well, the lad loves spectacle.

  Domitian was dragging his feet, reluctant to enter. Sabinus understood completely, and felt for the young man. Chariots were a poor substitute for war. Victory in some circus or arena would never gain one the fame and honour of a military reputation.

  When I get to Judea, I'll plead for the lad in person. By the time the summer campaigns begin, we can all be in the theatre of war.

  Thoughts of the war had cooled his temper. About to follow the others towards the Temple archway, Sabinus felt a gentle touch at his elbow as a feminine voice said, “I did try to warn you.”

  Turning, Sabinus beheld an iron-haired lady in a flowing blue gown. But the color of the gown was a paltry thing compared to the luster of her ocean-blue eyes. “Antonia Caenis. You are looking well.” In a move that would have scandalized his father, Sabinus kissed this woman as one might an honoured relation.

  Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “And you, Titus Flavius.” Well past her fiftieth year, Caenis had the poise (and figure) of a much younger woman. In every way she appeared the perfect Roman lady. All she lacked was the birth.

  Forty years earlier, Caenis had been the slave to Mark Antony's daughter Antonia, mother to Claudius Caesar. She had known Tiberius, Caligula, and Claudius as boys, not gods. Granted Antonia's complete trust, she had lived through the heart of every major intrigue and scandal of the last forty years.

  Freed after her mistress' death, Caenis had proceeded to create her own scandal by taking up with, of all men, Vespasian. The furor was not over senator sleeping with a freedwoman (a common enough occurrence). Rather, it was her interest in him that caused so much consternation. Caenis was clever and canny, while Vespasian had once been pelted with turnips.

  Old Sabinus maintained that Caenis and Vespasian had been lovers in their youth, and were now picking up again once Vespasian's wife was dead. While Titus shrugged, Domitian despised his father's mistress, having been devoted to his late mother.

  Caenis now gazed at Sabinus, neither coy nor formal. “I trust the voyage did not disturb you?”

  “Not at all, thank you.” In low tones he added, “I take it you meant to warn me that Domitian was staying with Caesar.”

  Taking his arm, she guided him into the shelter of a concealing pillar. “We must speak quickly – I have a place reserved for us near the front. I'm so sorry,” she added as he winced. “But you must know how matters stand. It wasn't only your uncle's military skill that earned him this war. The lack of illustrious ancestors keeps the Flavian family from being a threat.”

  “I see that.” Though galling, Sabinus had already worked this out for himself.

  Caenis pressed on. “Because Caesar does not fear your uncle, he won't try to control the war. He expects Vespasian to succeed, but not Triumph, if you understand my meaning.”

  “I do,” replied Sabinus. “And Domitian remains here as a hostage.”

  “Rather as a guarantee that your uncle does not do anything foolish with the legions at his command.”

  That thought was both sobering and laughable. If the history of the last hundred years had taught anything, it was that Caesar needed the loyalty of his armies. But there was no man less likely to start a civil war than Uncle Vespasian.

  Sabinus pressed onwards. “So, without Domitian, there must be a post open on his staff.”

  A pained look crossed Caenis' fare. “I'm afraid I am not being clear. Nero Caesar is distrustful of any family gaining too much power. Titus is already in the field with his father. Cerialis Rufus as well.”

  That news made Sabinus frown. How did I forget Cerialis? Quintus Petillius Cerialis Caesius Rufus was Vespasian's son-in-law, and fancied himself a better military man than his talents warranted. He'd already snatched defeat from the jaws of victory in Britannia. Now he was in Judea? Cacat!

  Caenis nodded sympathetically. “You see now how it stands? Father, first-born, and son-in-law. With those three commanding the war, any more Flavians would be dangerous. If your uncle were to take you or your sons, it would be thought he was building a base of power in the East, with legions loyal only to the gens Flavia.”

  “So I'm denied a posting despite my rank, experience, and family claim. My sons as well.”

  Caenis was contrite, but calm. “I am sorry, Titus Flavius.”

  He believed her. He genuinely liked Caenis, admired her for her practicality. But in this moment he was wishing she were not quite so clever. Glancing at the temple doors where the crowd was still pushing in, he decided there was time for one more question. “Whose idea was it to leave Domitian with Nero? Yours?”

  Caenis raised her brows. “Your uncle's, of course. Why would I wish such a fate upon Domitian?” Her triumphant smile belied her words. She loathed Domitian as much as he hated her, and the war waged between them was particularly cold.

  But this time her venom had unintended consequences. Wary of even the appearance of his family rivaling Nero, Uncle Vespasian had limited the number of his relatives to take to this glorious war. Sabinus hadn't gotten in fast enough. Cerialis? Damn.

  As ever, he turned to Seneca. 'Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.' Balming his disappointment with that Stoic thought, Sabinus offered Caenis his arm and escorted her thr
ough the massive archway.

  Nero was upon the dais, tuning his harp. Clemens and Tertius stood looking for him. But Domitian was not with them.

  Glancing around, Sabinus spied the young man leaning against a column just inside the arch, staring daggers into Caenis' back. He'd been listening. Damn and damn.

  Taking his seat on the front stone bench, Sabinus lifted his chin and made certain his face did not reflect his thoughts. Unable to help Domitian, Sabinus determined then and there that he and his boys would return on the first ship to Rome. With no prospect of a war, there was only danger for them here. Nero's attention was like that of a serpent – no matter how friendly, one must never forget its nature was to bite.

  IV

  PTOLMAIS, SYRIA

  2 JANUARY 67 AD

  “But Titus Flavius, why not? Your legionaries are just sitting here. Why not put them to use?”

  The broad-shouldered man behind the malachite desk did not sigh or roll his eyes. He simply gazed back out of that over-large head, frowning at the group of petitioners standing before him. They did not like standing, but Titus Flavius Vespasianus was not a man to care. “Soldiers are for soldiering. They need to train for war, not become tax collectors.”

  “Rome needs taxes, Titus Flavius,” pointed out the deputation's leader. “Especially in time of war.”

  “True,” agreed Vespasian. “And you've got the contract. So it's up to you to collect them.”

  Publicani, they were called. The publicans, men who purchased the rights to collect Rome's taxes. As Rome owned no tax collectors themselves (an odious form of employment!), the Senate wisely contracted out the ability to gather the taxes to private interests. So long as Rome received the agreed-upon amount, the publicani were allowed to collect as much as they could squeeze out of their assigned province. Whatever the overage was, they kept. Any shortfall they had to make up out of their own purse. It was a system that was reviled in most of Rome's provinces, but it had produced years of peace, prosperity – and profit.