by David Blixt
Then he started his long walk south. Looking about, he saw thick, ancient olive trees. He touched one, trying again to feel back to when it was planted, hundreds of years before. Perhaps it had been seeded by Odysseus himself. But no, that king had been absent too long to think of planting trees. Perhaps it was Telemon, his son. Or even, as one tradition had it, his grandson, Homer.
If it's true, Odysseus was fortunate to have such a gifted poet as a grandson. Whereas I have no male child, no heir, no one to carry my legacy. I am more Alexander than Odysseus – though my conquests do not reach near so far.
Corbulo had been hailed as Alexander once. Odysseus, too. He'd solved the Gordian Knot of the Parthians, it had been said. He'd engineered a victory against an impregnable foe, just like Odysseus and his horse.
But Corbulo knew the truth. No question, he was a virs militaris. He'd done well in every campaign he'd ever joined. He was a superlative general, competent and sure. Soldiering was in his bones.
But he was not beloved of the gods. He saw that now. He was not one of Fortuna's favourites. Instead he was a tool of the divine. Especially for the newest god in the Roman pantheon, Nero.
The truth was the Parthian War had not been a victory. At best, it was a draw. Yet, his popularity waning, Nero had needed a military success. A Triumph. So the final, inconclusive battle had been declared another Alesia, another Vercellae, another Actium. The taking of Tigranocerta was deemed a wonder, and Nero had hailed his general as a military hero, calling the war against Parthia a resounding victory.
None of it was true. Corbulo had won battles, taken cities, settled the question of the Armenian kingship – again. But he had not crushed the Parthians the way it was made to seem. He had not achieved the kind of victory that Romans demanded these days. He had not had that luck that had so conspicuously followed Marius, Sulla, Sertorius, Pompey, Caesar, Antony, Agrippa, and the rest.
But then, Fortuna abandoned them all, in the end. Is it better to be loved by the gods and then cast aside? Or never to be loved at all?
The great irony was that Corbulo's undoing was not due to the weak victory itself, but rather the propaganda surrounding it. Nero's own work to turn his general into a hero had simultaneously made Corbulo dangerous. A Caesar's power was based on the support of the soldiers. That had been proven with Claudius. Nero was not a soldier, and hence was fearful of a real soldier winning away the affection of Rome's legions.
He turned me into a threat I never was. I cannot help that my blood is better than his. I am a loyal Roman. I have never disobeyed an order in my life. I am a soldier, not a politician.
Corbulo's scalp was beginning to burn, and thirst was at him. Stopping at the home of an olive-grower, he paid handsomely for a straw hat and a few ladles of water. What was money, after all, to a doomed man? Even the coins reminded him of Nero's power. There was Caesar's likeness, facing rightwards and wearing the military crown he had not won, along with the words NERO CLAVD CAESAR AVG GER PM TR P IMP P P. 'Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, Pontifex Maximus, Tribune of the Plebs, Imperator, Pater Patriae.' Which meant Nero was the head of the Church, invested with the veto, the leader of the military, and father of his country.
But it was the other side of the coin that stung Corbulo. It bore a triumphal arch, flanked below by two legionaries and above by the deities of Pax and Victrix, bearing a statue of Mars. Above it all was yet another great statue of Nero – not the Eastern one designed by Zenodorus, but with the young god in a Triumphal toga, an eagle-tipped scepter crooked in his arm, holding the reins of four prancing horses.
It was galling because this Triumphal arch existed in reality. Standing upon the center of the Capitoline Hill, it was now the path through which all future Triumphators would have to pass. Thus, while officially built to commemorate Corbulo's 'great victory,' in reality it was to place Nero above any future imperator. Because Nero could brook no rival. Nero, a Caesar who had never been a soldier, never led an army, never risked himself in the game of swords.
Yet it was Corbulo's name attached to the arch, not Nero's. Thus even these common sestertii bore the crest of Corbulo's doom. He was glad to part with them.
Armed with his floppy hat and a skin of water, Corbulo continued walking until he reached the isthmus that connected the north end of the island to the south. This bridge of land had a name. It was called Aetos – the eagle.
