The Four Emperors

by David Blixt

  At the end of June, while seeing to the spoils of Jericho, Vespasian received a flurry of messages from Rome. Everyone had written – Caenis, Sabinus, Domitian. Even Vespasian's brother had set ink to relate Nero's downfall, a mark of how serious matters were.

  Despite his personal feelings for Nero Caesar, Vespasian fretted. Nero had given him this commission. It was terrible to think that, close to success, Galba might take it away. With that in mind, Vespasian prepared to abandon Judea – if Verginius or Clodius decided to lift arms against Galba, his three legions might make the difference. And in that way he might shore up his position.

  There followed a long period where none of the snippets of gossip reaching him made any sense whatsoever. Galba was traveling slowly overland, seeing no need to rush to Rome. The other Spanish governor, Nero's exiled friend Otho, was with him. Meanwhile, the German legions declared Verginius the new Caesar, while in Rome the knight Nymphidius was trying to get the Praetorians to declare him Caesar – a tidbit so absurd that Vespasian disbelieved it until it was confirmed by Caenis.

  Caenis. She was the one person in Rome who knew of the gnat buzzing in Vespasian's mind now. She had not written of it, but her letters were threaded with the same dangerous thoughts.

  His mind slipped back to last year, when the defeated Judean general had reverted to his earlier career of priest, claiming his lonely god had spared him to deliver a message to Vespasian, one of an ancient Hebrew prophecy: A great man will come out of the East, and rule the world.

  At the time Vespasian had laughed it off. “Let the Jew Apella believe it, not I!”

  Yet Josephus had persisted. “Tied up with that prophecy is another, that of the Redeemer who wields an iron broom to sweep Israel clean again.”

  Vespasian had taken this as another instance of the Hebrew's unparalleled instinct for survival. And indeed, the captured Judean had proven invaluable all this last year, with excellent advice given on all fronts, leading to a much swifter prosecution of the war.

  After Nero's death, though, the Hebrew's self-serving prophecy took on new and important meaning. Vespasian was not a fanciful man. Yet, no matter how he tried, he could not dismiss Josephus' prediction from his mind.

  A man out of the East. Ruling the world. And that other priest, hailing him as Caesar. Were the gods toying with him?

  Restless and desperate for news, Vespasian found himself more and more in the company of Mucianus. Fellow governors, they met often to share whatever scraps of rumour from Rome had reached their ears. Mucianus had a set of friends outside of senatorial circles that was just as valuable as Caenis' network of important wives.

  It was from Mucianus that he learned of the death of that idiot Clodius Macer in Africa Province. “He'd gone so far as to mint coins with his likeness on it,” said Mucianus as they stood looking at the water, letting the wind blow their words away. “Though in one way they were admirable – no laurel, no eagle. Just his name with 'Senatus Consulto' before it. Pity. He could have grown into a proper Roman leader. But Galba was right to have him executed. They did it publicly, under the auspices of the procurator Trebonius Garutianus. They say Clodius died howling for Calvia.”

  “Hmph. And where was the little minx?”

  Mucianus leaned against his polished walking stick. “On a ship back to Rome, to pretend she'd never urged him to rebel.”

  Vespasian had to laugh at that. “Who told you all this?”

  “Papirus, my chief centurion, happened to be there when he was killed.”

  Vespasian's eyebrows went up, though he said nothing. So Mucianus has aided Galba by removing a thorn from his side. Clever man. Why aren't you that clever, Vespasian?

  Aloud he said, “I wish there was some way to get a better sense of where these dice will fall.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mucianus. “I can't remember a time since the death of Gaius Caesar that things were so unsettled.”

  “At least with Nero we knew to expect his whims. Now we're buffeted by the whims of common soldiers, from all over Rome's lands.”

  Mucianus got a sly look, always a dangerous sign. “There is a way, you know. To gain a view of the larger mosaic, instead of individual tiles.”

  Vespasian frowned, then rolled his eyes. “Not your seer.”

