by David Blixt
Throwing himself back onto his golden couch with the purple cushions, Nero curled one arm behind his head to strike a pose that was almost sculptured, as if he was presenting the posture he wished to be carved in when this scene was later recreated in marble. “Well, priestess? What says your mistress to the Divine Nero?”
“She wishes you well on your travels, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. But she has no desire to see you.”
The revels stopped amid actual gasps of horror. Not only had Nero Caesar's petition been denied, but he had been hailed by his birth-name, the one he had long ago abandoned when he was adopted by Claudius and fashioned himself a true Caesar. It recalled that this Caesar was the great-great-great grandson of Augustus on his mother's side. It recalled the madness that ran in the Ahenobarbus family, a trait born from adopting and breeding as many red-headed children as possible, just to live up to the cognomen – Ahenobarbus meant 'redbearded.' It recalled how far Rome had come, how low it had to go, to find those with Caesarean blood. It recalled the fate waiting for Corbulo in Corinth, whose blood was better than this Caesar, whose beard was not red, but whose temper was.
Leaping from his supine position, Nero raced forward. For a moment he looked as though he might batter the old woman with his fists. “What? A mere former aedile gets a summons, but Caesar must go begging?”
The Hestiad did not flinch, and the cool mockery in her gaze reminded everyone that Nero himself had ordered the treasured statues of Delphi stripped and brought to Rome sixteen years before. How did he think the Oracle would welcome him after that?
Unused to being stared through as if he were mortal, Nero wheeled about. “To Hades with this! I'll smoke the old witch out!” Grabbing a torch from the hand of a slave, he fixed his eyes upon Domitian. “You! Come with me! If she wants to see a Flavian, I'll let her see one! You will be my herald!” With that, Nero turned his well-muscled calf and stalked down the hill towards Apollo's Temple, the flames lighting his way.
Sweating, Domitian followed. Damn the Oracle! Why did she have to go and refuse to see him? This has disaster carved in it!
Nor was Domitian alone in his apprehension. Everyone knew that, with this Caesar, there was every possibility that the night would end with the whole of Delphi in flames. The only one weak with relief was young Spiros, doubtless praying for a reprieve from his castration in the morning.
As he trooped down the hillside, Nero called for music – a positive sign. But when the pipes began, he waved them off. “Drums! I want drums!”
So the drumming began, martial and terrifying as the rhythmic thunder echoed in those lonely hills. There were bleats from frightened goats on the hillside, and sleeping birds wakened and screamed before taking flight. Ill omens at every turn.
But Caesar was not interested in these common auguries. He wanted a visit with the most powerful auger in the world, and there were none among his followers willing to warn him that these portents bespoke danger.
Reaching the entrance to the temple, Nero made sure that Domitian was behind him, then thrust himself through the doors. Domitian sent a frantic glance to Paetus and Vitellius, but no one was willing to join him inside.
The interior of the Temple felt abandoned. As if they had known this invasion was coming, and fled. Domitian might have wanted to crane his neck and look about, but he was too frightened to do anything but follow Nero. The drumming from outside echoed in here, and the sole light was the one that Nero held.
Yet, at the far side of the small temple, a fringe of light was seen around the heavy curtain leading down to the adyton. Do not enter, thought Domitian unwillingly.
Drawing near, Nero called down through the curtain. “I, Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Augustus Germanicus, Imperator, Princeps Senatus, Pontifex Maximus, Pater Patriae, have come! With me is Titus Flavius Domitianus. You've seen fit to hold an audience with his cousin, yet you refuse my offer of sacrifice.” In a sudden fit, Nero leapt at Domitian and held him by the jaw with his free hand, an exquisitely painful hold that made Domitian whimper, his eyes water. “Please, Caesar—”
Nero brought the torch close to Domitian's face. In the flickering light, Caesar's eyes seemed to glow red with fury. Or the Furies. “Do I need to sacrifice Flavian blood to satisfy you, hag?”
From behind the curtain, down at the smoking crack of earth, a terrible voice croaked forth. “There is no need for violence, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. Enter, and let Fate see you.”
