by David Blixt
Clemens took up a similar stance and began edging forward. By now, he knew his cousin's fighting style. Domitian was feared on the practice field, less for his skill than his ferocity. He had become a master of dirty tricks and low blows. But Domitian never worked those tricks on his cousin. He fought Clemens honestly and accepted his losses with grace. Whatever had happened in Greece – and Clemens was not so naïve that he could not guess – the black bitterness that had enveloped Domitian's spirit had not extended to his relations with his cousin. With Clemens and Clemens alone he seemed to be the Domitian of old. A thought that weighed upon Clemens. He did not want to be responsible for his cousin's happiness.
As they dueled, one of the Field Masters came by. It was Mamercus Cornelius Martialus, a hoary (and hairy) old centurion from the Rapax, the Twenty-First Legion, elite soldiers of Germania Superior. These days he served Clemens' grandfather as centurion to the city cohorts, and spent his spare time advising the young men of Rome how to fight. He was friendly with Clemens' father as well – they had conversed during Nero's Triumph in December.
Mamercus now pointed at Clemens. “More tip, less edge. The body's like a siege engine, lad, and it's best to move in ways that won't wear it out.” He did not bother to address Domitian, who had proved himself immune to advice.
But that did not mean Domitian wished to be ignored. “Tell me, militus, who you think is going to win this war.” He made it sound as though he already knew the answer.
Mamercus scratched at his hairline. “War, is it? Not like any war I've ever seen. To be a war, both sides have to decide to fight.”
“What happened in Gaul? Do you know?”
The centurion smiled. “Vindex was a fool from start to finish. He thought the German legion was coming to join him. Whereas my brothers of the Twenty-Second Primigenia and Fourth Macedonica came to fight. So the barbarian army opened its arms, and the Roman army stabbed for the heart. Vindex is lucky he fell on the field. The shame of that defeat would be unbearable.”
Domitian became sly. “I hear tell that Vindex thought he had a deal with General Verginius, that they would join forces.”
“Hogwash. Verginius is too stupid to be that devious.”
“Blunt speaking,” said Clemens, amused.
“As blunt as that sword you're holding,” replied Mamercus cheerfully. “I'm too stupid to be clever.”
Domitian pressed on with. “I hear tell, too, that after the battle the German legions proclaimed their general as the new Caesar.”
The old veteran snorted. “Men do get swept up by a battle. But Verginius? A first-term senator? The smartest thing he's done in his life was decline.”
“You think Galba will go through with it?” asked Clemens. “He'll march on Rome?”
“Galba.” Mamercus spit, as if warding off evil. “There's not much I would put past him. But I hear he's retreated into Hispania. Didn't like the Germanic legions nominating someone other than himself. As if he could expect their loyalty.”
“Not an admirer?” asked Domitian.
“He's a right bastard and no mistake. Generaled the Primigenia before he toddled off to Hispania, and before I transferred to the Rapax. He was the reason I got out. Treats his men like dogs, then expects us to lap his hand. Not a generous bone in that man's body.”
“Frugality is admirable,” observed Clemens.
“Not in a general,” came the retort. “Nor in a Caesar. For all his foolishness, Nero's had an open hand.”
“Not open enough, apparently!”
Turning in surprise, Clemens saw his father arriving at a run. “Pater, what's happened?”
“More armies have declared for Galba, including the First Italica.” This was a legion recruited by Nero just two years earlier, now stationed on the Gaulish border. “No one knows what Caesar will do. He's mad,” added Sabinus, becoming the first man to put it into words. He turned to Mamercus. “Clear the Campus Martius. I wouldn't put it past him to come down here and demand all these boys don armour and fight for him. Then join your cohort.”
“Yes, Titus Flavius.” Sabinus was a senator, which was all the authority the ex-centurion needed. Saluting, Mamercus darted off to carry out the order.
Sabinus turned to Clemens and Domitian. “Follow me. Your grandfather is invoking his role as Prefect of the City to organize the militia against any unrest.” Outside of the Praetorians, the militia was the only thing in Rome resembling a standing army.
Rushing home, they passed the anonymous placards that had been cropping up for weeks all around the city: Death to Nero the Tyrant! Fall the False Apollo! All hail Nero, God of Failed Dreams!
