by David Blixt
Publicans most often hired locals, who would be tax-exempt and receive a percentage of what they collected from their fellow countrymen. This interview had been arranged so that the publicani could formally request that General Vespasian detach a vexillation of soldiers for their use, to help their local agents collect taxes in these troubled times.
Not only was Vespasian refusing, he was about to give them a nasty shock. Waving off their protests, he said, “Gentlemen, it is unreasonable for you to buy the rights to collect taxes, then ask Rome's army to gather them for you. So I fear I must deny your request. Never fear, though. I'm sure the Senate will release you from the Judean contract. War has that effect sometimes. But I am glad you've come. I must tell you that as of today I am forbidding the use of natives to collect taxes.”
They were utterly shocked. “What?”
“For the coming year at least, you must do your own tax collections, without local help.” Their voices grew heated, but he simply stared out of his naturally frowning face and waited them out. When they had finished their abuse, he said, “Gentlemen, I understand your concerns. But I can't have the natives going back and forth from Roman camps and towns to native ones with impunity. Judea is a land of Zelotes and Sicarii – fanatics and knifemen who stab Romans and their collaborators in the streets, in their homes, in their beds. To give them the run of Roman camps and Roman settlements is just stupid.”
“That might make sense for Judea,” one protested. “But why Syria? The Syrians aren't in revolt!”
Vespasian laid his scarred hands flat on the polished malachite of his desk. “There are sympathizers among the Syrians who see in the Judean revolt the hope of their own freedom. There are also men who don't want Rome to lose, but would not mind if the legions are given a black eye now and again. No, you're free to use any Roman citizen to collect your money. Just not the locals.”
“You don't have the right to dictate to us. You're not the governor of Syria!”
“Yes, where is Gessius Florus? Let us talk to him!”
Vespasian spread his hands, palms up. “Feel free. You'll find the conversation one-sided. When he heard I was near enough, he took his own life. Commendable. Saved Rome the cost of a trial, and redeemed a shred of the honour he lost with the eagle. His last order was that I was to be obeyed by every Roman in Syria. I have it here somewhere.” He gestured to the scrolls that littered his side table and the buckets of books around the room. “Regardless, I have unlimited imperium in the East. Until Nero Caesar appoints a new Syrian governor, I am the most senior man in the region. Which means, gentlemen, that my word is law.”
The news of Florus' death had made them instantly more pliable. “Titus Flavius, be reasonable—”
“I'm being very reasonable. I could simply strip you of your contracts and use my soldiers to collect the money for Rome directly. That way the Syrian people aren't over-taxed, and Roma gets all her money in an expedient fashion. Shall I do that?”
They grumbled and gave him evil looks. He thanked them for coming, but did not stand to see them out. He did give them one assurance as they departed. “Never fear, gentlemen. Judea will pay its share of taxes and more this year. I'll see to it myself.”
They did not look comforted.
As the door closed, Vespasian shook his head and stretched. “This will be an excellent war, Tymon, if I'm ever allowed to wage it.”
“Yes, Titus Flavius,” said the steward, refilling the general's silver cup. But Vespasian did not drink. Instead he used his scarred hands to massage his wide forehead, full of creases. The general had ever owned a look of perpetual strain, as if his vision was poor and his mind slow. Neither was true.
Pressing his thumbs into his temples, Vespasian sighed. “Who's next, Tymon?”
The steward did not need to check his list. “The emissary of King Agrippa, Titus Flavius.”
The general's eternal frown deepened. “And what does his royalness want now?”
“Evidently there's trouble brewing on the edge of his own land. Raiders are stealing the shipments of oil his people are selling.”
“And he wants Rome's soldiers to fix it,” snorted Vespasian. “Not enough that we're here to win his kingdom back from his unruly subjects. We also have to protect his profits.” Again Vespasian set his hands on his stone desktop, palms splayed. “Give me a few moments to myself, Tymon, then show him in.”
“Yes, Titus Flavius.” The steward exited, leaving Vespasian alone in the flickering light of his office lamps and braziers.