Furiously casting Domitian off, Nero threw the curtain aside and stormed down the steps. Domitian lay in near-darkness. Nero had taken the torch. The only light now was from the imperfectly-shut curtain, and the illumination that came from below seemed crimson and foul.
The drumming outside was still hammering at the walls, but with his head laying close to the opening, Domitian could hear what was said below.
“Hail, witch,” said Nero jauntily. “Tell me my fortune. Shall I beware the Ides of March?”
“You are no Caesar, for all you wear his name, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. For all your love of art, you lack the art of war.”
Domitian cringed. No one spoke to Nero that way. But his answer was reasonable. “I am a Caesar by adoption, and a Julian by blood.”
“Blood you have spurned, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. Blood you have spilled. You style yourself after our god Apollo, but it is Orestes we see in you. The Kindly Ones live in the shadows of your mind, waiting for their moment to reap the harvest you sowed with your brother's death, your mother's death, your wife's death, the death of the child who would have been your heir, and thankfully will now never draw breath, never follow in your steps, never lay hand upon Rome's reins to reign as Imperator after you.”
Domitian could hear Nero choke and sputter. “You dare—!”
“We wonder you dare!” thundered the Pythia. “Dare to come here, into the Temple of Apollo, home of the Furies, the Erinyes, the Avengers, whom you call the Dirae! Dire they are, and furious, and now they have set their avenging sights upon you! Already they flap their wings and cluster close, nestling about you, their eyes weeping the blood you've spilled, ready to rake you with their claws! They hear your order of our child's castration and cackle, as it was the blood of Uranus' severed member that birthed them. As you spilled your bloody seed in your own mother's womb, the seed of Uranus will spill your blood. They shall ensure your end will be sweet indeed, and violent, full of the ironic art of Tragedy that you so cherish.”
Domitian waited for Nero's outburst, his eruption of rage and violence. But there was nothing.
The Pythia, too, seemed surprised. “What, silent, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus? You craved an audience with Apollo's oracle. It is yours. What do you wish to know?”
When Nero spoke, his voice was quite different from any Domitian had ever heard him use. It was not pitched high, as he had practiced, nor was it full of round sounds, as his elocution teachers had instructed. It was low, and almost mumbly. “How long will I live?”
Through the curtain, Domitian heard the Pythia chortle. “Such a common question for one who styles himself a god! Gods are immortal, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. Do you mean that you have presumed to place yourself in the pantheon of Olympus, and yet you fear death?”
“Yes,” said Nero, a little more boldly. “For I am a god on earth, the god of arts, waiting to be called home. Yet I am trapped in this body, which is weak and inartful.”
At that moment Domitian actually admired Nero. It was not spoken with bravado, but with simple conviction, and also such despair, as if life were too heavy to bear. For the first time, Domitian suspected that it might be difficult to be Caesar.
“Ironic, since your death will herald the beginning of the end for the Roman gods. But fear not, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. You will not be trapped forever. Like the Furies, the Fates have also long watched you, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. Clotho spun your misshapen, cacophonous thread, and Lachesis has measured it to just the correct length, while Atro
pos' fingers itch as she holds the fabric of your life, her shears at the ready.”
“When?” demanded Nero stubbornly.
“When, asks Caesar. Let Caesar fear the seventy-third year.”
Domitian felt his heart begin to race. Seventy-three! Nero would turn thirty years old this December. Forty-three more years of Nero. Forty-three more years of concerts and poetry and art and innovation. Forty-three more years of debauchery and mercurial tempers and sexual depravity and madness and fear. Forty-three more years of Nero.
Am I relieved in this moment, for his sake? wondered Domitian. Or is my heart beating louder than those drums for fear what Rome will become?
Nero emerged from the adyton drenched in sweat, white as a toga on election day. He stooped to kneel by Domitian's head, and for a moment he seemed kind, placing a remorseful hand in Domitian's hair, stroking it the way he had when he'd first brought Domitian into his inner circle, become intimate.
Then the fingers closed, and Domitian gasped in pain as his head was jerked upwards. “How much did you hear?”
