by David Blixt
Still, there was no harm in talking to a soldier. A Caesar had to know his men, earn their respect. “You there. Your name.”
The legionary blinked. “Gaius Mansuetus, sir. Junior.”
“Is this your first tour of duty?”
“It is. But soldiering is in my blood. My father is a centurion.”
“And where is he serving now?”
“Last I heard, he was with the Twentieth Valeria Victrix, in Britannia, Servius Sulpicius – forgive me, I mean Caesar.” The lad colored in consternation.
Galba gave him a forgiving nod, nothing more. “Well, congratulations on joining the winning side, young Gaius. See that you do your duty and you'll serve Rome well.”
“Rider ahead, Caesar,” said the lead centurion.
Galba quickly tore his gaze from young Mansuetus to peer ahead. His eyes were not what they once had been, but the cant of the rider's head looked familiar. As they drew nearer, he began kicking his mount into a quick trot. His face broke into a genuine grin and he heaved a sigh of relief. “Icelus! You've escaped!”
Galba's freedman had been imprisoned by Nero months earlier. “They let me go, domine, as soon as they remembered I was there. Men seem to fear what you might do if they harmed me.”
“They were right,” said Galba grimly. Icelus had once had that same handsome Romanness as young Mansuetus, and had earned his freedom through a combination of skill, devotion, and discretion. There was no man Galba trusted more. “But then why has it taken you so long to reach me?”
“Servius Sulpicius, I must tell you, I had a harrowing time leaving Rome. I was watched by the Praetorians night and day.”
“Watched? Whatever for?”
Icelus shook his head. “I fear Nymphidius means to declare himself Caesar.”
“Nymphidius?” Galba was still in slack-jawed outrage. “The Praetorian Prefect?”
Otho could only laugh. “Another one? Jupiter! It rains Caesars!”
Titus Vinius sputtered. “But – but – but he's been sending messages begging Servius Sulpicius to hurry to Rome. He's the one who wrote of Clodius Macer's rebellion, for Juno's sake!”
“Probably hoping to place the new Caesar under his wing, and exert control from the start. But you've stymied him, Caesar. Without you in Rome, how can he claim to speak for you?”
“But how on earth can he be Princeps?” demanded Galba. “He's not even a senator!”
“That may be, Caesar,” replied Icelus. “But he is wooing certain susceptible senators, and bruiting it about that he is the son of Gaius Caesar. More, it is said he will have the backing of the entire Praetorian guard. Thank Hercules you are bringing your army to put them down.”
“Fancy dress soldiers with no real experience,” scoffed Otho. “They won't stand a chance.”
Icelus was insistent. “Servius Sulpicius, you must hurry your troops!”
Galba shook his head. Yet another boil to be lanced. “I'll enter Rome when I'm good and ready. And when I do…” his voice trailed away in a menacing fashion.
The chaos was far from over.
* * *
ROMA, ITALIA
5 SEPTEMBER 68 AD
Caenis was writing yet another letter to Vespasian when she received unexpected guests. “Domitia Longina and Verulana Gratilla! My dears, I'm so sorry, did we have plans?”
“Not at all,” said Domitia. “We are inexcusably imposing on you in the hopes that you will aid us in a deception.”
Perceiving mischief, Caenis sighed inwardly. “It depends on the deception and upon whom it will be practiced.”
“In the current atmosphere,” huffed Verulana in a tone of grave injustice, “Domitia's husband has forbidden her to worship Isis.”
“Prudent,” observed Caenis. “We don't yet know how our new Caesar feels about such foreign gods. Did I hear that Lucius Aelius has offered his aid to Galba?”
“Yes,” answered Domitia. “And has been made a Tribune of the Soldiers here in Rome.”
“That is quite a reward for one so young. But how can I help you?”
“We'd like you to say we've been here with you,” explained Verulana, “while we sneak off to the temple.”
“And leave our girls here,” added Domitia. “They can't enter Isis' temple, and we can't let them be seen waiting outside.”