  Mucianus laughed. “I know, you put no faith in oracles and prophets. But you should, Titus Flavius, since they put so much faith in you. Your nephew Sabinus, your pet Hebrew. Even that priest from Jerusalem – yes, I heard about that. Everyone has. Is there no way this war can take you to Mount Carmel? It might prove illuminating.”

  Vespasian continued to pour water on the idea. Yet two months later, in secret, he found himself climbing the slopes of Mount Carmel to hear what there was to hear.

  He sent no notice of his coming, nor did he identify himself when he arrived. As Basilides kept no trappings, toyed with no snakes, and ate plain meals, Vespasian found the seer at least less fraudulent than most.

  As with Mucianus, the Greek asked Vespasian not to speak until the vision was complete. More than willing to sit silent, Vespasian waited while the seer walked all around him, examined his palms, and studied his face.

  Basilides backed away, face agape in awe. “You are Titus Flavius Vespasianus.”

  “I am.”

  “I know not, Titus Flavius, what you have in your mind to do, be it to raise a house, grow your estate, or add to your slaves. But to you is granted an enormous house, boundless estates, and a mass of willing servants.”

  Vespasian grew dizzy, his hopes rising as he interpreted this in the obvious way. Yet seers were tricky. Look at Nero and the number seventy-three.

  Vespasian reached for his purse, but the old man held up a hand. “I have a different fee in mind. When the time comes, I should like to join you in your new estate.” A stronger testament to the good nature of the news than Vespasian could have hoped for.

  Departing, the fifty-nine year-old Vespasian clutched the seer's words so tightly within him as if afraid they might blow away. He wondered if he should do something, make some move. But if his rise was the will of the gods, did his actions even matter? A question for the ages.

  The cynic in him still doubted. But these continuous predictions of greatness were wearing down his rustic humility like water on a stone. Imperator. Princeps. Caesar. A Man out of the East, who will Rule the World.

  Returning to Caesarea Maritima, he found a letter waiting. Another sign? It was from his nephew Sabinus.

  Greetings, uncle. I hope this finds you well, and successful in all your endeavors.

  My father promised to write with concrete news, concrete being all the rage these days (a joke that is not my own, but my son's). But Father has been ill of late. Nothing serious. More a turn of temper when Galba stripped him of his office as Prefect of the City.

  Oh–ho! thought Vespasian, crowing inwardly. So my dear brother the sourpuss has had his title stripped? No wonder he won't write – he's afraid the jealousy will seep into the paper and blur the words!

  Vespasian continued reading:

  As you may already have heard of the troubles here in the city, I should tell you at once that Domitian is well and unharmed, as are both my boys. But there are some senatorial heads hanging from the rostra, along with the skull of one former king – Mithradates of Pontus, whom Galba executed for mocking his baldness in public. A bald Caesar is nothing new, but it is embarrassing. Though not worth killing over, I think.

  One head that no one is mourning is that of Nymphidius. I have to believe the man was demented, as it's the only explanation for his actions. As Prefect of the Praetorians, he already held the highest position a knight could attain. Yet he was angling to replace Galba, even having it bruited about that his mother had intrigued with Caligula, thus making him of Julian blood. As my younger son said, imagine defaming your own mother for political advancement.

  Vespasian smiled, thinking that it was not defaming a woman to speak the truth of her. Nymphidiu
s' mother had been a notorious whore – not a professional, just a lady with an eye for powerful men. Her affair with Caligula was perfectly true, but Nymphidius was far more likely the son Marcianus the gladiator. Vespasian wondered just how many knights and nobles were actually the children of gladiators. Roman women found those muscle-bound brutes quite irresistible.

  He returned to the letter, wherein Sabinus laid out the plan Nymphidius had made, and what the Flavians had done to prevent it.

  Thanks to Tertius' friend Antonius, who harangued his fellows that afternoon in their camp, the Praetorians saw the shame in switching their allegiance yet again. I hear it was an excellent speech, and it must have truly moved them, for when Nymphidius entered their camp to deliver his own speech, he was greeted with a hurled spear right in the sternum. One less Caesar to contend with.

  Galba had left Nymphidius alone, no doubt rightly thinking the upstart would die on a cross of his own making. But the moment his death was reported, Galba ordered the execution of Cingonius Varro as well. His crime was penning the speech Nymphidius was going to make.