There was no question what to answer. “I heard nothing, Caesar.” As this seemed unlikely, he added, “The drums.”
Nero frowned, listening to the echo of the martial drumbeat around the narrow temple chamber. Leaning forward, Nero kissed Domitian's cheek and whispered in his ear. “Make sure you didn't.” Releasing his grip, Nero stalked away, taking the torch with him back outside to greet the wary, fearful crowd.
Domitian listened as the drumbeat stopped and Nero addressed his followers, his voice back to its usual pitch. “What a performer! Put her on stage and I would have to look to my laurels!”
The crowd laughed with him, and someone must have asked what she had said. “She predicted my long life! I won't tell you exactly how long, in case you get ideas,” he added slyly, to more laughter. “But I'll be with you well past my dotage, if she is to be believed!”
They cheered him, as they would have to. But for all his pretensions, Nero was not a skillful actor. His bravado was clearly false. He was chastened. He was vulnerable. He was mortal after all.
“Come! My old tutor used to say that drunkenness is nothing but voluntary madness. So let's all go mad!” The Augustiani applauded him once more, and light music fluttered into the air as the revels recommenced.
Inside, caked in sweat and grit and darkness, Domitian gasped a few times. He got to his knees and stayed there, trembling for a long moment, waiting for the revels to begin again and his chance to exit the temple out of everyone's view.
Suddenly a sound made him freeze like a hare in open ground when a hawk takes the air. “Titus Flavius Domitianus,” croaked that terrible voice from beyond the curtain. “Would you know your fate?”
Feeling the motion of a thousand maggots inside his jaw, Domitian rose to his full height. Then he turned and ran, hearing the Pythia's racking cackle ring out behind him.
IX
ROMA, ITALIA
29 MAY 67 AD
By now the house of Antonia Caenis was the most popular port of call for the noble women of Rome. Vespasian's mistress had the ear of every prominent woman in Rome – and through them, their husbands'. But no men were ever welcomed into her home, for she would not tolerate even the breath of scandal. Instead she had established her home as a haven for feminine Roma.
It helped that her abode was so exquisitely furnished. Thanks to her connections from the old days, she secured deals on refined objects of art and rich appointments, all in the most modern taste.
It also helped that her food was superb. Aglaus had rounded up a wonderful trio of slaves – Italian, Greek, and Spanish – to prepare her meals. She had also long been quietly investing in wine, buying out the entire cellars of wine-loving senators and knights upon their deaths. Men lamented that she was wasting excellent vintages – what did women know of good wine? But as her guests drank less, her wine lasted much longer. And she made certain that the best vintages went unwatered.
But her greatest attraction was not her fashionable home, nor the excellence of her fare. It was her good sense. As weeks passed, Caenis cultivated a reputation for common sense, good advice, and excellent taste. It reflected well on Vespasian that such a formidable woman was so utterly devoted to him. People at least stopped making mule, turnip, or lyre jokes.
At first, only the less reputable noble women came calling. But soon more and more upper-class women arrived, those who enjoyed poetry and theatre and gossip from the old days of Augustus' court. These women conveniently forgot that Caenis had ever been a slave. They instead took trouble to refer to her as Antonia's 'secretary,' which was true, as far as it went. Caenis herself simply referred to Antonia either by name or as her mistress. She never used either the word 'secretary' or 'slave,' as to employ the first was to put on airs, while to use the second was to remind everyone of the thing they were most cheerfully ignoring in favour of her company.
As promised, Caenis had invited Corbulo's two daughters to call, and they appeared at her door more often than she had expected. She did not mind, as she became interested in the pair – Domitia Corbula and Domitia Longina were entirely unalike. The elder, Corbula, had a spirit as soft as her alabaster flesh. It was in the younger one Caenis saw glimpses of Corbulo's steel within the fur glove. She had clearly married too young, and to an eager nobody like Plautius, for whom Domitia Longina seemed to have a distinct dislike. She traveled with the most atrocious slaves, hideous to look at, though it seemed to amuse her. There was something off in the girl. Early marriage sometimes had that effect.