This last struck Clemens as both poetic and true. For Nero was above all a dreamer. But who said all dreams were good?
“What's he doing now?” asked Domitian, dark eyes intense and shining.
Sabinus was forcing a path through streets full of people just hearing the news. “Caesar? We heard furniture being destroyed, and there's a rumour he's asked that bitch Lucusta for a poison.”
That stopped Domitian in his tracks. He looked stricken. “I must go to him!” He turned to run towards the Palatine Hill.
Sabinus caught his arm, dragging him harshly back. “You must not! There's no telling what he will do to himself, or anyone near him.”
Domitian struggled. “I have to see him!”
Clemens stepped close. “Domitian, you can do nothing for him.”
Domitian began to weep. Confused, Sabinus kept them moving until they reached his father's house. After ordering a slave to watch Domitian, Sabinus pulled Clemens aside. “What was that about?”
Clemens decided not to share his suspicions with his father, who otherwise might never be able to look at Domitian again. “Nero is his father's patron, and Domitian rightly feels it his duty to attend him. His father would expect no less.”
“Oh.” That answer clearly brought Sabinus up short. “Well spoken, son. And it's a credit to Domitian. But we must be practical. We'll stay within doors tonight. Tomorrow we'll have a better sense of which way Caesar's wind is blowing.”
“I think Caesar's wind blows from the West. Specifically, Hispania. Oh, this should be a play! Nero, God of Failed Dreams!” But, seeing his father's frown, Clemens said no more.
* * *
It was a lovely day. The air was warm. Birds chirped. Children played. The clouds high above were fluffy and pure. Even the Tiber was sweet-smelling. It was a perfect day. A day to die for.
Or to die on.
Disheveled, eyes red and puffy from tears, Nero asked, “Has Lucusta brought it yet?”
“Yes, Caesar.” A palace slave came forward and produced a fine glass vial filled with a syrupy liquid. It was a fatal potion, concocted by the same feminine genius who toyed with substances to enhance love-making and revelry. Notably, Lucusta had brought it, and departed.
Nero held the vial before him, squinting at it. “Poison. Is that a death worthy of Caesar? It is a woman's tool. Cleopatra died of poison.”
“So did Socrates,” offered one wife – his female wife, Statilia Messalina. Spiros was present as well, and it galled Statilia that the boy looked better in that dress than a woman could. She was determined to cut the imposter out of this, the ultimate moment.
There were two other men present, as well – the remaining Praetorian Prefect, Nymphidius, and Nero's loyal steward Epaphroditus. The latter was silent as the former slapped his palm to his head and cried out, “Caesar, there is no need for this! You are causing your own downfall. The men of the legions are being manipulated by their officers! All true Romans love you! Stir yourself and do something!”
It was not his wont to be so blunt with his Caesar, but Nymphidius did not relish the idea of Nero's death. Without a Caesar to serve, there was no point in a Praetorian guard. And Nymphidius had wronged too many good Romans, deflowered too many daughters, debauched too many wives and sons, to ever think he would be safe without the aura of fear attached to his
title. Tigellinus had saved himself by running off with Vinia. Unless Nymphidius could gain a similar way into Galba's favour, it was imperative that Nero should stay alive.
That cause had not been aided by the past hour. Thinking to flee Rome, Nero had crossed to the Servilian Gardens and tried to persuade the Praetorian guards there to come with him. Even under the eyes of their commander, some men hedged, while others balked outright. One daring soul at the back of the rows of white-clad soldiers even quoted Virgil, crying out, “Is it so terrible a thing to die?” That sent the disheartened Nero back up the Palatine Hill with his tail firmly between his legs.
Now he turned the vial over and over in his hand, watching the dark, cloying substance cling and slip to the glass walls. “I had a dream,” he murmured, his voice regaining a little of that false musicality he affected. “I was clothed in a swarm of flying ants, and Pompey my horse turned into an ape beneath me. Except its head. Pompey's head remained a horse, and he sang in such a beautiful voice – so beautiful. I never used to remember my dreams.”
