by David Blixt
But the quotation that came to mind was no comfort at all. 'Those whom Fortuna has never favoured are more joyful than those whom she has deserted.'
His eyes came into focus, and the words resolved themselves. Against his Stoic nature, Sabinus sat parsing, trying to wring meaning from each one.
The Sabines take revenge? The Sabine people were Rome's ancient enemies within Italia. Revenge for what? There could only be one answer. To populate his new city, Romulus had invited the nearby tribe of Sabines to a great feast. Here he and his men attacked and run off the male Sabines and raped and wed all of the Sabine women. Greeks and Italians liked to say that act set the course for all of Roman history – having no culture of their own, they raped and stole the cultures of others.
But that event was over eight hundred years past, and the Sabines today, though truculent, were as Roman as anyone. This felt more personal. He was named Sabinus, as was his father and his firstborn son. Clearly that was not without meaning.
There was a lot in the prophecy to be frightened of, especially dying in obscurity. Yet as he scanned the document, his eyes kept returning to one phrase: Clemency's heir. More than any other, those two words raised the hair on his neck and made his thumb prick.
Only one Flavian took his name from Clemensia, the goddess of forgiveness. Sabinus' second son, the one named after his mother, the lad who was a theatre-lover, a thinker, a dreamer.
Clemens is just a boy, barely in an adult's toga. What is his vice? Laziness? A fondness for drama? A lack of – what, willpower? Focus? What sacrifice can cure that?
Hearing footfalls, Sabinus tucked the parchment away as his elder son entered alone. “Where's Clemens?”
Tertius shrugged. “Where is he ever? There's probably a play in the theatre.”
Sabinus nodded, then crossed to the balcony and looked down the frosty hill to where goats were being herded, the bells about their necks ringing down the lazy slope by a handsome youth about Clemens' age. There, at least, was a young man with no dire future ahead of him. For a long moment Sabinus imagined leaving his second son here, hidden and safe from the world. But would that then be the cause of Clemens' future? That was the trouble with prophecy – to act, or not to act? Which would lead to Fortuna's lap?
Ironically, Clemens might have a better answer than his father. After all, theatre was always full of such questions.
* * *
Clemens had not gone to the theatre. Instead he found his feet retracing the climb of the night before. He did not know why he was ascending the Sacred Way. He only knew he felt an undeniable pull. Not like a voice in his head – nothing so dramatic and poetic. It was more as if he felt he would not be whole until he knocked upon Apollo's Temple and was admitted.
Yet he halted just outside the temple door. He had not been summoned, and did not quite know what he was about. His father had clearly been frightened by what he'd heard the night before. Clemens was curious, and at the same time wary. His father was not a man to be frightened.
Suddenly the door swung wide and the same old Hestiad from last night appeared to greet him. “Welcome, Titus Flavius Clemens. You are expected.”
Surprised, Clemens acted as though entering this hallowed chamber were nothing momentous. But his eyes kept darting to the corners, wondering if there were Furies still lurking in Apollo's shrine. He knew of them because of 'The Eumenides' by Aeschylus. That was a tremendous play, one Clemens could recite from memory. The Furies were fantastic creatures of vengeance, embodiments of the dead's anger, 'those who beneath the earth punish whosoever has sworn a false oath.' They had once come here demanding the death of Orestes for his matricide. Idly, Clemens wondered what the Kindly Ones would make of Nero, who had also murdered his mother – the Furies took particular offense at the murder of family members.
Ushered down into the steaming, screaming crimson-lit cave, Clemens had to cover his mouth and nose against the stench. He did not address the oracle in the proper form. Instead he said baldly, “What did you tell my father?”
“That is for him to know,” rasped the naked figure on the tripod stool. “Besides, you did not come for him.”
Aware he was standing on the very spot where Laius had heard the prophecy of his son Oedipus, Clemens swallowed his gorge and placed his hands upon his hips. “What do you see in my future?”
