The Four Emperors

by David Blixt

  Old Sabinus ignored the praise for his brother. “I could almost believe it another of Nero's loyalty tests. If it isn't, then Vindex is a fool.”

  “Oh, he's that,” laughed Lucius Vitellius. “He's supremely confident in his ability to defeat Caesar.”

  “How many legions does he have?”

  “None! That's the madness of it. There may be five hundred legionaries in Lugdunum, but Gaul has no legion. They're all in Britannia, or across the border in Germania.”

  “Or south, in Hispania,” said Old Sabinus thoughtfully. “Perhaps that's why Galba is silent. He and Vindex might have made a pact.”

  Aulus Vitellius nodded. “So Caesar fears. I don't mean to say he's overly concerned. But he is angry.”

  “Oh wonderful! It's when he's angry that he is most unpredictable.” By which they all understood Old Sabinus meant unstable.

  Wearing a frown, Sabinus returned to watching the race. To throw this lavish Triumph – or anti-Triumph – when faced with a possible mutiny from the governors of two provinces? Nero was either fearless, or reckless. Whichever it is, the result is the same.

  “Father,” said Clemens in a low voice across Caenis. “Look at the sun. You ought to go.”

  Nodding, Sabinus rose and began making his way towards the Golden House for the great unveiling. On the track below, the god Nero had almost finished his final race.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Nero Caesar strode at the head of his large retinue of Augustiani to brave his first entrance to his Golden House. “This is the great beginning! A new birth for Roma, now not just the undisputed ruler of the world, but also nest of arts and culture, learning and recreation! Welcome to the new Rome!”

  Amid the cheers and the hooting and plucking of instruments, Nero paused to dip a toe into his new lake. The old reservoir had been dug deeper, then sealed with concrete. The sides had been tiled and paved, and trees planted all around it. Bath-houses would soon be built nearby, and come summer this would be the ideal place to find sport.

  But Nero could not wait until summer. “Tigellinus!”

  The praetorian commander appeared instantly. “Caesar!”

  “What's the matter? You look indigestive.”

  “I am, Caesar. Forgive me. My stomach roils. You wished something?”

  “Yes. Remember the romp we had a couple years ago, on Agrippa's stagnum?” This was the artificial lake on the Campus Martius built by Augustus' son-in-law and right hand man.

  “I do indeed!” answered Tigellinus with an evil grin. “Does Caesar wish to relive that experience?”

  “Not relive it, out-do it! Saturnalia is coming. I think that's perfect, don't you?”

  “Nothing better, mighty Caesar. I shall see it done.”

  Suddenly Nero clapped. “Oh oh oh! I have it. I know just what the center of the lake must be!” He whispered instructions into Tigellinus' ear, adding, “Have Calvia arrange for matters within.”

  Tigellinus grinned savagely. “Yes, Caesar.”

  Skipping in a little dance of anticipation, Nero turned and held out both his hands. At once his two wives, the Roman and the Greek, rushed to grasp his palms. Swinging their arms and singing, he ambled towards the first of the many, many palaces that dotted the landscape.

  Inside the palace, Sabinus stood nervously at the foot of the colossal statue of Nero as Mithras/Apollo, silently praying for divine favour. Whose, he did not care. Any divinity would do.

  Waiting with him was the rest of the Senate. After a long day of cheering and applauding Caesar, no one showed fatigue – they didn't dare. Neither did they dare comment on the rich, elegant, bordering gaudy trappings of this palace. Not until Caesar had passed judgment would they voice their own opinions.

  This room was the first test. Taking the idea of Nero as the Sun god, this had become the Sun Room. Polished silver and gold reflected torchlight all around, while the floor was tiled in pure white. So too were the walls – as Nero had ordered, mosaics were no longer for walking across, but were art in their own right. And Sabinus had to admit that seeing it upright, he had more appreciation for the skill that went into the craft.

  The question was would Caesar appreciate what Sabinus had wrought. How on earth did I become responsible for all this? he wondered, not for the first time. I'm no artist! I wouldn't know a Phidias from a Zenodorus. How is it my career hangs on an art show?