He reached for the silver cup. It was a special item, sentimental, a legacy from his grandmother. At home in Reate, Vespasian only used it for special occasions. He'd brought it out for the New Year's celebration with the legionaries and legates yesterday, and kept it out today, enjoying the link to his roots. Of course, the minute the fighting began he would have Tymon pack it away until he achieved a victory.
After taking a modest sip, he held it to the light, examining the engraved swirls. Expensive material, plainly adorned. No gods, no scenes. Just geometric squiggles and lines. Rather like him. Functional, valuable in what he was, too plain to satisfy the snobs.
There were times Vespasian wished he could be content to go back to the family farm and work the land. But then he'd think of the feel of steel in his hand, the bite of his leg greaves and the rush of blood as he crashed together with some enemy shield line. I love soldiering and that's the truth.
But do I love it enough to endure the politics? It was always the politics that brought him low. He'd been impolitic with Claudius, and been rewarded with excrement and shame. He'd been impolitic with Poppaea, and been forced to retire until she died. He'd been impolitic with Nero – and been given a great command. Well, Nero is peculiar. Besides, he owed that to Caenis, who had whispered his name in Nero's ear, reviving both their fortunes.
We are both outsiders, the slave and the soldier. Of us two, she is far more suited to the court. My clever, beautiful girl, who has more political sense in her finger than I do in my whole head.
Even here in the theatre of war it was necessary to keep at least one foot in the political camp. Take that last interview. He'd been impolitic and he knew it. He should have met them in the dining room, relaxed upon couches and heard them out, then brought them around to his way of thinking by guile and flattery. But instead their backs were up, just as if they were cats rubbed the wrong way. That was always the complaint against him. Too plain-spoken, too uncultured, too earthy. An Italian hayseed with no Greek.
But aren't we all Italians these days? There were surprisingly few true Romans left. Nero. Corbulo. Who else? Galba, off in Hispania. Perhaps a half-dozen impoverished senators. But the Famous Families were gone. No Julians, no Claudians, no Fabians, no Aemilians, no Cornelians. The families that could trace themselves back to the founding of Rome, to the kingdom of Alba Longa, to the fall of Troy – their blood had grown exceedingly thin, and in most cases their children were adopted from more robust families.
Vespasian was a man derided as slow, stubborn, and determined, just like the mules he'd raised to keep his family from poverty. Yet he had a keen practical understanding of the world. He was no philosopher. He was a man entirely unburdened by genius, sophistication, or culture. He was what Rome had once valued more than anything else – a rural farm boy turned soldier. The citizen-soldier had been the ideal at Rome's core. But that was an idea nearly two hundred years in its grave. Now Rome had nearly thirty standing armies filled with elite, professional, career soldiers. Had his mother not insisted he join the Senate, Vespasian could have lived his whole life quite content as a senior centurion, a tribune of the soldiers, or some similar career post. He was a true virs militaris – a Military Man to the bone.
Yet prophecy and his mother's ambitions had forced him into the role of politician. Which he did badly. He simply did not own that streak of venality that made men love politics. Clearly he did not know how to make money. He could easily have gran
ted the Publicans' request and sent his soldiers to collect the taxes, in exchange for a percentage of the overage. That was not only common, it was accepted and even commendable.
But Vespasian was a solider, and collecting taxes was not a soldier's business. He was fully aware of his naivety, but he couldn't help himself. He liked to run things how they should be run. Let the publicani collect the taxes themselves. Soldiers were for war.
There was a knock on the door. Vespasian set down his cup and braced himself.
But it was not the emissary from the King of the Jews. It was Vespasian's son-in-law, Quintus Petillius Cerialis Caesius Rufus, the widower of his daughter Flavia. “General? I wondered if you have a moment before the next petitioner.”
“Half a moment,” said Vespasian warily.
Cerialis closed the door behind him. Thirty-seven years old and a senator, Cerialis desperately wanted a military career. The trouble was that he didn't have soldiering in his bones. He'd made a complete mess out of his time in Britannia, losing nearly half of the Ninth Legion to the forces of the Briton queen Boudicca.