“What do I see?” echoed the Pythia, amused. “I see a temple, in fire. I see a city, in ruins. I see a fortress, in smoke. I see a ship, in storm. I see a theatre, in blood. I see twins, a living Castor and Pollux. With one I see death and obscurity, with the other eternal life and glory.”
“You see nothing,” said Clemens, quoting Aeschylus with all the flair of his fifteen years.
“True!” laughed the oracle. “And a great something fashioned from that nothing!” Her cackle grew, echoing around the chamber, sending shivers down Clemens' spine. “You pretend not to believe in the gods. But one god believes in you! Now go, boy! You have heard all I care to tell! GO!”
For all his bravado, Clemens was still not a man. He turned and fled up the stairs and out of the temple. Having entered for curiosity and love of theatre, he'd found himself enacting a Tragedy, not a Comedy. He hadn't heard the oracle's words regarding Fate, yet he had certainly felt the eyes of Fate upon him.
* * *
The next day the trio took ship, along with their servants and Sabinus' steward. Though neither father nor son revealed the contents of their personal prophecies, both thought about them, long and hard.
Part Two
The God of the Vines
“IT IS PLEASANT AT TIMES TO PLAY THE MADMAN.”
- SENECA
VI
ROMA, ITALIA
23 APRIL 67 AD
“Good morning, domina,” said a freedman as a girl cleared away a dish of sausages and bread from before the lady of the house.
“Good morning, Aglaus,” replied Antonia Caenis. “The house seems in order. Is the staff settling in?”
“They are, domina,” replied Aglaus gravely. “Glenis is meeting with the decorators this morning, and Aglais is visiting the flower markets now to order for the Spring planting.”
“And the Vinalia?” Today was the celebration of the safety of wine-grapes from the winter frost.
“You have several invitations, of course. My firstborn is making certain your favourite vintages are ready.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Aglaus. Please have someone in to repair the mosaic in the tablinum. I nearly cut my foot this morning. And I want new frescoes for the dining room. Cheery and tasteful. I trust your judgment.”
“Thank you, domina. I'll see to both myself.” With that, the middle-aged freedman exited.
Caenis heaved a long, contented sigh. It was good to be back in Rome. Nearly her whole life had been lived in this city, making her way between palaces and markets nestled in the seven hills. Travel out of the city was rare, and a voyage as far as Greece was nearly unthinkable.
Of course, back in her servile days, she had traveled with her mistress, Antonia Tertia. But the daughter of the famous Mark Antony had disliked travel as much as her father had enjoyed it. Perhaps it was a trait picked up from her mother Octavia, sister of Augustus, who never enjoyed leaving Rome. Probably because whenever she did, she returned miserable.
Antonia. It was thirty years since her mistress had died, but Caenis still measured herself against that great woman, and found herself wanting. But then, she was a Roman aristocrat. I am a mere slave girl playing at being a lady.
Yet, having grown up at court, it was a role she played superbly. Nevertheless, she was so glad to be back on her own stage. Wintering with Caesar's court in Greece without Vespasian, her skills had been sorely tested. There had been many uncomfortable scenes, as Domitian lacked the good sense to hide his dislike of her. Caenis had been forced to publicly put him down on more than one occasion.
Though satisfying, she regretted the necessity. Not that she worried for Dom
itian's sake, but strife between them reflected poorly upon Vespasian. Having successfully connived to catapult Vespasian into the general's seat, Caenis refused to allow a teenaged brat to spoil things. However much it amused Nero.
For a lone great command was not the end of her plans for her lover. Not by half. Caenis had spent many hours reflecting on the old story of Vespasian's birth, the night a lightning-bolt from Jupiter had rent the family tree, a dead thing as old as the Republic. In the center of the split wood a new tree had begun to sprout. A new sapling from an ancient tree. From old, new life.
Taking this as a divine sign of a great destiny, the lady Vespasia Polla had pushed her second son into public life, forcing him into a career he neither desired nor appreciated. That he did not wish anything more than a military life was irrelevant. Vespasia had had a premonition. She knew her son mattered to Rome. That without her son, Rome would not survive. So, in a way, she sacrificed her son's happiness to the cause of Roma.