The eagle. If Nero had not put me on a pedestal, he wouldn't have to fear me now. And it was only his fear that kept me from redeeming Rome's honour by winning back that eagle the Judeans have taken. That's a winnable war, a war to build a career around. My war? History will judge me fairly, I hope. But Vespasian will doubtless be more famous than I. His war will grant him immortality. At least, so long as Nero permits it.
* * *
Hours later Corbulo had arrived at Phorcys, the same port Odysseus had used upon his return to his kingdom. Arms numb from sun-stroke, his head swimming, he slept with a slight fever that night aboard the ship. Refreshed the following morning, he gave order for the ship to continue on its way. “We must not leave Caesar waiting. We must be obedient.”
Now, as he stepped off the ship onto the quay at Corinth with his two brothers right behind, he looked about for an official greeting. There was none, which was a relief. He and his brothers were dressed in simple tunics, with none of their senatorial splendour in view save their iron rings. While most senators these days wore gold seal rings, the gens Domitia were ancient enough to still carry the tradition from the earliest days of the Republic, when senators wore simple iron. Gold was valuable, yes. But also soft, malleable, weak. Iron was what true Romans were made of. They could not be bought, cowed, or wooed. True Romans were unique among men.
“Good morning, Gnaeus Domitius,” said a smooth voice at his elbow. “Welcome to Corinth.”
Turning, Corbulo almost recoiled. Gaius Ofonius Tigellinus stood by him. Tigellinus, whose father had been exiled to the toe of Italia. Tigellinus, who had himself been sent away after his affair with Agrippina, Nero's mother (leading some to believe Nero Caesar himself was born from the affair). Tigellinus, who had survived as a low merchant in Greece until he inherited his family's wealth, which he then invested in racing horses – his means of returning to Caesar's court after the death of Agrippina's husband. Tigellinus, who was now in charge of Caesar's bodyguards, as well as his pleasures, his whims, and his most dire instructions.
“Good morning, Gaius Ofonius,” said Corbulo with cold precision. “Does this mean that our beloved Caesar is back in Corinth? I thought he was on tour.”
“Oh, he's far from here, just now,” said Tigellinus, making sure to lace his airy words with menace. He picked an imaginary piece of lint from the shoulder of his ridiculous chlamys, the rectangle of cloth that Greeks wore instead of the toga. Doubtless he was naked underneath it – it was a style Nero had adopted, and ass-spongers like Tigellinus aped his every fad. “Caesar is in Delphi this week, Pharsalus next. He wishes to re-enact the battle where his great ancestor overcame the rebels.”
My great ancestor, you mean, thought Corbulo petulantly. He was far more a relation of the great Julius Caesar than the adopted Nero. But aloud he queried, “Is that why I was summoned?”
Tigellinus threw his head back and laughed, letting his voice ring about the quay. “Jupiter, no! The great Caesar needs no military help! And if he does, he will look to younger men, men of ability but less ambition. You have already had an illustrious career. Why try to step into a better man's shoes?”
His brothers both bristled, but Corbulo merely nodded. This was why he had taken the walk across Ithaca. It was the ending place for great stories. And mine is now at an end. “I see. But if you are here, I assume Caesar has some order for me to carry out.”
“He does, Gnaeus Domitius.” The pleasure in Tigellinus' dark smile was unmistakable.
Corbulo waited, saying nothing, refusing to give Tigellinus the pleasure. Get on with it.
Laughing, Tigellinus shrugged. “He orders you to fall upon your sword.” He snapped his fingers, and from out of the crowd a dozen men in plain dress appeared with swords. They were clearly wearing armour under their tunics and cloaks.
Corbulo looked one of the disguised soldiers in the face and smiled. “Hot for that, isn't it? Take a vinegar bath at the end of the day, lad. It will ease the flesh.”
The poor fellow blinked, then continued his dead-eyed praetorian stare. Responding might be construed as sympathy for the condemned man. Nodding sadly, Corbulo returned his gaze to Tigellinus. “I am unarmed.”
Tigellinus held out a hand, and a gladius was placed in it at once. “Use my sword.”
Corbulo's nose wrinkled. “Very well. It should see some use before you die.”