  At least I'm not alone in my suffering. Sabinus watched his cousin Gaudentius downing cup after cup of wine. Uneasy in this august assembly, the architect sought solace in wine. More than Sabinus, this night would either make the young architect, or break him.

  Sabinus decided it was probably best that the architect not be drunk when Nero arrived. Crossing close, he clapped an arm about his shoulders and led him away from the wine flagons. “If nothing else, you've certainly proved your point about concrete.”

  Gaudentius was already more than a little tipsy. “The pity, cos, is that it's already a failure. True, concrete was used, but not for innovation. The newness is all in the gimmicks – perfume-squirting sconces! Can you believe? I'm a sculptor whose work was clothed – everyone remarks on the lovely cloth, can't see the stone. But I'll get the blame if he doesn't — Jupiter!”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a trumpet flourish as the Praetorian Guard entered, the brightness of their white garb almost hurting the eyes in this white room. Nero came behind them, having changed clothes again. This evening he was dressed all in black, with silver trim. Walking among a sea of white and purple, it was as though an eclipse had arrived.

  A wife on either arm, Caesar's face showed nothing as he took in the new palace. Under cover of the deafening applause, he said something to his steward. Laughing loudly, Epaphroditus pointed to Sabinus and Gaudentius. For the first time Sabinus realized the genius of the toga. It hid his trembling knees, and forced him to appear relaxed. Sadly, it did nothing to prevent sweat.

  “The moment of truth,” whispered Gaudentius.

  Nero had cultivated many artistic gifts, but acting was not among them. Understandable, as actors were agreed to be the lowest form of entertainers.

  Nero's inability to dissemble came as a relief. As he approached, the god began to smile. Sabinus caught the eye of the huge statue and thanked the grotesque Colossus for answering Sabinus' prayers. Caesar was pleased.

  Or was he? What was that lurking in his smile? It was focused in a most self-delighted way, and Sabinus had to banish the thought that Nero must have had the same smile when he had ordered the death of Corbulo. Of his brother. Of his mother.

  Yet when Nero embraced him, there was nothing but effusive praise. “O, my dear Titus Flavius – it is perfect! Now I can begin to live like a human being!”

  Locking his knees so he would not wilt, Sabinus produced a smile. “Happy birthday, Caesar.”

  XII

  CAESAREA MARITIMA, JUDEA

  “To an excellent year,” said Titus, raising his cup of wine.

  “Hear hear.” Vespasian quaffed his drink and smiled. “I confess it now, I thought my career had ended. Thank Jupiter for the Jews!”

  From his point of view, the campaign had ended splendidly. After a good, sustained siege, Jotapata had fallen on the forty-ninth day, one day short of the prophetic fifty days. Vespasian's forces had won thanks to Roman boldness and Judean treachery. The Judean army was broken, with most of them dead or in chains, on their way to the slave markets. Better, Judea itself was losing heart.

  Titus was not quite as satisfied as his father. Yes, there had been plenty of honour gained, with skirmishes and brave acts done before the walls. But never that great and glorious battle every man longed for. That was going to be the nature of this war, Titus was sure of it. Siege after siege after siege.

  The best news was the capture of the enemy general. When they had taken Jotapata's walls, Yosef ben Matityahu had hidden in an underground cistern with several citizens of the doomed city. Over their general's o
bjections, the people had organized a suicide pact. Each man would cut another man's throat, removing the sin of suicide from all save the last man standing (amazing that their god had ordered them not to take their own lives! How very un-Roman!).

  Somehow – and no one was clear how it happened – this Yosef had been one of the last two men alive. He'd then convinced the other, the son of the city's ethnarch, to surrender. The young man (what was his name? Chalafta? Hebrew names were maddening) had repented his action just a day later and killed himself. Leaving Yosef ben Matityahu as the only man alive who knew what had happened in the well.

  Though, in fairness, Yosef ben Matityahu had died down there, too. He had emerged as Josephus, Roman prisoner and willing collaborator.

  Evidence of this change was readily apparent. With Jotapata and its general captured, Vespasian had turned his attention to eastern Galilee. In this, the prisoner had proved a tremendous ally. His six months as commander of Galilee made him an excellent judge of what each city would do.