That had been when Caenis had met him. She was a junior scribe in Antonia's household, working for the mistress' chief secretary, Diadumenus. She had been, what, fifteen? No, let's be honest – I was nearly seventeen. He had been twenty-one, just returned from military service in Thrace. What had attracted her, she had not known at the time. But when she heard the story of the tree, she knew at once what it was. She had suffered a premonition of the same sort. Here was a man who mattered.
At least, he matters to me. And if I can, I'll make him matter to the world.
The seduction had been easy. Having never received positive words from a woman, Vespasian had been very susceptible to her genuine interest. And as his mistress, she had done all she could. She knew the inner workings of Caesar's palace, and she introduced him to the important people, the ones who truly ran things. For ten years she worked quietly to advance his interests. At her behest, he'd stood for election as quaestor, and served on the isle of Crete. It was his first true step up the ladder of the cursus honorum, the Way of Honour by which a man achieved that highest of seats, the consulship, just one rung below Caesar Princeps. As high as a man could rise.
So many times Vespasian had resigned himself to obscurity, only to have some new chance for honour thrust upon him, and in each fresh post he found some means of sabotaging his success. Except for Britain, when the lives of his men had depended on him. That honour clung to him, despite his best efforts to soil it.
Antonia had died, and left in her long list of legacies a writ of freedom and a handsome pension for her faithful slave Caenis. Leaving service, Caenis had husbanded her money and set herself up in a small yet exquisite house on the Pincian Hill and devoted herself to promoting Vespasian's career. She achieved a remarkable feat when she took advantage of new election laws to have her lover made governor at the age of thirty, the youngest age allowable.
He had repaid her by marrying another woman.
Caenis had always known, of course, that he could never marry her. It would blight his career to marry a freedwoman, a former slave. But the shock of his marriage had been deep, and long-lasting. Worse, he had married someone that had not helped his climb up the cursus honorum! The mere daughter of a scribe, hardly better than a slave herself! Caenis fretted at first that it might be love. But no, eventually she heard some of the story and she realized that the colossal bitch Domitilla had taken advantage of Vespasian's honourable nature. After a torrid affair with an African member of the Equestrian class, the disgraced cunnus had seduced Vespasian and convinced him to marry her. Rumour said there had even been a duel of some sort. Caenis didn't know, choosing to believe the worst of her rival. Except when forced by social necessity, she had not spoken with Vespasian for all the years he had been married.
Yet, to give Domitilla her due, she had wanted to be married to a senator. Vespasian's brother had already joined the Senate. But, typical Vespasian, he'd refused, claiming to own no interest in joining that august body of men. Some whispered it was his shame at the time Claudius Caesar had poured muck into his toga. But Caenis knew her man. He didn't want to be bothered. Unwilling to be other than what he was. It was hard not to admire such a trait. At least, for someone who knew and loved him, it was.
But his lack of ambition was maddening to both his wife and his mother. Vespasia Polla taunted her son mercilessly, accusing him of being his brother's servant, while Domitilla had harped on about building a legacy for their sons. At last, to drown the din, he had joined the Senate.
Twenty-four years passed, and she had watched from afar the ups and downs of his fortunes. The brilliant campaign in Britannia, the lackluster political career that followed. He had become consul, just as his mother and wife desired, then immediately retired from the Senate and public life, having earned the enmity of Nero's mother, Agrippina. The same woman who had married and then murdered Antonia's son Claudius. Hating Agrippina herself, Caenis could not help loving Vespasian from quarrelling with her.
Then, four years ago, the scheming bitch Domitilla had suddenly keeled over, dead. As had Vespasian's mother before her. Leaving exactly no one to push Vespasian into public life. He had clearly considered himself finished, his race run, and he retired to read, relax, and play with his two granddaughters.
Half-hating herself for the need after all this time, Caenis had arranged a 'chance' encounter. He had smiled at her with such simple happiness that she'd melted. It was as though the intervening years had not even happened, as if they were picking up from their last conversation. The affair was as heated as it was comfortable.
