by David Blixt
He'll take credit for anything, so make certain he cannot steal your laurels. He has an eye for the main chance, and is utterly unscrupulous. Fortunately, he is also quite lazy, though when moved he can act with decision. Best if you were to make him a friend and ally. Truly, you need allies outside your family. Though you are blessed in your nephew Sabinus, who informed me of this vote directly after it happened. If I were younger…
But I am not young. I am old, and my love is enduring. I adore you, my sweet mule. Be well, take your time, win your war, and come home to the welcome you deserve.
X
JOTAPATA, GALILEE
12 JUNE 67 AD
Covered in dust and still wearing his armour, Titus entered the command tent, grinning. “The Fifteenth had the forward position today, guarding the catapults.”
“I know,” said Vespasian, not even glancing up from the abacus, which he'd been clicking back and forth for an hour, looking at logistics. “If you recall, I gave the order.”
They were nine days into this siege. The foolish Judeans had retreated to this walled city with their whole army, making a stand in what amounted to a death-trap. It was only a matter of time.
Titus' smile was undeterred. “I saw their general.”
That brought Vespasian's head up. “Josephus?” Vespasian had trouble pronouncing Hebrew names, and had taken to Latinizing them. Thus 'Yosef ben Matityahu' became 'Josephus ben Matthais.'
Titus nodded. “Nicanor pointed him out to me.”
“He's proving quite useful.” Nicanor was a Hebrew in the service of the Judean king Agrippa, working with the Romans to subdue his rebellious countrymen. Moreover, he had been a student with the enemy general in Jerusalem. At the start of the siege, Vespasian had promoted Nicanor to serve as a personal aide. “And?”
Titus shrugged. “Younger than I expected, though he has a decent beard.”
“Mmm.” There was nothing really to be said to that. But Titus was still grinning. “I take it there's something more?”
“Evidently he's become one of their Hebrew prophets. A kind of oracle.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. He says that if they survive fifty days, they'll win.”
Vespasian's frown deepened. “Fifty days. Those walls might hold up that long.”
Titus made a rude noise. “Their water won't.”
“Regardless, we have to make certain they don't last fifty days. They've penned themselves in with their whole army – the fools! If they had stuck to Fabian tactics, they could have forced us to run all over the countryside, wearing ourselves out, wasting our supplies. Now we have the run of Galilee, while their supplies dwindle. Best of all, we might be able to goad them into a real battle. Regardless, we will destroy the Judean army here. Doing that will effectively win this war – but only if we break their spirit along with their army. Win a decisive victory now and we might even get Jerusalem to surrender.”
“It won't happen, pater.”
Vespasian pulled a face. “Do you put faith in Sabinus' prophecy? Or is that what your pet queen tells you?” After two months, Titus' affair with Queen Berenice was hardly a secret.
Titus didn't even bother to hide it. “Not just her. The king, her brother, says the priests might be willing to surrender – they never wanted this war in the first place. It's the Zelotes who will throw themselves onto the fire. Half of them are Idumean, and they're die-hards. What Greeks are to Romans, the Idumeans are to Judeans.”
That caused a corner of Vespasian's mouth to twitch in what was almost a smile. “You're getting quite an education.”
Titus laughed. “Not just from Berenice. Nicanor and I have been talking Hebrew history – it's fascinating. You ought to hear the story of their Moses. He's Romulus. I mean, exactly. Only he left the founding of the city to someone else. Either there are only so many stories in the world, or Jupiter loves to repeat his tricks with every nation on earth.”
Vespasian scowled. “Don't be impious.”
“I'm not! I just find it fascinating. Jews hold their god so removed from the rest of the pantheon. Yet the stories are just the same.”
Though as superstitious as any Roman, Vespasian had little interest in theology. Still, when dealing with a foreign foe, it was always best to understand the enemy. “Tell Nicanor to build me a library of Judean works. I need something to read at night in this damned heat.”
Titus snapped a salute. “Yes, general.”
“And keep your Queen out of the camp. It will give the men ideas.”
Titus leered unrepentantly. “Yes, pater.”