Corbulo's youngest brother, Lucius, held out a hand. “You mean he is to die here? Now? In this place? Without preparation, a bath, clean clothes, prayer, the right frame of mind? Are we Gauls?”
Fixing on the first question, Tigellinus corrected him. “He is not to die. You all are.”
“Why?” demanded the white-faced Lucius. They had all made their dispositions before leaving Italia, just in case. But clearly Lucius had held out hope.
“Caesar demands it.”
“But on what charge?” pressed Corbulo's other brother, Marcus.
Tigellinus' eyebrows went up. “Charge? There is no crime. This is merely Caesar's will.”
“Caesar wills that we die, for no offense other than breathing his air?”
Again Tigellinus shrugged, a smile playing across his face.
Marcus and Lucius were both opening their mouths to press on, but Corbulo held out his hand. “Give me the sword.”
Tigellinus experienced a moment of fear as Corbulo took the blade from him, half-expecting to be cut down. But Corbulo was thinking of his legacy. Suicide was a noble death. Pompey covered his face so death would find nothing in him that was not beautiful. Caesar, too. A Roman is remembered as much for his death as for his life. And if my victory was not all it should have been, my death will be.
Kneeling, he reversed the blade in his grip so that the sharp point aimed at his sternum. He then leaned forward to rest the pommel of the sword upon the stone quay. No one to hold the sword for him. He needed no help, wanted his death to be upon his head alone.
Already the watchers were backing away, creating a space around him like an audience. Well, men were always fascinated with death. He remembered all the battles for which men, women, and children had set themselves up as spectators at a distance to watch the bloodshed. It was the nature of man to be drawn to violence. His lips curled at one corner. I should have written a book of philosophy.
As he waited for his brothers to follow his example, he thought about his final words. This had been a recurring question to him during the whole voyage. To declaim against Caesar would demean me. To rebel in my last breath is to prove his cruelty justified. To protest is to prove myself disloyal. Even 'Long Live Rome!' would seem to be a repudiation of Caesar. Was silence more eloquent? No, for then men would fill in the blank, create some false outburst for him. He needed something, a reproof that was not a reproof. Something that spoke to loyalty, while implying the man for whom he died was not worthy of that loyalty.
Looking at Tigellinus in his ridiculous Greek chlamys, thinking of Nero's love for everything Greek, the perfect word came to him. Fixing his eyes upon the wispy clouds overhead, he said, “Axios.” He is worthy.
Then he drove himself forward upon the point of the sword.
It didn't hurt at first, but Corbulo knew from hard earned experience that it was only a matter of moments before his mind registered the pressure in his chest as pain. So he didn't pause, but used his weight to drive his torso down along the length of the short blade. Indeed, he used such force on his second thrust that he felt the blade pierce his back, having gone right through him.
The pain was upon him now, tears in his eyes as his disobedient lungs strained for breath against the blood that was pouring into them. At the same time there was a pounding in his ears, a rushing roar, a drumbeat very like the one he'd heard so often upon the field. But it seemed to be fading already. Corbulo barely had time to taste the blood that came welling up into his mouth, barely registered the gasps and cries from the crowd, barely heard their laughter as Tigellinus leapt back to avoid the gush of blood. He felt numbness in his hands as they slipped off the grip of the gladius. He felt his shoulders slackening, a huge weight removed from them. His felt his eyes grow heavy. Darkness was encroaching. He wondered who would pay the ferryman for his passage, and suddenly wished he had kept one sestertius for the voyage. He could have shown Charon his triumphal arch, and his brothers would have been able to say of him, 'He is worthy.'
* * *
DELPHI, GREECE
After a full day of races, both foot and chariot, Nero's court settled in to revelry, making the hills ring with their voices and merrymaking.
There were festivities in the theatre up the hill from the Temple of Apollo, giving the audience a splendid view of the entire sanctuary. With thirty-five rows of seats, it could hold nearly five thousand spectators. It was nearly filled tonight, not in orderly rows, but a heavy mass of dancing, drinking, orgiastic men.