Vespasian had brought him to Judea as reward for loyalty, so that he might repair his reputation. But the general feared what rash, headlong act he might do next. Which was why he was kept close at hand, in charge of Vespasian's correspondence during the winter months. Come the campaigning season, Vespasian would have to find Cerialis a post where his boldness would do no harm.
“I thought you should know that we've just received a letter from the Armenian king, Sohemus. He's offering two thousand more men.”
Another man might have smiled. Vespasian merely nodded, though the creases around his frown relaxed a little, which was almost like smiling. “Good. When Titus arrives with the Aegyptian legions, we'll have quite the army. I'm about to interview Agrippa's man. We might be able to wring some more archers out of him. Care to stay?”
“I'd be delighted.” Exceedingly thin under his mop of red hair, he had a grayish tinge to his skin. Yet his expression was perpetually cheerful, just like that of Vespasian's son, Titus. But Titus was more apt to genuine laughter. Cerialis' smile had the slight hint of the sycophant.
“Was there anything else in the post?” asked Vespasian.
“Nothing important. A letter from home, written before the war broke out. Both your grand-daughters are well, it seems.” To save funds, Cerialis' own daughter Flavia and Titus' daughter Julia were living in Cerialis' household, raised by Domitian's old nurse. “And there's something about Domitian winning a spear-throwing contest on the Campus Martius.”
“He's likely with Nero by now,” said Vespasian, showing no emotion at the idea of his younger son as a hostage. However regretful, needs must. “Perhaps he will impress the Princeps with his skill at the spear. Who is the letter from?”
“Your nephew, young Sabinus.”
Vespasian nodded, feeling another tinge of regret. He would rather have had that solid young fellow on his staff than Cerialis. Sabinus was a remarkably solid fellow. Look at how he'd handled the crisis of the fire! There was the making of a decent soldier in there. But it couldn't be helped. Cerialis had been in Greece, and time mattered. Besides, they had shared a grief this year – the death of his little Flavia. No, Cerialis would have to do. And he seemed to get along with these foreigners. Perhaps that was the answer – make him the liaison with the foreign commanders. An honour, and a place where he'd do no harm.
Pity he couldn't bring young Sabinus along. That fellow had it in him to command a legion. Perhaps someday. The only comfort was that it would irk Vespasian's brother, to snub his son this way. Hard on the lad, but very satisfying.
It was time to return to the matters at hand, so that he could eventually focus on his war. “Tell Tymon to show His Majesty's emissary in. Let's get this over with.”
* * *
DELPHI, GREECE
Sabinus was unable to return to Rome as quickly as he intended. A startling invitation arrived the day after the concert, one he dared not refuse. The Oracle of Delphi was requesting Titus Flavius Sabinus by name.
“How did she even know I was in Greece?” he asked his sons as his servants repacked his luggage.
Tertius answered with his eyebrows significantly raised. “Pater – she's an oracle.”
“Hmm.” A mildly religious man, Sabinus had never before had truck with oracles. Their meddling with nature was against Zeno and Seneca's definitions of Stoicism. 'Fate leads the willing and drags along the reluctant.' So Seneca said. Yes, all events in life were predetermined. But to have foreknowledge of events was to deny their natural unfolding. So while Sabinus had paid the petty astrologers to make the traditional birth charts for both Tertius and Clemens, he generally ignored the soothsayers who stood at crossroads making dire predictions.
Yet only a fool ignored the oracle of oracles, however out of fashion she had become. The Oracle of Delphi was asking for him. That was something quite unique. Nero became visibly angry when he heard. He'd been in Greece for months and hadn't received such a summons. Knowing how dangerous Caesar's jealousy could be, Sabinus chose to bring both his sons with him when he set out a day before the New Year.