“Dismissed.”
Outside, Titus encountered Cerialis. “How are his spirits?”
“I didn't taste them,” replied Titus, punning.
Cerialis laughed. “I should hope not. Never met a man who drank cheaper wine. But I was wondering—”
“—if he's in a mood about the fifty days? Not at all. More like he took it as a challenge. I knew he would. No, the only thing that's sets off his temper is the harassment of the locals. By which I don't mean the enemies.” Titus' expression grew darker. “That, and news from Rome.”
They had heard about Corbulo a dozen days earlier, just before coming to Jotapata, and the tale of his forced suicide had rattled Vespasian as nothing else. He'd even struck Titus in an uncharacteristic display of temper. Trajan, too, had been downcast at the fate of his old commander.
But Titus and Cerialis had quietly come to a decision. Should the time come that Nero's envy grew so great, Vespasian would not go quietly. He would go with his army. So, all without the general's knowledge, both son and son-in-law had gone about winning the love of the legions for their general. Money was disbursed in the general's name. Wine, too. Stories about his humble origins were used to make every ranker soldier realize that, unlike Nero Caesar and even Corbulo, Titus Flavius Vespasianus was one of them.
It was Titus' hope that Nero was too distracted at present to learn of Vespasian's growing prestige.
* * *
ATHENS, GREECE
It seemed as if all of Athens had turned out for Caesar's wedding. The whole of Athens' Agora was filled with bodies, so much so that the white-clad Praetorians had to use their spears as barriers to keep people back from the procession making its way down the Panathenaic way, towards the peristyle court at the northeast corner of the square.
Watching the celebrants dance past from his perch in front of a Hebrew school that was unaccountably part of this Greek square, Domitian wished his cousin Clemens were present at well. The whole thing was so absurd that he wanted someone to laugh with. Someone he could trust. Certainly he couldn't speak to the mob of Greeks, despite the fact that they were all chortling in the folds of their chlamyses.
This was not the first time that Nero had publicly subverted the institution of marriage. Three years earlier, during Saturnalia, Nero had dressed as a woman and gone through the wedding rites with one of his freedmen, Pythagoras. Nero had gone so far to allow himself to make a mock of the deflowering, being escorted by revelers to a bed in the open air and there making such noises as a virgin did on her wedding night. Poppaea had been involved, laughing and cheering with the rest. Domitian could not imagine it, and yet believed it. Once committed, Nero played a role seriously. And insisted that everyone else do the same.
Hence today's formal marriage. In fact, this was a double ceremony, both Roman and Greek. Spiros would pass his/her hand through fire and water in the Roman fashion, but the written contract was a very Greek invention. The whole thing had been arranged by Calvia Crispinilla, now completely in charge of Spiros, who for the purposes of the contract was now named Sabina.
The celebrations began on the Acropolis, where bride and groom made the proteleia, the ritual sacrifice demanded by Greek custom, and then took the auspices decreed for a Roman ceremony. Domitian wondered if they had made Spiros cut his hair, as Greek brides did, or was that not needed since the hair was a wig? And had they taken the ceremo
nial joint bath?
Nero marched down first, taking his place at the center of the peristyle court in full view. He had decided against his full Princeps regalia today, choosing instead of the toga the synthesis and chlamys, though with a very Roman garland of flowers about his head. And he would not have been Nero if he had not chosen to dress all in purple, his chlamys patterned with stars of real gold.
And here came the bride, striding along the diagonal path from the Parthenon down to this open square. Evidently Crispinilla had decided that, rather than have Spiros' actual father on hand, someone else should play the parents of the bride. She herself was acting as the mother, and Tigellinus marched with Spiros on his arm, proud as a peacock, a wolfish smile across his wolfish face.
It was hard to say which of the two Praetorian Prefects Domitian trusted less, Tigellinus or Nymphidius. Both were men steeped in vice, and both were quick to exert their power. But Tigellinus was dedicated to that mix of cruelty and pleasure that summed up his master. So at least he was loyal. Nymphidius loved to tell everyone that he was the son of Gaius Caesar, whom everyone called Caligula – 'Little Boots.' It was true that Nymphidius' mother had fornicated with the mad Princeps, but rumour said it was far more likely that Nymphidius was the son of a gladiator than any Caesar.