Higher still upon the hill was the stadium, which was also filled with joyful men, those lucky enough to warrant an invitation from Caesar, his Augustiani, the men whose sole purpose was to follow Caesar about and sing his praises. Earlier today Nero had defeated every man who could run, and he now had his calves massaged by several of his wife's slaves. If their hands strayed upward, their mistress showed no concern. Statilia Messalina had far greater worries.
Domitian watched as Statilia glared at her unexpected rival. In the space of a day, the young shepherd boy Spiros had been transformed into a saltatrix tonsa – literally, a barbered dancing girl, though commonly it was a phrase used for men who dressed as women to service other men. Forced now to dance like a woman, Spiros was surprisingly graceful. Handed into the care of Calvia Crispinilla, the young Greek was now outfitted with a flowing wig and one of Statilia's own gowns. The unsightly bulge at the front of the dress was laughable, but Nero had already decided to take care of that. The boy was to be castrated in the morning, that Nero could wed him exectis testibus. “And I'll offer half of Rome to anyone who can invert nature, and turn his outie into an innie!”
From the look on her face, Statilia was considering bribing the one wielding the castrating knife to use a dirty instrument, or else administer a poison during the procedure. Certainly she was not looking relieved. The insult was enormous. Her husband was in love again, far more so than he had ever been with her. The gods had answered his most heartfelt prayer, delivering his lost lover back to him. Poppaea only had to be taught to be herself, Nero said. Once Calvia Crispinilla was finished, Caesar would tutor his new/old boy/wife himself.
Watching Statilia from his nearby couch, Domitian understood all that was in her face. Her mortified embarrassment was broken every now and again with a disbelieving smile. Worse than the indignity of being cast aside was the horrible humour to it all. Nero himself was laughing at the whim of the goddess Fortuna, who had brought about this bizarre state of affairs. But he insisted that the wedding would take place just as soon as Spiros recovered from his caponizing.
Domitian shared his couch and some candied figs with his cousin, Lucius Junius Caesennius Paetus. Having not distinguished himself in his military ventures, Paetus quite enjoyed Domitian's barbs against Vespasian, and made certain to remain nearby to hear them.
But tonight Domitian was pretending to listen to the music while his brain buzzed. He liked music well enough. But more than that, there was a fascinating pleasure in watching something horrible just feet away. The poor boy Spiros was clearly red-eyed from crying as he understood what his new life was to become. He had been bought from his parents for an amount that would set them up for the rest o
f their lives. His brothers and sisters too. They had even tried to sell Nero Caesar his eldest sister in his place, but Nero would have none of it. He had seen Poppaea in this boy, and would never let his beloved go again – even if it took unmaking the boy's manhood.
“Pity his name is Spiros,” murmured Domitian to himself. “It should be Sporos.” Sporos was another Greek word for spermatozoon, something young Spiros would soon be unable to produce.
Laying at the other end of the couch, Paetus burst into such laughter that he sucked in a fig and nearly choked to death. Slaves beat upon his back until he coughed it up, still sputtering with laughter.
Frowning, Nero rose from his own couch and sauntered over. “And what has you laughing so hard that you interrupt my beloved's dance, Lucius Junius?”
Unrepentant, Paetus repeated Domitian's jest for all to hear. Domitian's stomach rolled over, imagining all the unimaginable punishments that would surely alight on his head. He could have killed the thick Paetus with his eyes.
Nero was entirely still for a moment, turning Domitian's play on words over in his mind. Then he nodded, suddenly beaming. “The perfect name. Perfect! Oh, there is art in you, Domitian! Irony and beauty, and the cruelty of life. Perfection!” Whirling about, Nero Caesar held out his hands to his 'bride'. “From henceforth you are no longer called Spiros, my love. You are Sporos!”
The crowd erupted with laughter, even as the Greek boy's beautiful olive skin mottled. Tears swam in his shepherd's eyes, and it was difficult for Domitian not to sympathize. But he felt no regret. He had won Caesar's favour, if only for a moment. That it came at the expense of some bum-boy, well, it's what Greeks were famous for anyway.
Even as the laughter rang across the hillside, Nero's gaze narrowed. For there, standing at the edge of the stadium floor, stood an ancient Hestiad. The Oracle had sent an answer to Nero's petition for an audience.