  For example, after a period of indecision that Josephus said was typical, the town of Tiberias surrendered. “But whatever Tiberias does, Taricheae will do the opposite.”

  As predicted, an eager force of Taricheans marched to engage the advancing Romans. That had been a thrilling fight for Titus. Leading the Fifteenth, his horse had been killed under him and he'd had to wrestle down an enemy rider and leap atop the stolen mount to continue the attack. That act of daring had broken the Taricheans, forcing them to retreat back to their walls. While the city debated surrendering, Titus had sneaked his bloodied cavalry into the shallows of the Lake Gennesar and from there into the city, which was not walled on the lakeward side.

  During the sack that followed, the most vigourous rebels took small ships and fled into the lake. But Titus had built rafts and chased them down, sinking or grounding them all.

  Hailed imperator on the field by his men, and even praised by his father, Titus had asked permission to present the city to Queen Berenice as a gift. Vespasian had grudgingly consented.

  Their only vexation was what to do with the prisoners. Until now all the Judean rebels had been sent to the slave markets in Italia, Greece, Hispania, and Africa. But some Taricheans were loyal to King Agrippa, while some were rebels. Eventually Vespasian had ordered all newcomers expelled, leaving behind those who had resided in the city for more than two years. The theory was that new arrivals were more likely to be agitators from the countryside.

  Amazed at such clemency, the rebels marched happily up the road towards Tiberias, carrying their belongings with them. At Tiberias they found themselves funneled into an amphitheatre – incidentally, the same amphitheatre where Josephus had reportedly almost lost his life last spring. Here the old and infirm were weeded out and put to death, while the rest were sold into slavery.

  “Why do it at Tiberias?” Titus had asked. “Why not sell them right away?”

  “Josephus' idea,” his father had explained. “Tiberias got off lightly. They needed to see what happens to those who harbour treasonous ideals.”

  It had worked. Cowed, both Tiberias and Taricheae would certainly be quiet for the rest of the war. And Josephus had been seen to smile a great deal. Titus understood some personal score had been settled.

  While the tribune Placidus took a small force to besiege a settlement on Mount Tabor in the Golan Heights, Vespasian and Titus had moved on to take another natural fortress, Gamala. The legions took shocking casualties there, losing nearly six thousand men – most of them foreign levies, but still distressing. It was a reminder that the Judeans were passionate warriors who had captured an eagle just a year before.

  One particular Roman loss among the foreigners stung badly. Decurion Ebutius, who had brought about the fall of Jotapata, died choking on a cloud of dust as buildings were knocked down around him. Vespasian himself had been cut off from his army, but had rallied the men with him and hacked his way back to safety. Smarting and angry, the Romans turned to slaughter. Unlike Jotapata, there were no survivors at Gamala. Men, women, and even infants were slain, pierced with swords or else thrown from the high city onto the rocky crags below – the Judean version of the Tarpean Rock.

  But the misfortunes at Gamala had not soured Vespasian's mood. With a successful campaign ending in him too being hailed imperator on the field, the Old Muleteer had silenced his critics.

  With the advent of December, it was time to relax. Tonight the legions were feasting in honour of Caesar's birthday. Nero cared about such things, and wouldn't mind if the war coffers were a little depleted in his name.

  But this dinner in Vespasian's chamber was a private affair, hosting just three men. Vespasian himself lay upon the center couch, reclining on his left side. Titus lay on the couch to his father's right, placing him by his father's feet. And on the other couch, lying on his right side, head-to-head with Vespasian in the place of honour, was none other than Josephus.

  The captive reclined while sipping Roman wine, speaking in the Greek that was common to all men of a certain rank. Turned thirty this year, he was just two years older than Titus, and had all the advantages of youth with none of the faults. Thoughtful, reasoned, ambitious, pragmatic. When surrender had been the only option save death, Josephus had chosen surrender – after making sure those who opposed him had chosen death.