A breeze lifted the bride's flame-coloured veil and Domitian's breath caught. Surely Nero had been correct, this was Poppaea reborn! The same prominent brow, the same strong, rounded nose, the same weak chin. Calvia had done her job amazingly well, using stibium around the eyes, rouge on the cheeks and lips, and a splendid curled wig. The wig was divided in six separate ribbonned locks, the same way the Vestals wore it. Again Domitian wished his cousin were present to discuss the meaning of this – the hair had to be prepared by a spear-shaped comb. Why?
The dress itself was exquisite, a shimmery yellow that glowed in the sun. It was fastened around the waist with a band of dyed wool tied in the knot of Hercules, the guardian of wedded life (odd, since so many of Hercules' marriages went badly). This knot was symbolic, the husband being the only one allowed to untie it. Just below the knot, the gown lacked the unwelcome bulge in the groin – with less to conceal, the job was easier.
Even more, Spiros now walked like Poppaea, a saunter at once aggressive and mincing. The bride was smiling and waving, as if there were nothing more natural in the world. As if he were happy to be wedding Caesar.
Would I be any different? Knowing that death and worse awaited me if I failed to play my part? It was an uncommon emotion for Domitian, empathy. But he had experienced Nero's cruelty, his love, his dominance. It was not a far cry to imagine himself in the poor shepherd's feminine slippers. He liked to think he would have chosen death before dishonour. But he had already been dishonoured, so he knew it was a lie.
Thus Domitian neither hooted with derision nor applauded wildly. He just watched as the procession swept past. They reached Nero, waiting between the central pillars, and the crowd hushed as the last participant stepped forward. Statilia Messalina smiled as she took the hands of the bride and groom and joined them together. Domitian wondered if she had truly reconciled herself to this. She might have decided it was best to indulge this flight of Nero's fancy and hope it evaporated the moment the ceremony was over. But that only showed how little she knew her husband, who still kept his freedman Pythagoras around, three years after that Saturnalian jest. Her husband had retained a husband of his own, and was now taking another wife. Worse, he was making his own wife play the pronuba, the matron who brought the new couple together. His sense of humour was exquisitely grotesque. Imagine, the Princeps of Rome marrying a castrated Greek boy with all the formal rites of both Roman and Greek custom, right down to the wish that the union be 'fruitful.' That one had elicited chortles from the watchers, and Nero himself was heard to laugh.
As the ceremony ended the crowd let out a sigh as if releasing one long-held breath. He had done it! He had married the boy!
They were off now for the feast. Invited, Domitian took his place among Nero's Augustiani, and found himself walking alongside his cousin, the skeletal Lucius Junius Caesennius Paetus, and the corpulent couch-general, Aulus Vitellius.
“And what did you think, young Domitianus?” asked Paetus.
What do say? No candor, not after last time. “I was amazed at the attention to detail.”
“Indeed,” rumbled Vitellius. “More make-up than a day of prayer at Venus Erucina. We are a part of the show that never ends.”
“My cousin Clemens would have loved it,” said Domitian. “He's very theatrical.”
“Then you should send for him,” said Paetus. “He'll never see a play the likes of this one. If anyone wrote it, it would be laughed off the stage. Did you wish them a fruitful marriage, Aulus?”
The piggy eyes in the thick flesh twinkled. “I wish Caesar's father had had such a wife.”
Domitian nearly stumbled, whereas Paetus burst out laughing. He could not control his breath clutching his sides as water leaked from his eyes. “O, the perfect statement to the day.”
“Quiet, you fool,” hissed Vitellius, turning quite red in the face.
But it was too late. Hearing Paetus' hysteria, Nero and his bride paused, then walked back to find the source of the hilarity. “What has you so gripped, Lucius Junius?” The look on his face was darkly amused, as if wondering if he should be gracious or punishing.