  Varro's death threw us into a minor political crisis. He was elected to be one of the two consuls for next year, and as you know, when a consul dies, all state business is suspended for thirty days. Rather than nominate a suffect consul, we're holding a special election. Luckily he had not yet taken office.

  If Galba had hurried back to Rome, none of this would have occurred. Father suspects Galba stayed away so he could identify his enemies. Clever, perhaps. Certainly it smoked out Nymphidius and Clodius Macer. But in the end Galba has made even more enemies for himself.

  He started by executing poor Petronius Turpiliaus, who Nero put in charge of the legions in northern Italia. The man did absolutely nothing wrong. But he was Nero's choice, so Galba deemed him a traitor and had him killed. So his head was added to the senatorial faces that now adorn the rostra, faces belonging to men like Turpilianus. I fear they won't be the last.

  I honestly thought Galba's arrival would calm the waters, but quite the reverse. When he finally arrived last week, on the Tenth of October, he was stopped at the Milvian Bridge by the marines Nero had recruited before his death. They were demanding to be recognized as full legionaries. He refused to hear them, calling them Nero's singing eunuchs. Naturally they didn't like that, and grew unruly. Whereupon Galba had his personal legion, the Seventh Galbiana, attack them. Blood poured into the Tiber, a terrible omen.

  The next day he agreed to make them a proper legion, but after he did so, he paraded them in public for all the city to see and decimated them. Yes, decimated! He grouped them into rows of ten and made them draw lots. Each unlucky lottery winner was then clubbed to death by his nine fellows. I know you don't favour decimation. But even if it were good military practice, it displeased the people. Romans are not squeamish about blood, but they like their victims to be able to defend themselves.

  A few deaths have been met with cheers. Galba ordered the execution of Lucusta, Nero's pet purveyor of poisons. She was stripped of her citizenship and crucified – do not believe the stories about her being ravaged to death by a giraffe. Honestly, how so these stories get started? Perhaps if life were not so very strange already. Or is that one simple wish fulfillment?

  Yet not everyone tainted by Nero has had their head lopped off. Tigellinus has been spared, likely because he saved the life of Vinia, daughter of Galba's friend Titus Vinius. The public is outraged that such a miscreant should be let live. As, I must confess, am I. Domitian in particular seems upset by it.

  Galba has also enraged the Praetorians, who stood up for him so well with Nymphidius. He's refused to pay them their donatives. “I'm used to enlisting my soldiers, not buying them,” he said. An admirable sentiment, but there are rumblings from their camp that cannot bode well.

  Nor is Galba helping himself in Germania. He enraged his old legions there by rewarding the Gaulish tribes that sided with Vindex. He's also snubbed their commander. That was certainly an awkward situation. Verginius refused the title of Caesar, but the fact that Galba's former troopers preferred a dolt like Verginius to him had to be galling (my son Clemens points out the justice – gall for Gaul. And the wits are quoting the German legions as saying, 'Galba, Gaul – bah!').

  In yet more disturbing news, Fonteius Capito, the commander of the Lower Germanic legions, has been murdered by two of his legates. No one is sure if it was for supporting Galba, or for opposing him. I have it on authority that the legions in both Upper and Lower Germania detest Galba.

  And his latest move can't improve matters. To replace the murdered man, he's appointed none other than Aulus Vitellius as commander of Germania Inferior. Yes, in yet another display of birth overcoming ability (or even common sense), that pudgy pleasure-loving ponce has at last been given command of soldiers. His father's ashes must be roiling in their urn. Caenis says Vitellius' mother could tear out Galba's eyes. Sextilla takes that old prophecy quite seriously.