Caenis wanted no part of this folly. But, feckless and daring as they were, these ladies had influence over powerful men. Plautius seemed on the rise under Galba, and Verulana had been trysting with Vespasian's nephew Tertius ever since Saturnalia. “Very well. But in the future, I would appreciate it if you found some other alibi.”
They kissed her with great delight, then Verulana stepped into her tiring chamber to change clothes. Domitia lingered behind. “Antonia Caenis, have you seen—”
“I've told you, Domitia. Domitian has never forgiven me supplanting his mother. If you seek news of him, you must do so elsewhere.”
“I've written him letters,” said the young woman despairingly. “He does not reply.”
“Which shows his good sense. I'm sorry, my dear, but the Flavians have enough enemies without one of them cuckolding your husband. Now, I thought you were eager to go?”
Minutes later, the two young ladies emerged with their hair oddly wrapped, their figures draped in amorphous robes. “Is that the garb of Isis?”
They both smiled and shook their heads. “We are sworn to secrecy.” With another set of kisses and stern warnings to their slave-girls not to trouble Lady Caenis, they slipped out of her house and disappeared in the direction of the Capitol – there was a small temple to Isis there on the northern side of the Capitoline Hill, just in the shadow of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, that was less ostentatious than the grand Iseum near the Campus Martius. At least there was some sense in the girls.
Caenis was about to dismiss the slaves when her eye was again caught by Domitia's little Jewess. “What is your name, my dear?”
The slave was clearly startled. “Perel, domina.”
“Perel, will you come with me to the atrium. It is very hot for this time of year, and I desire wine and some conversation.”
Obediently the girl fell in behind Caenis, and together they went to the small open-air garden at the center of the house. Dismissing her own slaves, she had Perel pour her a cup of wine. Reclining on a couch, Caenis decided to begin by putting the girl at ease. “I was a slave once.”
“Truly?” Perel was politely interested, no more.
“Born into it – my parents were slaves, so at birth I was Caesar's property. I became valuable to my mistress, and she freed me upon her death. As I am certain Domitia will do for you.” Caenis smiled. “Tell me, how did you become a slave?”
The girl could not avoid a direct question. “My father was arrested, and I was sold to punish him.”
“And what did your father do? Was it debt?”
“No, domina.” Perel's eyes blazed to angry life. “He was charged with setting the great fire.”
“Ah. I should have known. He was a Chrestiani, then?”
“He was a true Jew, domina,” answered Perel.
“And what happened to him?”
“He was executed. Would you like more wine, domina?”
“Thank you, yes. But with more water.” As the girl prepared the drink, Caenis said, “I am very sorry about your father.”
“Thank you, domina.”
“And your mother?”
Perel brought the drink over. “She is a slave with me.”
“That must be a comfort. I never saw my mother after I entered my mistress' service.” Caenis took a long sip. A shame to water such a good vintage, but better that than develop a reputation for wine-bibbing. “Do you mind if I ask about your face?”
“Of course not, domina.”
Caenis waited, then smiled. “What happened to your face?”
“Back in Judea, a rich merchant wished to take me to wife. My father refused him, for he did not believe as w
e do. I was very young when the merchant had me abducted. I was in such distress, I fell into a fit.” Lifting her chin a trifle, she indicated the fallen side of her face. “This was the result. When the merchant looked upon me, he cast me off and sent me back to my father.”
Caenis listened, but wasn't satisfied. “That isn't the whole story.”
“It is what happened.” And no matter how Caenis tried, she could get no more out of the girl.
“You were born in Judea?”
“I was, domina.”
“What do you think of the war?”
“I think that without a miracle, my people cannot win.”
“And do you pray for a miracle?”
“It is not for me to badger the Lord,” said Perel. “I pray only for an end to violence, and the arrival of wisdom.” An answer Caenis found entirely satisfactory.
Domitia and Verulana returned a few hours later, flushed and excited. Resuming their street clothes, they plied Caenis with thanks, fishing for an invitation to continue using her as an alibi.
Astonishingly, they got it. “On second thought, I am willing to be your false beard. I quite enjoyed talking to your slave, Perel. She has hidden depths.”
