by David Blixt
Flushing to the roots of his hair, Titus said ruefully, “I wouldn't know!” At which Vespasian laughed aloud, and Josephus smiled thinly.
Just two weeks earlier, Titus had been sent to capture Gischala, controlled by a self-appointed general named Yohanan. Despite the warnings of Josephus to trust nothing Yohanan said, Titus had believed the commander's claims that the city would gladly surrender after the Shabbat, the day for prayer. Magnanimously consenting, Titus had entered the city the following day to discover that the wily Yohanan had slipped away during the night, along with a strong contingent of men and several hundred women and children. Titus sent his cavalry after them, but captured only the women and children, whom the deceitful Yohanan had left behind to delay his pursuers.
Vespasian still found the whole tale tremendously funny. “Josephus did warn you!”
But Josephus himself was self-deprecating. “He fooled your son for a night. He fooled me for months.”
“Don't worry,” said Vespasian, “either of you. You can be revenged the year after next, when we take Jerusalem. Rumour is that's where he's—”
There was a polite rap on the door, and Vespasian's steward entered. “Forgive me, Titus Flavius. Gaius Licinius Mucianus to see you.”
Vespasian's good cheer evaporated. “Oh what now! Very well, show him in. No, Titus, stay where you are. I doubt he'll be staying.”
Titus had been about to switch over to the central couch, long enough for two adults. As he settled back onto his left side, he mentally braced himself. Not because of the likely unpleasantness. But because Mucianus had become infatuated with him.
The door re-opened and in came a disjointed fellow in motion, his limbs seeming to work independently of each other. He carried a walking stick, but never seemed to use it. A man who liked trappings and frivolities, Gaius Licinius Mucianus bobbed his chin at each man in turn. “Titus Flavius. Josephus. Titus Flavius.” His nod to Titus carried a smile, and Titus had to resist rolling his eyes.
“Gaius Licinius,” said Vespasian with lingering coolness. It was due to Mucianus that Vespasian had chosen to winter in Judea rather than return to Syrian Ptolmais. As acting-governor of Syria, Vespasian's practicality and competence had eventually won over both the Syrians and the wounded legion sitting on the Parthian border. After their losses under Gallus, the Twelfth was pleased to find themselves treated with honour. They, too, had been part of Titus' whispering campaign.
It had not taken long for the new governor to butt up against this budding affection for Vespasian. What's more, Mucianus made the mistake of listening only to the Roman elites, who all nursed grudges against Vespasian for their rough handling over the past year. So the new Syrian governor thought he was dealing with a tyrannical incompetent.
Caenis had been correct in her summation of Mucianus' character – he was alternately vigorous and lazy, and was annoyed when he finally stirred himself to action only to find someone there before him. Vespasian was a natural autocrat, and didn't dicker when it came to making a decision.
After only a month, Mucianus accused Vespasian of working to undermine him. Vespasian, naturally, denied it. “I have enough on my hands with the war I'm waging. I'm more than happy to leave the governance of Syria to you.”
“You're usurping my authority!” Mucianus had cried. “How can I govern if my staff keeps bringing matters to you for approval!”
“I send them back, do I not?”
“With orders! Always, with orders of how things should be done!”
“Orders?” asked Vespasian, his brows raised in surprise. “I have no authority to order them. You are the governor, not I. Now, if they ask for advice, I'll give it, citizen to citizen. But nothing more.”
At which Mucianus had stormed away, cursing.
Matters altered in late October with the arrival of Vindex's treasonous letter from Gaul. Vespasian was too successfully restored in Nero's favour to allow even a hint of suspicion. Immediately he sent word to both Mucianus and Tiberius Julius Alexander, governor of Aegypt, announcing his intention to forward his copy of the seditious letter to Rome. He advised them to do the same – advice they followed.
Vespasian's messenger to Mucianus was more effective than any letter. Using the journey as an excuse to visit Queen Berenice, Titus had delighted the governor, who was particularly susceptible to the charms of handsome, muscular young men.