  Nor was he an uncultured guest. He sat and ate in the Roman fashion, having spent some time in Rome after the Great Fire. He wore the toga with the same ease as his Greek chlamys or his Hebrew tunic. Only in his face was he undeniably a Jew. He had recently shaved off his fine beard, the better to blend with his new patrons. With large, deep-set brown eyes and his prominent nose, he was handsome in a particularly Semitic way.

  After Tiberias and Taricheae, Titus had watched his father rely more and more on this man for Judean insight. It made perfect sense – who better to advise against the Jews than a Jew? Especially one who saw power and freedom in Roman rule, and death and disgrace in a Judean victory. For after changing sides in such a spectacular fashion, Josephus could never, ever go back.

  Thinking of this, Titus said, “I hear you've been divorced.”

  “And disowned.” Josephus shrugged. “I hoped they would see the sense of my actions. But I am reviled, and cast out.”

  “A grave injustice, I'm sure.” Titus enjoyed poking at the captured general-priest. His Berenice was no admirer of this man, despite their being related somehow (for a Roman used to odd family ties, it was far from surprising). Raised in Rome, Berenice herself had opposed this revolt from the beginning and scorned the ever-changing Josephus. According to her, this man was first a hermit acolyte, then priest, then author, then ambassador, then general, and now traitor-collaborator. Berenice viewed his willingness to change sides as an insult to the Jewish character. “Better he should have died in the well, along with all the others,” she'd said.

  Unlike his lover, Titus rather liked Josephus. The Jew had a practicality that was unusual in this land. Almost Roman. But it amused Titus to test him, try to see what lay at his core. If he had one.

  Seeing an opportunity to again set the hornets buzzing, Titus set down his wine. “Why do you thank Jupiter for the Jews, pater? Why not thank this Yahweh? After all, it is he who has given you the Iron Broom and called you Redeemer, and ruler of the world.”

  Upon being brought before Vespasian, the captured general had said the lonely god of the Jews had spoken to him and told him to deliver a message, an ancient Hebrew prophecy about a great man who would come out of the East and rule the world. Josephus had tied that together with another Hebrew prediction about a man called the Redeemer, who would use his iron broom to sweep clean the country of Judea, or as the Hebrews called it, Israel.

  Vespasian rolled his eyes, but Josephus said, “Actually, the Iron Broom is not a person. It is a metaphor for what will happen to this land when the Redeemer arrives. Swept clean. Purified.”

  “Ah! My mistake,” said Titus, grinning. Ac
tually he knew it quite well, and his statement had been deliberately provocative, said just when the slaves were exiting the room. These past nine months in Judea had been quite an education, and not just in the queen's bedroom. Titus had learned much from both Berenice and Nicanor regarding the traditions of the Hebrew people. The similarities with Rome were striking. The Jew's main trouble, as far as Titus saw, was the deeply backward-focused nature of their beliefs. Hebrews revered tradition even more than Romans – something Titus would not have thought possible. But Rome was ever willing to adapt, to grow, to adopt other cultures and other religions into their own. For there was only one great god, and his name was Jupiter Optimus Maximus. All other gods were aspects of him. Which is why it was so puzzling that the Hebrews kept their god separate from the rest of the world. Didn't they see that if there was indeed only one great god, then their god was also Jupiter?

  Though, Titus did not truly care much for religion, he had found Josephus' prophecy very useful. Vespasian had ordered that it not be spread about, yet Titus and Cerialis had disobeyed. Ever since the fall of Jotapata, the brothers-in-law had worked to gain the legions' loyalty for Vespasian, and it was a tremendous help that a Judean prophet had predicted his greatness – proof that even the invisible Hebrew god was on Rome's side. Superstition combined with the general's uncharacteristic (and unknowing) largesse had served to bind the soldiers to their general in a most personal way.

  Evidence of that bond was present in the very room they presently occupied. Vespasian's quarters had a heated floor, a remarkable luxury built by soldiers delighted that their general was wintering with them inside their camp when he could easily have stayed in a city. His reason had been administrative, but in the hands of Titus and Cerialis, it was just further evidence of the crusty old general's love for his men.

  The servants re-entered, bearing trays. As the meal was laid out, Vespasian proved that Titus was not the only one capable of poking for amusement. “I say, should they be working? Isn't today the Jewish day of rest?”