He also feared the power of Nero's influence. Clemens was already overfond of discussing the merits of Roman actors and debating the purifying nature of Tragedy. Tertius was equally displeased to be torn from the chariots – his first race had been a great success. Yes, best to rip them from Nero's company now, before they were corrupted and became part of his contaminatorum grege – his 'filthy herd.'
The combined sullenness of his boys made for an unpleasant ride up Mount Parnassus. Sabinus knew he was not aiding matters by quoting Seneca at them. But why could they not appreciate the simple beauty, the beautiful simplicity, of Stoicism? Ad astra per aspera – 'To the stars, through difficulties.' Or the same thought, expressed differently: Non est ad astra mollis e terris via – 'There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.'
Why was he so focused on the stars? Was it height? Or their power over Man?
As they drew near to the village, Sabinus realized he was drawing on Seneca more for himself than his sons. In accordance with Stoic philosophy, Sabinus was striving to purge himself of Desire, Fear, Pleasure, and Pain, replacing them with Will, Caution, and Joy. After all, he did not know what awaited him in Delphi. Best not have expectations. He'd just relearned that lesson in Corinth, most painfully.
As they dismounted in the chill winter wind in the central street, Sabinus knew he had failed. Not that he was hopeful. No, rather this summons was frightening him out of his wits.
In an attempt to curry divine favour, he chose to lodge at an inn called The Dolphin. Apollo, god of oracles, had first come to Delphi as a dolphin. Sabinus sent word of his arrival up the hill, then he and his sons dined in their room. Sabinus expected to receive a time later in the week for his interview, but within an hour he was told by the inn's proprietor that a Hestiad was waiting for him below.
He immediately went down the stairs to the open central room, the hair on the back of his neck and forearms standing on end. Waiting beside the hearth was an ancient woman. The original Hestiades had all been virgin girls. But they had been repeatedly violated by men, so Apollo had replaced the girls with peasant crones. Ever since then, old women had served as oracular priestesses.
“The Oracle thanks you for coming, Titus Flavius Sabinus Junior,” said the withered woman with the hunch. “She wishes to see you at once.”
So swiftly? wondered Sabinus. Edepol! What is so important that she needs to see me now, after sunset?
Awed, Tertius and Clemens forgot their mulishness and helped their father dress in a formal toga with the purple senator's stripe. Cloaked in the majesty of Rome and accompanied by his sons, Sabinus set out into the night and began to climb the Sacred Way.
Led by the aged priestess, they first passed treasuries for various Greek cities. “Long since looted for Rome's wars,” observed the crone bitterly. �
�Delphi's art now adorns the great homes of Italia.”
“Not ours,” assured Sabinus. The night was cold, and his breath misted the air.
“No, Titus Flavius Sabinus Junior. Not yours.”
It was uncomfortable, the way she kept using his full name. It seemed to give her power over him. He considered asking her name, but did not know if that would be offensive. Did the Hestiades even keep their names when they entered service? He knew the Oracle herself did not. She adopted the name Pythia, as all her predecessors had.
Weaving up the snakelike path, Sabinus noted that not all the art had been stolen. Some statues were too large to be removed. The Bull of Corcyra still stood, as did the Trojan Horse of the Argives.
“What is that?” asked Clemens, pointing to a large crag sticking out of the earth. Clearly it had importance, as it was surrounded by columns of painted marble.
“That, Titus Flavius Clemens, is the Rock of Sibyl. You know who she was?”
“Of course,” answered Clemens, excited. After the fall of Troy, the oracle Sibyl had prophesized prolifically, mostly about Rome. Her prophecies were known as the Sibylline Books. “She was the great oracle of all things Roman.”
“But you have lost her knowledge,” observed the old Greek. “Her books burned when the temple to your great god Jupiter was destroyed.”
“That was a hundred and fifty,” said Sabinus. “The same year Lucius Cornelius Sulla marched on Rome and made himself dictator.”
The crone nodded approvingly, and Sabinus was glad he knew his history. She said, “That very year Delphi suffered a terrible earthquake. An upheaval of the whole world. Displeased, the gods tried to remove the best means of seeing what lay ahead.”