Domitia glowed with pride as she stroked Perel's fallen cheek. “Isn't she a marvel? Both beautiful and horrific to look at! And clever! She convinced my husband that her condition is caused by a disease of the skin. He won't touch her – won't even let her do the washing! I rather like having a slave my husband hasn't bedded.” She smiled. “Even though I've bedded all of his.”
Caenis was not shocked, merely disapproving. “Are you trying to get divorced?”
Domitia sniffed. “Only when I find something better. Come, Perel, time to go.”
“Yes, domina.”
* * *
Across Rome, Clemens was negotiating his way through a crowd. Rumour told of an underground play to be performed at the house of the Hebrew actor Alliturus. Though he had his father's blessing to attend plays in general, he was still furtive. Today he was supposed to be visiting his feminine relations. But there was just so much of small girls that a teenage boy could withstand, and Clemens was well past that threshold. The elder one, whom he had dubbed the Harpy, was always hitting him.
Now he felt the thrill of the illicit deed, especially sweet in going to something so revolutionary as a play. No one expected old Galba to reverse the Senate's dictate and restore theatre to one of the acceptable entertainments.
Though Nymphidius Caesar might, thought Clemens with a smile. That was a farce worthy of a play. Nymphidius was now openly suggesting he had a right to be hailed Caesar due to his mother's affair with Gaius Caesar Caligula. It wasn't every man who would denounce his mother as a whore in order to become Princeps. Though to be fair, everyone had already known it of her.
Lost in thought as he entered the Forum Romanum, Clemens was surprised to find himself suddenly face-to-face with Spiros, and more surprised to see the young man once again dressed in feminine garb. He hesitated, then raised his hand and called out, “Ave.” He did not add a name, having no idea what name to employ.
A burly man in white armour stamped his spear warningly on the ground. “You will address Lady Caesar by her proper name, Poppaea Sabina.”
Taken aback, Clemens raised his eyebrows. “Forgive me, Lady Sabina.”
Spiros shrugged with a wry smile. “My life is clearly now a Comedy. Nymphidius – I mean my beloved Gaius – has espoused me as his wife.”
Clemens began to laugh, only to receive a warning look from the boy. The Praetorian beside them clearly thought it was no joke. “Ah – um, congratulations?”
“Thank you. I know I am his second choice. He tried first to wed Nero's other widow, Statilia Messalina. But she refused him and went to her villa in Pompeii. So that leaves me, Nero's legal widow, to contract in marriage.”
Clemens could not believe his ears. Nymphidius was attempting to shore up his claim on the Princeps' curule chair by marrying Spiros? At law, perhaps it made some little sense – they had been legally married. But it made Nymphidius even more of a joke than he had been.
Mind unable to grasp this, Clemens' mouth found another topic. “I hear you attended Nero's funeral.”
Spiros nodded. “I did. So did Claudia Acte, along with his childhood nurses. We laid his ashes in the family tomb of the Domitii – he was one by birth, and it didn't seem right to inter him with Augustus and the Divine Julius.”
Clemens had to smile. In less than a year, this Greek boy had certainly learned the delicate dance of Roman families.
Spiros misread the smile. “Please don't tell anyone! They'll defile his tomb.”
“I won't,” promised Clemens, fully aware that if anyone had wanted to defile Nero's tomb, they would have done so already. Indeed, the day after Nero's death, Nymphidius had gone about throwing down the busts of his former master. Oddly, this had not gone over well with the public. Yes, they rejoiced in Nero's death. But they were also horrified by this lack of respect from someone charged with Nero's protection. “Well, I'm off to revel in Menander.”
“Menander! O, I would so love to see a play!” For a moment, the young man was filled with light. And why not? It was in his Greek heritage to love the stage, and he had already confessed an affinity for theatrical terms. It was on the tip of Clemens' tongue to invite the poor eunuch when he saw the lad's shoulders slump. He'd received a stern glance from his minder, one of Nymphidius' picked men. “But I have places to be. This day of all days.”
Clemens frowned. Why this day? Was the ludicrous marriage to take place this day? Or was it something else..?
Wishing Spiros an awkward farewell, Clemens reluctantly decided he could not attend the play after all. Instead he sped home to inform his father and grandfather what was in the wind.