Unable to breathe, Paetus cuffed at his eyes and simply pointed to Vitellius, then howled again. Nero's gaze transferred itself to the pudgy senator, his stibium-darkened brows arching. “Yes, Aulus? Did you say something amusing?”
Vitellius had gone from beet red to a yellowish-white. Horrified, he stuttered a few times, his chins wobbling.
Nero's face darkened, and it was remarkable how his hair seemed to become paler against the angry glint in his eye. He drew his new bride forward. “Bride, you remember Aulus Vitellius. He seems to wish to make an additional sacrifice for our union.”
“I remember him,” said Spiros in a high, clear tone, and Domitian was astonished to discover they had even gotten to boy to sound like Poppaea.
“And what do you think of him?”
“Alas, my Caesar, I wish I had breasts so large.”
Nero smiled, but the cruel jest was not enough to deflect his anger. Paetus was still struggling to breathe. So it was that Nero's gaze lighted upon Domitian. “Titus Flavius, perhaps you can share the source of your cousin's asphyxia? What has the chin-chuntering Vitellius so tongue-tied?”
Domitian swallowed. If he didn't answer, someone else would. “Lucius Junius asked if Aulus Vitellius had wished you a fruitful union.”
“Oh? And what did Aulus reply?”
There was nothing for it. “He – he said he wished Caesar's father had had such a wife.”
There was a pause during which even the air seemed to be still. Then all at once Nero howled, fell down in the street, and rolled around, laughing. Vitellius almost wept for relief, Spiros showed a weak smile at his own expense, while Paetus allowed himself to be hugged by the mirthful Caesar as they roared together at the wonderful cap to the blessed day.
* * *
ROMA, ITALIA
As aedile, Sabinus had seen rough plans for Nero's Golden House, the Domus Aurea. Typically Neronian, it was an amazingly self-indulgent concept, a flight of imagination whose reality could not help but disappoint.
Conceived as a series of interconnected pleasure palaces, each one was meant to be of soul-transporting beauty. There were no offices, nor even sleeping chambers. By design, the whole structure had no practical use of any kind. These acres were solely meant to stimulate the mind and spirit, bring forth the artist that Nero genuinely believed existed at the core of every Roman. To that end, Nero Caesar had proudly declared that every inch would be open to the general public.
So far, that public had been kept well away. In fact, almost no one had been inside the grounds, save for Nero's agents – of whom Sabinus
was now one. In his capacity as the new overseer of the Domus Aurea, Sabinus had free access.
His first meeting was with his cousin the architect. Quintus Flavius Gaudentius stemmed from a branch of the Flavian tree that never aspired to race the cursus honorum and so ennoble itself. He was a lean man, balding despite his youth, with an awkward smile. He was not good with people, so Sabinus had brought along someone who was – Clemens.
“It's maddening, cousin,” said Gaudentius, his voice unhushed. “The orders keep changing. It's fairly easy for me – raise a wall, knock down a wall, fine. But the artisans are absolutely losing their minds. He wants them to tile the ceilings and walls, to build fountains where water will not flow, and a hundred other impossible things.”
“What's impossible to a Roman engineer?” asked Sabinus lightly. There was something about Gaudentius that brought out his playful side. Perhaps because they were not in competition for glory. At least, not the same kind of glory.
Gaudentius carried on in a mutter. “Add an arch here, a row of columns there, but Doric, with Athenian fluting. No, no fluting after all. How can I unflute a column?”
Clemens gave his father a glance. Despite any protests, the man was clearly worried for his own reputation. Sabinus observed, “Two years ago you were desperate for a job. Now you are the envy of your profession.”
That caught Gaudentius up short. “Am I? Well, don't think I'm not grateful. You gave my name to Caesar. I wanted to race with the charioteers, now I am. I just didn't realize how much I stood to lose. When you're low on the pillar, there's not so far to fall.”
“That's a very mixed metaphor,” observed Clemens.
Sabinus said, “'We become wiser by adversity. Prosperity destroys our appreciation of the right.'”
“Is that a quote?”
