by David Blixt
Next, Vespasian sent for Josephus. He started this interview in quite a different vein, inviting his pet Jew to sit. “I haven't seen you in weeks. How are you filling your time?”
“Writing. I'm trying to compose a book about this war, to explain why the Zelotes cannot win.”
Though he saw the cleverness of this tactic (Josephus clearly wanted to circulate his version of Jotapata's fall), Vespasian made a sour noise. “Books! You at least have an excuse – you're in captivity. But Mucianus? Pfah!” Mucianus had recently penned a tome on the flora and fauna of Syria. Hardly the work of a governor.
Josephus' laugh was polite. “Perhaps, Titus Flavius, you should try your hand at writing. I am sure it would further your cause.”
Vespasian grimaced. “I am content to be a man, and do man's work.” Yet he hesitated to ask the question in his mind. Instead he posed a more practical one. “Tell me, what in Jupiter's name is happening in Jerusalem?”
Luckily for Rome, the Jews were in chaos, too. Internal strife had created a three-way war in and around the city. The faction that Josephus had once belonged to was no more – Vespasian had seen the very real tears he had shed when word came of the High Priest's death. Instead, his old foe Yohanan of Gischala – the man who had so neatly fooled Titus with that trick about Shabbat – was now owner of part of Jerusalem, with an Idumean leader in possession of the rest. