by David Blixt
Sabinus could not remember – Corbulo's Triumph had been the most recent, but he'd been descended from Augustus. “Strictly speaking, this isn't a Triumph. The Senate has voted no military thanksgiving in Nero's honour. It's a parade.”
Clemens pulled a face. “A technicality. He's riding the same chariot Augustus triumphed in, he's displaying trophies and marching with garlanded soldiers. Looks like a Triumph to me.”
“I thought you'd like it, little brother,” teased Tertius. “Such theatrical taste!”
“Oh, it's quite a show,” admitted Clemens. “But does he mean it? Or is it deliberate parody?”
Sabinus frowned at his son. “What do you mean, parody?”
“I mean this is an anti-Triumph. Look at the parade route – it's the exact opposite of how a Triumph is supposed to be run. It started in the southeast, not the northwest. He's ending at Apollo's temple, not Jupiter's. And everything is so gaudy – too ostentatious, even for Caesar. It's like he means this as a deliberate slap at the Triumph.”
Looking at the parade through Clemens' eyes, Sabinus wondered if his son was correct. Was this, like Nero's recent 'marriage,' an elaborate joke? Yet Nero was indeed living with his boy-wife, as well as his properly female one. Is this 'Triumph' yet another Neronian joke that we're failing to comprehend? Are there no lengths Caesar won't go to satisfy his sense of the absurd?
There were so many ludicrous rumours. Yet in the face of Spiros, who could say what was real and what false? The old stories about Nero debauching one of the Vestal Virgins – a crime so horrific as to warrant being buried alive – had resurfaced, even as the Vestal in question watched the parade. The latest story was that Nero had had himself caged, wearing an animal skin, and been released to savage and rape anyone in the room. Astonishing that his followers indulged his excesses so willingly.
Indeed, it was the willingness of his companions that urged Caesar on. He now traveled with deviants and perverts, actors and whores, all willing to indulge his slightest whim, all on display today. That they should march with the soldiers of Rome – it was appalling.
Continuing to eye the dancing whore, Tertius said, “You should ask cousin Domitian about it. He would know, wouldn't he?”
Returned from Greece, Domitian was again living in their home. Yet this returned Domitian was altered. No longer a rudely benign young man, he looked out from behind his eyes with both rabbit and wolf – fear and ferocity. Quick to take offense, he found slights where none were intended. Only with Clemens did he seem his old self. Too much the Roman to pry, Sabinus closed his mind to what might have happened to the young man over the last year. He felt profoundly glad he had insisted his own sons leave with him.
Mummers and actors skipped past, escorting floating stages with their depictions of Nero's many feats. As always, Nero was styled after Apollo, though some scenes were more reminiscent of Hercules' Twelve Labours. And there, feeding the rumours, was a float of Nero dressed in an animal skin, surrounded by admiring women, as he played a phallic-looking stringed instrument.
At last came Nero Caesar himself, riding in the chariot behind a midget driver, a man so small he did not block anyone's view of the Triumphator. With his keen artistic sensibility, Nero had chosen not to don traditional garb –no sword or helmet in sight. Instead he wore a purple tunic under a Greek cape embroidered with stars. On his head was a wild olive crown, marking his wins at Olympus. In his hand was a second crown of laurel, signifying victory at Pythia. Which in turn made Sabinus think of the Oracle, a thought swiftly dismissed.
The third man in the chariot was a Greek citharode, a musician whom Nero had defeated in a contest of song. He took the place of the traditional slave whose job it was to whisper: Respice post te, hominem te memento. “Look behind you, remember you are a mortal man.” Nero was a god, and so had done away with that show of humility.
The crowd had been instructed what to chant as Nero's chariot drew near. “Hail, Olympian victor! Hail, Pythian Victor! Augustus! Augustus! To Nero Hercules! To Nero Apollo! The only victor of the grand tour, the only one since the beginning of time! Augustus! Augustus! Divine voice! Blessed are those that hear you!” It was a mirror to the chant that always greeted victorious Greek athletes to their native villages. In fact, this whole event was as much Greek as it was Roman. No fool, Sabinus shouted loudly with the rest.
Next should have come the legions, a sign of that power. But Nero had made his soldiers parade before him, carrying his spoils. Their place was taken by his Augustiani, the young knights who spent their nights and days calling out praise for their Princeps.
Sabinus spied Domitian walking just behind the chariot along with several of Nero's favourites, including the boy/wife Spiros. Domitian saw his family and waved. It was a gesture full of meaning, conveying amusement, despair, and humiliation all at once.
“Quite a show,” remarked a gruff voice at his shoulder. Sabinus made room for Mamercus Cornelius Martialus, a beefy retired centurion made hard by years fighting the German barbarians on the northern border. He was now the head of the urban guard, under the command of Old Sabinus. In a bizarre incongruity to his extreme swarthiness – hairy arms, hairy legs, hairy chest – Mamercus kept the hair on his head close-cropped.
They had known each other briefly during Sabinus' military service, but had become friendly down on the Campus Martius. Mamercus spent his spare time helping to train the young men, including both Tertius and Clemens.
“Show is the word,” said Sabinus carefully. He didn't suspect Mamercus would betray him, but a man never got in trouble keeping his mouth firmly shut. It was a tradition going back to the founding of the Republic. Brutus had feigned a brutish ignorance, and had survived long enough to overthrow the last king of Rome. As Seneca said, It is a great thing to know the season for speech and the season for silence.
“I marched in the Britannic Triumph,” observed Mamercus. “Just a lad. Must say, I probably looked more pleased than this lot.”
Sabinus grinned. “These youngsters today.”
Mamercus barked out a laugh. “True! I suppose I'm just envious. I do miss soldiering, and that's a fact. I'd trade places with one of these poor saps any day. They don't know how good they've got it. Though,” added the old centurion, “I'll wager they'd rather be with your uncle at the moment.”
That being too dangerous a statement to agree with outright, Sabinus answered with Seneca. “'Nothing is as certain as that the vices of leisure are gotten rid of by being busy.'”
Mamercus let out a grunt and said nothing more. Still, it was heartening to Sabinus to think a veteran like Mamercus would seek out his company above that of other men. He wondered if it was because of his personal reputation for honour, his own share of dignitas, his carefully built career of quiet excellence. Or was it due to the Oracle, whose light reflected now on him and made others wonder what it was the Pythia had said.
He'd proven hopeless in countering the rumours. He'd tried to follow Caenis' advice and spread a few, but within days they had grown out of all proportion. His careful hint at some future military post suddenly became a prediction that he would conquer all of Parthia, be hailed Imperator seven times on the field, and be adopted as Nero's heir. Disastrous. Better to let the rumours wend their way without him.
The parade ended with another Neronian concert at the Temple of Apollo. But the day's events had only just begun. The afternoon would be spent in Nero's Circus, watching the Triumphator race chariots against all comers.
Trooping across the Aemelian Bridge to the far side of the Tiber, Sabinus heard a feminine titter. Glancing back, he saw Caenis walking in the company of the Corbula sisters and that scandal-lover Verulana Gratilla. He nodded politely, eliciting more titters from the young trio.
“Sons, find your grandfather and tell him I'll be along.” Sabinus lingered until Caenis was near, and greeted her with the kiss he would give an aunt. “Domina. Ladies.”
“Titus Flavius,” said Domitia Longina
, elbowing her sister.
“Titus Flavius,” said Domitia Corbula, flushing. Verulana Gratilla said nothing, letting her batting lashes speak for her.
Sabinus did not share her love of scandal. “Did I see your husband?”
Verulana shrugged elaborately letting one shoulder of her dress slip. “You did not. He's at home, sulking over Caesar's glorious return. But he'll come out for the races, the hypocrite.” Like his wife, Quintus Junius Arulenus Rusticus had a taste for unorthodox friends. In his case he preferred overly-virtuous men like Publius Clodius Thrasea Paetus, the eminent Stoic who had condemned Nero's matricide, opening his veins in protest. Rusticus had approved the protest, but not imitated it, no doubt to Verulana's regret – so virtuous a husband did not suit her.
Sabinus turned to the younger Domitia. “And your husband, Domitia Longina?”
“Lucius is doing the opposite,” said Domitia Longina acidly. “He's smarming all over Caesar, hoping to be noticed.” Being Corbulo's son-in-law, Paetus now needed to prove his loyalty to the Princeps. “No doubt he'll be the first one in the Domus Aurea tonight, lavishing praise all over you.”
“Don't remind me,” groaned Sabinus. Tonight was the great unveiling of the Golden House, at a feast for Nero and his thousand closest friends.
“Tell me, Titus Flavius,” said Caenis, “has Caesar seen his new domicile yet?”
Perspicacious as ever, she'd hit upon Sabinus' great concern. “No. He plans to see it tonight at the feast.” The tension in his breath was audible. He had done fairly well. Building was back onto schedule, costs were reigned in. But Nero's Golden House was not yet finished. In truth, Sabinus doubted it ever would be. The constant changes and additions ordered from Greece had his cousin Gaudentius demented.
“He'll be impressed,” said Caenis. “How can he not? You've done wonders.”
“Thanks in part to you, domina.” Having seen her home, Sabinus had taken advantage of her excellent taste and called on her to assist in readying the Domus Aurea for Nero's return. She in turn had enlisted Acte, Nero's former love and devoted friend, who had guided the more tricky artistic aspects of the project, giving them Nero's taste.
Sabinus suddenly forgot his worries as he noted Domitia Longina's slave-girl. It was the young Jewess with the slack cheek he'd seen before. There was just something remarkable about her, more than just the asymmetry of her face. She had perhaps the saddest eyes Sabinus had ever seen.
The girl squirmed under his gaze. Recalling himself, Sabinus said, “So where are you ladies off to, now the parade is over?”
“Haven't you heard?” asked Domitia Corbula, eyes glowing. “As a special treat, Nero is allowing women to sit with men in the Circus.” Women were never permitted to sit close to the action, for fear of their swooning for the athletes. The only exceptions were the Vestal Virgins, supposedly immune to such things.
“No, I hadn't heard. I presume you ladies will wish to sit with your families. But Antonia Caenis, I look on you as a part of our family. Won't you join us? We have excellent seats.”
“If your father won't mind, I'd be delighted.” Bidding farewell to her disappointed companions, Caenis took his arm and led him away. “You have just made me the envy of every woman in the city. They've dubbed you Rome's most eligible bachelor, and decided that Domitia Corbula should be your next wife.”
Sabinus pulled a face. “Do I have a say in the matter?”
“Handsome,” continued Caenis, “unable to put a foot wrong. You've still got all your hair. Looks, brains, and Caesar's favour. If you did away with your troublesome morality, you could go far.”
Sabinus laughed, and together they pushed their way into the Circus.
Their seats were indeed excellent, just beside the Princeps' own box. When Old Sabinus saw Caenis on his son's arm he turned away, disgusted. But he could not rescind the invitation without causing a scene.
Sabinus felt a similar disgust when he saw who was seated in front of his father – Aulus and Lucius Vitellius, with their mother. How such a proper Roman matron could have raised such wastrels was a mystery. “Aulus. Lucius.”
“Titus Flavius,” said Lucius.
But his brother was sneering maliciously. “I hear you have a new relative.”
Sabinus frowned. This was sure to be some kind of insult, but he didn't know how. Had Domitian fathered a child in Greece? “Not that I'm aware of.”
“Oh? Then you've not heard what Caesar has named his new wife?”
It was certainly an insult. But how did calling the boy 'sperm' make him related to the Flavians? “I heard his name was now Sporos.”
Vitellius laughed. “Oh, in private. But Caesar cannot be married to a wife called that. No, he chose her a new name, far more Roman.”
Sabinus blanched. No, not—
“Sabina,” confirmed Vitellius with clear relish. “After the first women of Rome, the Sabine wenches who were captured and raped by Romulus and his men. A true Roman woman now, little Sabina.”
It doesn't mean this is directed at me, thought Sabinus. But he suspected it might be another way for Nero to establish dominance after the folly of the Oracle. I should never have gone to see her…
“Sabina, after Poppaea Sabina, of course,” said Caenis, forestalling his thoughts. “After all, she is Poppaea reborn. Good afternoon, my dear.” She kissed hello with Sextilla, then settled in between Clemens and Sabinus. “Julia and Flavia will die of envy when I tell them I watched the races with their favourite cousin.”
“Second cousin,” corrected Clemens, and Sabinus had to suppress a laugh. Those two girls were the bane of his son's existence. The older one, Flavia, had recently taken to punching Clemens as a sign of affection, which the younger one now imitated.
The first circus spectacle featured Nero's favourite gladiator, Spiculus. Until quite recently, gladiators had not been funded by the Treasury. Tradition called for individuals to pay for matches, most often as funeral games for some illustrious forebear. Proper Roman games included chariot races, along with wrestling and boxing matches. But the popularity of the gladiators had grown until now one could expect to see gladiators in even the ludi Romani, that most Roman of festivals.
Spiculus defeated his opponent easily, with a complete lack of blood – these were professionals. As they trotted off the pitch, chariots entered the arena to a great fanfare. Nero was resplendent in gold as he rode about the track, soaking in the adulation.
“Is that Domitian?” gawped Tertius, pointing to where their cousin commanded a chariot of his own.
Clemens grunted. “He tells me that he's gotten quite good.”
“I thought he was full of air.”
Trumpets sounded, prayers were made, and the races began. From the start, Nero bolted out into the lead.
“Caesar is skilled,” observed Clemens fairly.
“Perhaps everyone else is holding back,” murmured Tertius.
“Perhaps you should still your tongue.” Having delivered that warning, Sabinus turned to pass a comment to his father, but Old Sabinus was leaned forward in whispered talk with the two Vitellian brothers, using the cover of cheers to discuss something in great earnest. Curious, Sabinus leaned in as well.
“And Caesar knows?” demanded Old Sabinus.
“Knows, and laughs,” answered Aulus Vitellius. “If ever there was a rebellion destined to fail, this is it.”
Sabinus perked up. “Is this Vindex again?” In October, Gaius Julius Vindex, the current governor of Gaul, had penned several transparently treasonous letters denouncing Nero. He then sent copies to every governor across Rome's world. Lengthy and flattering, the letter listed the excesses of Nero and extolled the virtues, not of the Republic, but of Augustus, concluding: It will take a man of the Divine Augustus Caesar's fibre to restore Roman honour and decency. In an attempt at cleverness, Vindex did not mention who that man should be, presumably leaving the reader to place himself in the Princep's curule ivory chair.
“Oh, C
aesar's not taking it seriously,” laughed Lucius Vitellius. Then he lowered his voice further still. “At least he wasn't until he failed to hear from Galba.”
“What has Galba to do with it?” demanded Old Sabinus. He was of an age with Servius Sulpicius Galba, presently governing Hispania.
“Every other governor forwarded Vindex's letter to Caesar, lest they be thought a party to his designs. But Galba hasn't.”
This was news to Sabinus. “Galba! He's too old to even consider a revolt.”
“And more to the point,” said Old Sabinus, stung by the reference to age, “he's such a stickler for discipline, he'd deem it the height of impropriety. Knowing Galba, he simply ignored it.”
Aulus Vitellius raised his eyebrows. “Even so, it was his duty to report treason.”
“Yes, it was,” agreed Sabinus firmly.
Old Sabinus snorted. “I daresay he simply couldn't be bothered to report something so idiotic. Vindex is a nothing. He can't possibly win.”
“So I think,” agreed Aulus Vitellius. “About Vindex, I mean. But Galba? He has the blood, and many of those ancient patrician families are a little mad. The Senate would like him. He is, in every way, the exact opposite of Nero.”
That was a dangerous statement, if only because it was true. Growing uneasy at her son's words, Sextilla said, “I understand Vindex wrote to all the governors. Does that include your brother, Titus Flavius?”
Old Sabinus was wry. “As I understand it, Vespasian forwarded the note at once. Hmph. I'm surprised the ambitious little mushroom showed so much sense.”
Beside him, Sabinus felt Caenis stiffen – she was clearly listening. Sabinus decided he had to stand up for his uncle. “He's had a successful campaign this year. The north is tamed, their best-fortified city taken, their general in chains. He's grinding out a lasting victory.”
“Grinding out a lasting war, more like,” said Aulus Vitellius. “The longer the war, the more his glory.”
“The more Rome's glory,” corrected Sabinus. Though her eyes were firmly on the race below, Caenis squeezed his hand.