It turned out not to be news. In fact, Sabinus had fuller knowledge, which he now shared with his sons and Domitian. “Nymphidius is about to declare. He has bought a few senators, either with bribes or threats of exposure – he knows every vice they've practiced under Nero. He called them together this morning, and they decided now is their moment. They don't have nearly enough votes in the Senate. So he's going the other route.”
“The people?” asked Clemens.
“Don't be a fool,” said Domitian. “The Praetorians.”
“I would call Clemens an idealist,” said Sabinus in mild reproof. “But Domitian is correct. As a Praetorian Prefect, Nymphidius has enormous sway over his men. And there's precedent – the Praetorians murdered Gaius Caesar and appointed Claudius in his place, with no senatorial authority.”
“Rursus prosperum ac felix scelus virtus vocatur; sontibus parent boni, ius est in armis, opprimit leges timor,” quoted Clemens. Once again prosperous and successful crime goes by the name of virtue; good men obey the bad, might is right, and fear oppresses law.
For once, Sabinus had no time for Seneca. “Nymphidius plans to move tonight. He'll visit the Praetorian barracks as they're finishing their evening meal, ply them with wine, and make a speech. Yes, a speech. The new consul Cingonius Varro has evidently written one for him.”
Domitian snorted. “I'm not sure he can even read.” Nymphidius had been one of the many faces that leered at him in Greece, earning a lifetime of hatred.
“What do we do?” asked Tertius.
“What else is there to do?” demanded Domitian, seething. “We must seize Nymphidius and execute him. Ourselves, if need be.”
That drew surprised glances. Carefully Sabinus said, “I'm not sure that we want to insert ourselves directly into this mess. Though your uncle has gone to alert the city guards in case there is trouble.”
Clemens frowned. “What about Tigellinus? Can't he put a stop to this nonsense?”
“Rumour says he's truly ill. And I think he's hiding his head until Galba arrives. He believes that if he shows his face in public, he'll be thrown off the Tarpean Rock.”
“He's not wrong,” said D
omitian. “But then, he was always cleverer than Nymphidius. Or should I say, Caesar? Because if we do nothing, he'll get away with it!”
“And with Galba on the way here with an army of his own,” added Clemens, “it will be war in the streets.”
Domitian turned to Sabinus and said with fierce urgency. “Cousin, you must go, pretend you mean to join his faction, then stick a sword in his gullet.”
Sabinus reared back in shock. “Stab a man in cold blood? Because of a crime he has not committed?”
“You're so right, we should wait for him to commit it, and be untouchable.”
Clemens was horribly torn between his father's sense of honour and his cousin's practicality. “Why does it have to be us? I mean, there are plenty of senators who must have heard the same rumours. Why aren't they acting? Why must it be us?”
Sabinus turned his frown upon his younger son. “'He who spares the wicked injures the good.' We should do nothing?”
Tertius cleared his throat. “I have another way. I know a fellow from the Campus Martius. A knight's son. He's older than I am, but we sparred a few times back when I was starting out. He joined the Praetorians when he came of age, and was made an officer. A Speculator, actually. But he's a decent fellow, and has a strong sense of honour. Even earned him a cognomen.”
“What's his name?” asked Sabinus.
“Antonius Honoratus.”
Sabinus looked pleased. “That's the wonderful thing about living in a city of such close quarters – everyone knows everyone else. Yes, I think you can call upon your old friend and let fall the news of the day. Just do not involve the family. The last thing the Flavian clan needs is to become embroiled in kingmaking.”
* * *
CAESAREA MARATIMA, JUDEA
20 NOVEMBER 68 AD
Vespasian had spent the spring mopping up Galilee, then used the early summer months to seize the towns east across the Jordan River from Jerusalem. The downstream villages received a gruesome warning as thousands of corpses washed up on their shores.
Systematically reducing the hamlets east and south of Jerusalem, Vespasian ringed the city round with despair. In June he captured Jericho, the last major Judean city outside the capitol. Arriving in his camp on the coast, he learned both of Galba's revolt and of Vindex's defeat by the German legions under Verginius. He was still two months behind the times.