Statilia threw herself on her knees before him. “I beg you, Caesar, put that away. You are indeed troubled by ants – ants! Galba? He'll be dead of old age before he ever leaves Hispania. Leave this. There are other ways to prevail. Do this, and nothing will be left but an eternal sleep, full of such dreams.”
That stirred him. Crossing to his ornate marble-topped desk, Nero carefully placed the poison inside a golden box. He let his hand rest upon it for a long time, as they discussed what else might be done.
Nymphidius urged him to raise an army, and call up Otho in Further Hispania to drag his lazy podex across to kick his fellow governor into eternity.
Nero had other ideas. “I know! I'll throw myself a lavish funeral. Hire the mourners, buy up all the black cloth you can find. I'll ride on the bier as if I were dead. The people will see me and be moved! Then make a miraculous recovery and ascend the Rostra to beg their forgiveness for all my failings.”
The only voice that chimed in support for this plan belonged Spiros. Statilia and Nymphidius both urged Caesar to take a more practical plan into consideration. To which he responded with the notion of going directly to Hispania and plead to Galba in person for his life. “Or perhaps I should go in the opposite direction. I got on well with King Tiridates. And I am a god, like his god Mithras. Perhaps he'll send aid to me if I offer him all of the East?”
But in the end he neither wished to die or to betray Rome to her enemies. As Nymphidius departed, Nero was weeping again. “All I've ever wanted was to express the art within me! Fortuna conspired with my mother to endow me with the whole world as a palate for my paints. Can I be blamed if no one has the wit to see my genius?”
Statilia stayed a short while longer. But when Nero threw himself at the feet of the Greek eunuch in a dress, calling the creature by dead Poppaea's name, Statilia collected her skirts and departed.
Clutching Spiros close to him, Nero stroked the boy's hair. “O Poppaea, Poppaea, my sweet dear. I have discovered that my life is a Tragedy, my love. Which is as it should be – for laughter does not move men so much as tears.”
In answer, Spiros kissed the stroking fingers on each knuckle. “Our lives transcend form, Caesar. We are like Janus – Comedy and Tragedy in one.”
Nero did not seem to hear him. “This is what she said, the old hag. Your lying bitch of an oracle, the Pythia. I forced my way in, and she had her revenge by telling me my death would herald the death of gods. But gods cannot die! I had myself made a god so I would last forever.”
“Nothing is forever, my lord,” said Spiros. “Not even gods.”
It was a brave statement. In Nero's current condition, he might lash out and murder anyone who even hinted he was doomed.
But Nero agreed. “You are so very right. Even gods must fade away. I am six dolphins down, and the seventh egg is in the cup. But I am not yet done with my life. There is so much more I can do, so much I have to offer! I cannot die. It would not be worthy of me. Even if it means giving up my godhead, I must live – for art's sake!”
As darkness fell, Nero made up his mind. If Rome was done with him, he would be done with Rome. Alexandria was the true home of the arts, more befitting his gifts and temperament. His mood improved, and by the end of supper he seemed perfectly cheerful.
“Epaphroditus, secure a ship. We leave for Ostia in the morning, and from there to Aegypt. Who needs Rome? Who needs power or wealth? Who needs titles? No more Nero! No more Caesar! I shall be reborn as Lucius the Bard and earn a living with my skillful music!” He went to bed content and secure, sure that Apollo, god of arts, would see him through.
* * *
Panic in the streets was becoming frightfully common. Every scrap of news sent people running for their homes, or their neighbors' homes, or up to the walls, or to the Forum.
Caenis had already decided that she could not allow these upheavals to disrupt her visits to Vespasian's grand-daughters. In the last fourteen months she had become so much a part of their lives, they referred to her as avia – grandmother. A name that annoyed both Domitian and his former nurse. But as Caenis had Vespasian's approval, there was nothing to be done.
She was present now, watching the two girls at play with a pair of cats they had found and adopted. The felines were lovely orange creatures, one with the face of a lion, the other with a lean and hungry look. They had named them Pompey and Cato, and the brothers were remarkably patient as the two girls lifted them and carried them about the house. Occasionally one would turn his face to Caenis, eyes bleak, and she would laugh. It was always the way – the wisest men learned to simply endure the will of women.
There was a knock on the door, and in moments Sabinus entered the peristyle garden, followed by Clemens and Domitian. She kissed the adult man and his son, then tried to be pleasant to Domitian. “Titus Flavius, how very nice to see you. I am to tell you that Domitia Longina has asked after you, several times.”
“Has she,” replied Domitian flatly.
Interesting, thought Caenis. She had thought he would be flattered. Instead he seemed angry, as though she were taunting him. Sabinus was clearly pleased by his young cousin's lack of interest in a married woman. It was more than could be said of his elder son, who Caenis knew was often trysting with Verulana. But she was certain Sabinus had made no mention of it to Tertius. Men did not pry into such things until they became public.
“Owitch!” Clemens whirled about, rubbing the small of his back. The six year-old red-head called Flavia had struck him from behind. She giggled and ran away, and with a roll of his eyes Clemens dutifully chased her. Julia Titi let out a three-year old's squeal and joined the chase.
Under cover of their laughter, Sabinus said, “We didn't mean to interrupt. We just came to be certain all was well.”
“Should it not be?” asked Caenis.
“These are troubled times.” He explained about the defecting legions and Nero's call for poison. “If Nero does kill himself, anything could happen. I was around ten years old when Gaius Caesar was killed, and I remember the madness in the streets. I think it best if a man stayed here tonight. Or else for the girls to come to our house. There is likely to be an uproar.” He looked at Caenis and shook his head. “Forgive me. I should have asked you as well. Are you safe in your home? Would you like to come stay?”
Caenis patted his cheek. “That is incredibly kind of you. But your father would not like it.”
“Nonsense. You're family.”
Caenis felt her eyes misting. “You are such a good man. But rest assured I am quite secure in my home. I have my freedman and his four strapping sons to look after me. But you're quite right. Leave your sons here tonight to watch the girls. And Domitian as well. It will cheer their nurse, so she won't frighten them. She's very excitable.”
When Caenis departed a short while later, she was in an excellent mood. That man was the future of her love's family, she felt sure of it.
As she nav
igated the streets, she saw that Sabinus was quite correct. The city was preternaturally quiet, as if it were a storm cloud ready to burst into sound and fire. Anything could happen. The moment she reached her home, she had the doors bolted and sat listening through the night to the strange sounds of a whole nation on a precipice. She recalled the stories of the night before Caesar's assassination – comets, hail, lions whelping in the streets, men bursting into flame. If this was the night of Nero's death, it passed in an eerily calm manner.
* * *
Nero awoke the next morning to find his whole household fled. The Praetorians were gone, convinced by Nymphidius that abandoning Caesar was not treachery, as Caesar meant to abandon them and Rome. Moreover, Nymphidius claimed to have been in contact with Galba, and now offered each soldier thirty thousand sesterces for swearing allegiance to the new Caesar. This astronomical sum, more than double their yearly wages, combined with an appeal to their patriotism, swayed them.
While Nymphidius summoned the Senate to declare the Praetorians' newfound love for Galba, the guards and staff had quietly taken with them every piece of plunder in the house – including the golden casket in which Nero had placed the sticky-sweet poison.
Abandoned, Nero tore at his hair, bit his lip so hard he drew blood. “O, I am Fortuna's whipping boy! Who told Nymphidius the plan? Who?”
Wiping away the blood with a napkin, Spiros said nothing.
Without funds or servants, the dream of Alexandria died as quickly as it had come. It seemed as though there was no choice but to die. But how? If not a simple sleeping draught, it had to be public, dramatic, glorious! Thinking to stage a public fight in which he would die bravely, Nero send for Spiculus. But his favourite gladiator would not come. Nor would any slave left in the palace do the deed, for murdering a master meant crucifixion.
Stepping into the street, Nero invited anyone come and kill him. Anyone at all. He shouted at passers-by, holding a knife-handle out as a gift. When no one rose to do the deed, Nero flew into a rage. “Is there no one willing to do their duty and end Caesar's life? Someone, kill me! Kill me! Do I have neither friend nor foe in all the world?” He tottered back within doors, realizing he had sown a crop worse than hate. His harvest was indifference, a response no artist could tolerate. Shattered, he wept inconsolably, and considered throwing himself into the Tiber, or off the Tarpean Rock. But he did neither, leaving his fate up to others.