This was Vespasian's first interview with Mucianus since then. The friendly greeting and lack of ranting prompted Vespasian to offer his guest a place on his couch, and some wine.
“Thank you,” said Mucianus, sighing as he slipped off his boots and wiggled his toes on the heated tiles. “Very pleasant.”
“At my age, Gaius Licinius, one begins to notice the cold.”
“I shall have to install one in Ptolmais. But despite the cold, Titus Flavius, I trust the winter is treating you well.”
“Very well, Gaius Licinius. The men are recovering nicely, and eager to finish this war.”
“No trouble from the Judeans?” asked Mucianus, taking the wine a slave had poured for him.
“None,” said Vespasian. “We've taken every city, town, and shepherd shack in Galilee. Next year we'll move south and take the lands west of the Dead Sea. After that, all that remains is to pacify Jerusalem. Which,” added the general with a chuckle, “they may do themselves.”
“Yes, I've heard.” The reports coming from Jerusalem spoke of desperate factions at each other's throats. After the loss at Jotapata, the High Priest was barely holding onto power with both hands. “A great unrest. After such a remarkably efficient campaign as you've waged, I imagine they're quaking in their sandals.” Mucianus drew his feet up onto his couch and reclined on his right side, placing his head near Titus'. “I do admire this floor. A practical indulgence. Very unlike the Domus Aurea.”
Cocking his head, Josephus spoke for the first time. “You surprise me, Gaius Licinius. I would have thought that, as an Epicurean, you would find the concept of a house of pleasure admirable.”
Mucianus shrugged. “Very admirable – in theory. But as it has evolved, it's become something other than Elysium. It also fails to take into account the nature of men. As if rude mechanicals can appreciate Epicurean delights.”
“Or need fake pastoral pleasures,” laughed Vespasian, “when the real thing is just down the road!”
Mucianus actually giggled. “Indeed! The whole thing is a blight on Rome. No wonder Vindex used it as part of his litany of Nero's sins.”
There it is, thought Titus. The reason behind the visit. Vespasian said nothing, watching as Mucianus ran a lone finger around the lip of his goblet.
But the Syrian governor did not mention Vindex again. “So, two years more to subdue the Judeans?”
“Barring the unforeseen,” was Vespasian's neutral reply.
“Ah, the unforeseen. Always lingering just out of sight.” Mucianus smiled at his own joke. “I do so admire your strategy in regard to Jerusalem. Tertius gaudens! Let the factions inside the city pick each other off, diminish their strength, then swoop in at full strength and take command. Both wise and frugal – qualities sorely lacking in our world.”
“Ours, too,” said Josephus.
From there, the conversation drifted to food and literature – idle talk to fill the hour of the evening meal. Josephus and Mucianus talked most of the time, discussing matters of poetry, literature, and theatre that clearly did not interest Vespasian, and that Titus had to confess he found rather boring himself. Yet it was remarkably pleasant among men who had so little in common.
It was only as Mucianus was preparing to leave that the subject of treason was broached again. “I have to thank you for your hospitality. I worry sometimes what it might look like, if governors gather. At least, since Vindex. He knows he cannot do anything alone.”
“How can he? He doesn't even have a legion!”
The slaves finished lacing Mucianus' boots, and he stood. “Lucky then that he w
as not given the Judean command, don't you agree? Think what someone with three legions could do.”
When Mucianus was gone, Titus turned to his father, mouth hanging open. “Was that what I thought it was?”
“A suggestion,” replied Vespasian uneasily. “And a promise, all wrapped in one.”
“And I thought we Jews were scheming,” observed Josephus into his wine.
* * *
Mucianus returned to Syria well satisfied. After almost making Vespasian an enemy, he had made a good start at mending fences.
Contrary to what Titus believed, it was not his visit last month that had altered Mucianus' behavior. Nor was it the letter from Vindex. Gaius Licinius Mucianus had been moved by the gods.
While accurate, Caenis' description of Mucianus had left out one important element – he was highly superstitious. His first act after settling into the governor's palace had been to ask the names of the local seers. Everyone agreed that the best of them was Basilides, a half-Greek, half-Berber hermit living on Mount Carmel. “He is a priest of Ba'al, god of thunder and fecundity,” they said. “He's unerringly accurate in his predictions.”