  Not that Galba has angered everyone. Before reaching Rome, he refused all gifts, living simply. Quite a contrast to Nero. But it hasn't prevented Galba's friends from passing laws to enrich themselves. Who are these friends, you ask? Vinus, Galba's bosom friend, Laco, Galba's new Praetorian Prefect, and Icelus, Galba's freedman who has been made a member of the Ordo Equester. The trio are working fast, due to our new Caesar's advanced age – they can't be sure how long he'll be in power. Nor does he have an heir, though I suspect Otho means to remedy that. He's trying to ingratiate himself with Galba, and is spending lavishly. I don't think it's working, as Galba seems more annoyed than flattered. But then, Galba is an inveterate skinflint.

  Speaking of which, he's exacting extraordinary taxes from all those provinces that were slow to acclaim him Caesar. It's a fact that the Treasury is bare. But this seems less to do with restoring Rome's financial health than with punishing those who sat on the fence.

  All of this breaks my heart. As a confirmed Stoic, I had hoped that having a like-minded man as Princeps would be a boon for Rome. And perhaps it will. But so far he has exhibited little outside of cruelty and an aloof air that is making men either fear or disdain him. He has not learned that great axiom of Seneca's: 'A rule founded on injustice will never last.'

  One thing he has done well. After the massacre on the Milvian Bridge, he sent his personal legion – the Seventh Galbiana, if you can credit it – away from Rome. He does not want to be seen to be threatening the city. So he sent them to Carnuntum under a new commander, one Marcus Antonius Primus. You know Antonius. He's the one who was exiled for trying to forge another man's will to have himself named the heir. Galba has recalled him. As he has Helvidius Priscus, whom Nero had banished for talking a little too loudly about emulating Brutus and Cassius. No sooner does Helvidius return but he starts in again about overthrowing the whole office of Princeps and restoring the Republic! And Galba allows it!

  Our new Caesar does seem to like surrounding himself with ill-suited men. Yet I do applaud his foresight in sending his legion away. Rome breathes easier.

  “It might come to regret that easy breathing, mused Vespasian aloud. “It's an excellent political move, but a poor tactical one. I thought better of Galba. He must be very sure of himself.”

  The letter concluded:

  That's the major news, except that I have been elected praetor for next year. As I came in at the top of the polls, Galba has confirmed me as praetor urbanus, a great honour. My hope is that I shall be able to stem some of the unrest. It is the beginning of a new era for Rome, and I mean to do everything I can to make it prosperous. It means I cannot join the Judean war for another twelve months, as the Pythia predicted. But if you'll still have me, I am eager to do some real soldiering again. And to get away from Rome.

  Caenis sends her love. I know she will write you much of this same news, with better style. She is well, as are your grand-daughters. I and my sons visit them several times a week, to fill the void of their absent fathers, fighting b
ravely so far from home.

  I shall write again as soon as the Senate has found its feet.

  Vespasian laid the letter aside. Hard not to like that boy, Sabinus. A thoroughly acceptable relation. Not as reckless as Titus, nor as feckless as Domitian – and certainly nothing like his father! This letter was a fascinating and frank summary of affairs, and tallied perfectly with Caenis' report.

  Yet at the core, entirely unhelpful. His immediate dilemma was whether or not to continue the war against the Judeans. There were risks either way. On the one hand, if he did not pacify Judea, he could be charged with failing his commission and sent into exile. Hard to see a path to the curule throne in that direction. On the other, if he did push on and smash the remaining resistance in the south, Galba could replace him with some crony at the ultimate moment, allowing someone else to take credit for the Judean victory, just as Pompey had done to Lucullus. An ignominious fate.

  Making up his mind, Vespasian summoned his son Titus. The lad entered looking splendid. He had a few new scars from fighting in the front ranks all summer, and his natural good-cheer seemed to have grown with his self-esteem. Or was his smug smile to do with his ongoing tryst with Queen Berenice? “You wanted me, pater?”

  Vespasian quickly laid out his concerns, without mentioning the secret desire that was now building up within him. He concluded with an order. “I'm sending you and Cerialis to Galba. Sponge his podex, oil his egg-like pate, do whatever you have to – but get my command prorogued! I refuse to win this war if the credit will go to someone else.”

  Saluting, Titus departed looking upset – doubtless mourning his separation from his Judean Queen. But that might have been unjust. He might be mourning instead a separation from his legion. He had certainly earned the Fifteenth's love and respect.