Caenis again took up the cause of promoting her love's career. She poured honey in the right ears and had him posted as governor of Africa Province. Being himself, Vespasian did not bend to necessity and use the taxes to enrich himself. Instead he ruled wisely, even if he found himself pelted with turnips by the people. Meanwhile his financial fortunes had turned so low, he was forced to raise mules and foster out the raising of his children. He infuriated Poppaea, insulted Nero, and made himself more of an ass than his mules.
At this point, Caenis decided to see if she had been right, all those years before. She wanted to make her man matter again. It would be quite the challenge. If I make him the great man I always knew he could be, I will be a greater sculptor than Pygmalion.
It was clear she would get no help from him. Never was a man more disinclined to greatness, to honours and fame. Yet he shouldered responsibility with such ease, was so practical and clear-sighted when faced with a daunting and hopeless task. In short, he was the perfect leader – the one people would never even think of choosing. He was a great man in need of having greatness thrust upon him.
For the last two years she had patiently waited for the right moment to present itself. As she waited, she lived as he lived, a simple life, rustic and peaceful. She had even sold her house on the Pincian. Yet in the back of her mind she always knew that they would soon return to the life of court intrigues and ambition. So she had indulged in that almost idyllic country life, knowing it would someday end. Often she mused that some goddess had taken pity on her, granting her a brief idyll of peace after a sinful life. Always she wondered which god would come to end this tranquility.
Odd, she thought now. I never imagined it would be the Hebrew god.
Before he departed for the East, Vespasian did one thing that balmed her soul. He asked her to marry him. Naturally, she refused. Not out of pique or petty vengeance. Respected as she was, Caenis was still a former slave. It would be too great a mar on his dignitas to marry so far beneath his station. Not even Nero had been able to marry a former slave, despite his love for her – his mother had held sway over him then, in a most un-maternal way. I suppose Agrippina's ashes are now wishing she had let her son's marriage to Acte go forward, that Poppaea might never have entered Nero's sphere.
Acte! There was another woman to add to the list of visits this first week. For a lack of vows did not prevent Caenis from doing the chief duty of a Roman wife – advancing her man
's career.
Arriving from Greece, Caenis did not retire to Vespasian's family estate near Reate. Instead she had bought this new house, large and fashionable, in the northeast corner of the city. It had once belonged to a respectable branch of the Cornelius family, then purchased when they fell upon difficult times by a Gaul with pretensions. Finding himself barred from the best society despite his money, he had willingly sold his expensive home for a tidy profit. It was no part of Caenis' plan to take over the home of anyone who would be missed, and money was no impediment. She had her own money – a great deal of it. Knowing every secret deal for years, she had invested wisely, amassing a fortune that would have shocked the Censors. Vespasian's pride had kept him from tapping her funds. Unwilling to embarrass him, she had refrained from spending it upon him. But now it would benefit him in a way he would find impossible to refuse.
Too old to be a threat to the wives of Rome, too rich to be insulted, too full of stories to ignore, she was perfectly suited to become the indispensible center of Roman social life.
To that end, she had mapped out a campaign every bit as serious as the one Vespasian was planning against the Judeans. Names were placed in order of importance – senators to flatter, wives to woo, knights to entertain, freedman and scribes to bribe. An intricate plan, she had taken great relish in devising it, flexing mental muscles she had not seriously employed in nearly thirty years. She was curious to know if she still had the knack.
The plan was to begin this very day, with a visit she dreaded. She was surprised, therefore, when Aglaus reappeared not with her shawl, but instead with a curious expression upon his face. “What is it?”
“Domina, Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo has called.”
Corbulo! That was interesting. “Show him in, by all means.”
The fit old man strode in with all the martial purpose of a man on a mission. She allowed him to buss her cheek, then invited him to sit. She took a straight-backed chair, as a woman should in the company of men. Notably, he did the same, avoiding the more comfortable long couch she had indicated. “It has been a long time, lady.”