Mucianus sent an invitation at once, only to be rebuffed. If the Roman governor wished an audience, replied Basilides, he would have to pay homage in person.
At first, laziness defeated the governor. He did not wish to climb any mountain. Yet, after two frustrating months dealing with Syria, Mucianus made the pilgrimage just to escape the constant ringing of Vespasian's name in his ears. He brought with him the handsomest of his companions, and it was a pleasant trip, riding and consorting with men who were unafraid to be men. By the time he reached Mount Carmel, he felt quite refreshed.
Respectfully climbing the winding path on foot, Mucianus had come to a modest temple high on the mountain. Basilides clearly eschewed the usual trappings of his trade. There were no rotting corpses in cages, no collection of children's knuckle-bones, not even a charming naked woman to dance while he looked into the future. Disappointed, Mucianus entered all the same.
Waiting inside, Basilides himself was fascinating. Darker than any Greek, with unmistakable deep Berber eyes, his chin and mouth were positively gorgeous. Time had weathered him, and there was grey in his hair, making him ruggedly handsome. Here was a man who had seen not only the future, but something of life.
Mucianus introduced himself. “I am Gaius Licinius Mucianus. I've come—”
But Basilides held up a hand. “Silence, please. If I am meant to know, I will see your purpose.”
Mucianus stood stock still as the middle-aged seer circled him once, twice, thrice. Then the man nodded. “Gaius Licinius, you have come to the East without purpose, but you shall find one. Your role is not to wear the laurel, but to place it. First you must set aside pride, and mend fences with a neighbor. He will be the sword that you unsheathe, to the honour of you both.” Basilides bowed his head. “That is all there is to see.”
After that, Mucianus was invited to share the seer's supper. It was brought by a young man, perhaps seventeen, who lived here and waited upon the older man's needs. Mind still digesting the prediction, Mucianus noted the tender looks between the two and smiled. “I see you are civilized, at least.”
Basilides nodded. “That is something I cannot fathom about your fellow Romans – how they deny themselves the purest relationship man can know.”
“I notice you don't include me,” observed Mucianus wryly. “Did you see that, too?”
“Yes,” said Basilides simply.
Heaving a sigh, Mucianus said, “Rome views love between men as demeaning. While the perversions of Nero are winked at, I am laughed at behind their hands.”
“It is because you Romans were never ruled by women, as Greeks were,” said Basilides. “My mother was Berber, but my father was Greek, and he told me the story. A thousand years ago and more, women ruled in the place of men. They worshipped a dark version of Gaia, and fashioned themselves after the Great Mother – very like your Bona Dea. It was for women to choose who the men married, and when the men were to die. Women even fought in wars, alongside their men.”
Mucianus was horrified. “How could the men endure it?”
“In time they asserted their rights. But during their powerlessness, men turned to the one area they could have sway – their relationships with other men. It became customary, and finally respectable. There are no demands between men, no children, no recriminations. It is the purest form of love.”
Mucianus considered, and finally shook his head. “An interesting theory. But I have no Greek blood in my veins, and no cultural heritage to maintain. It seems to me that it's not habit, but the gods themselves that gave me this gift. I simply find men beautiful.” He leaned forward, eyes dancing. “You among them.”
Basilides leaned in as well. “I saw as much. But remember tomorrow to heed the words I spoke as Ba'al's chosen, not your lover's. It is too easy to conflate priest and god.” Standing, he held out his hand.
Mucianus took it, and found it surprisingly rough. “I'll remember.” They embraced, sharing a kiss that was at once sensuous and holy.
The next morning Mucianus heeded the seer's words, and traveled straight from that temple to Vespasian's camp, in time to interrupt supper. Straight away he'd started mending his fences, reconciling himself to the sword he was to unsheathe.
Now they just had to wait for the moment to present itself.