These two young women often arrived in the company of a third, Verulana Gratilla. A dedicated tester of social limits, Verulana had been the very first person to accept Caenis' invitation. It was said that her behavior drove her conservative husband out of his mind.
Then had come the Neronian seal of approval – Acte had arrived. Though much younger, she had much in common with Caenis. Both born slaves, both had been treasured at court, and both were barred from marrying the men they loved. Acte had been a slave to Nero's mother, the fearsome Agrippina. Trapped in his arranged marriage to the daughter of Claudius Caesar (and thus the granddaughter of Caenis' mistress), the seventeen year-old Nero had fallen desperately in love with the darkly Greek Acte. Indeed, Acte had been quite likely to become Caesar's second wife, until she did the brave thing that no one else dared. She'd told Nero Caesar that his incestual relationship with his mother would ruin them both, and he had to break ties. Thus she had saved Nero's reputation, at the cost of his love.
But he still valued Acte. She was rich, richer than perhaps any woman in Rome, and certainly more than any other freedwoman. She owned estates at Velitrae, Puteoli, and on the isle of Sardinia. And she was known to still correspond with Caesar, who wrote her poetry and held a cherished place in his heart for her. Thus her arrival in the house of Caenis was a mark of, if not favour, at least a lack of Neronian disapproval.
Caenis' greatest coup was the arrival of Sextilla. Widow of consular senator Lucius Vitellius, she was mother to two wastrel sons – Lucius the Younger, and Aulus, Nero's devoted hippo, about whom the gods had decreed disaster should he ever command an army. Sextilla had survived scandalous years at court by being unswervingly upright and proper, even in the face of orgies and wild revels. Never blushing, never condemning, she was a model of rectitude in the face of excess. That someone so upright should grace the home of a freedwoman was a mark of how very far Caenis had risen. Better still, Sextilla and Caenis became close friends.
On this day, Caenis was sitting with Sextilla when Gratilla arrived with the two Domitias in tow.
“Whatever has happened?” asked Sextilla, not bothering to rise. She thought all three girls were imbeciles.
But Caenis knew at once without being told. “Their father has died.”
Depositing the weeping young ladies with Caenis, Gratilla became confiding. “It's too much for me. I'm afraid I am not built for consoling words.”
With a kiss for the sisters and a nod to the disapproving Sextilla, the gadfly swiftly departed.
Caenis settled the bereaved young ladies on comfortable cushions and poured them watered wine. While the elder girl wept and wept, the younger one related the tale of her father's forced suicide with a pinched face drained of blood.
Seated across from them, Sextilla was as consoling as her nature allowed. “A monstrous injustice! Your father was the best soldier Rome has fielded in a generation – forgive me, Caenis, I mean no disrespect to Titus Flavius.”
“I understand. And it's true, Gnaeus Domitius was a great general. It was in his bones. He was an enormous help to my Titus Flavius as he was planning his war.” That was stretching a point, but it was a pleasant falsehood.
“Such a pity Nero is incapable of shame,” continued Sextilla. “This deed is such a stain on his honour that any decent man would fall on his own sword.”
That sent Domitia Corbula into a fresh bout of tears. Caenis understood. It wasn't simply her father's death at the end of a sword that had her bawling. It had been her late husband's treason that cast the first cloud of suspicion on Corbulo. Her spouse had already committed suicide, hoping vainly that with his death he would end all scandal. First a widow, now an orphan. Poor thing.
Seated beside her sister, Domitia Longina gazed fiercely out of red-rimmed eyes. “This proves that Nero is indeed the god he claims to be. Gods are capricious, self-serving, short-sighted, and cruel – oh, how cruel! To not even permit him to…” The young girl bit her wavering bottom lip.
“I've known him a long time,” said Caenis bravely, “and Nero Caesar is a master of cruelty. He studies what matters most to a man, then perverts it with an artist's skill. To your father, dignitas mattered more than gold or titles. So Nero tried to erode your father's dignitas. But girls – he failed! Your father died a noble death. Certainly more noble than the one that awaits Caesar!”