XIII
ROMA, ITALIA
24 DECEMBER 67 AD
Caenis hosted a small Saturnalian gathering for unmarried women and widows. It was a respectable affair, with none of the more vigourous role-reversals popular this time of year. In just seven months her reputation had become so great that her house provided a haven for those who wished to escape the unwelcome eruption of egality and equality.
The surprise guest was Claudia Acte, Nero's first great love. With dark skin and darker brows, fine black hair and a mouth like a blooming flower, it was easy to see what had attracted the seventeen year-old ruler of the world. They had been lovers for three years, and he had even threatened to end his unhappy marriage for her, a slave. Even ten years after the end of their affair, Nero treated her with a deference he never showed to the noble ladies of Rome.
Caenis rose as Acte entered the dining room. “My dear! I had no hope you would actually accept my invitation!”
“I trust you are not disappointed,” replied Acte, amused.
“Ecastor, no! I'm awash with pleasure. Come, recline. There will be no men tonight, so I have taken advantage of the holiday spirit and decided that for once, we women will lie on couches like men do.”
There were appreciative laughs from the women already reclining, as it was becoming more and more the norm. But some of the more matronly guests were looking pinched and uncomfortable as they attempted to lie on their sides as men did. Sextilla, for instance, looked as if she might fall off the edge of her couch any second, clutching it with her fingers. The old Roman sniffed as she fussed with her pillows. “I take it Verulana and the Domitias will be elsewhere this evening?”
Caenis nodded. “They plan to attend Nero's maritime revels. Sticky-bun, anyone? And please, keep the mulsum passing to the left.” This was the concoction of fresh wine and honey that was Rome's favourite holiday drink. The wine tonight was twenty year-old Falernian, a heady white wine from the Campanian hills, and the honey was Hymettan, the very best in the world, gathered from Mount Mymettos near Athens. “We are our own servants until dinner.”
“I'm surprised you aren't at the stagnant stagnum, Acte my dear,” said Sextilla. “Isn't that more your social circle?”
“I am not as active as I was in my youth,” replied the woman in her early thirties. “And I enjoy conversation more than I did. One walks home with only sore ears.”
“As opposed to sore nethers,” observed Sextilla, abandoning pretence and sitting upright on her couch. “Yes, far better than not being able to walk at all. I wonder
if any of Caesar's wives will be ambulatory tomorrow.”
Caenis saw that the priggish Sextilla had already started in on the mulsum, and had chosen Acte as her target. There were some women who needed a butt, a target for their own frustrations. Of all the attacks on women, those by other women were without doubt the most vicious.
But the smiling Acte had endured the vicious tongues of Agrippina and Poppaea, her rivals for Nero's affections. She had outlived them both, and was certainly more than immune to one crabbed widow's bile. No matter what anyone said, she had never ceased to love Nero.
Yet she had chosen to be here this day. She was not on her beloved's lake, where the trumpets had already signaled the start of what was rumoured to be an event unparalleled in the history of Roman orgies. Why was that? Was it easier to love Nero from afar? What kind of love was that? Acte was foregoing the chance to be near her love.
Which meant that however much she loved Nero, she could not bear to be a part of what was about to happen.
All of which made Caenis glad her court days were over. Whatever this Saturnalia held in store, she was no longer young or careless enough to engage in it. Especially as she knew these festivities had been arranged by Gaius Ofonius Tigellinus.
Thank the gods I'm not there, thought Caenis fervently.
* * *
“Io Saturnalia!”
The call was repeated again and again as the Flavians made their way towards Nero's Stagnum. The invitation had clearly been an order, so all five Flavian males donned their freedman's caps and their loose gowns of blue and gold called the synthesis, normally only worn for private dinner parties. Feeling foolish, they made their way towards the site of the holiday celebrations. They passed newly-transplanted trees covered in the ornaments of the season – stars, suns, and the faces of the god Janus. Once men had put candles upon the trees, but since the fire that particular holiday practice had fallen out of favour.
Measuring their pace for Old Sabinus, the Flavians filled the time with awkward talk. “What do you suppose they have planned?” asked Tertius.
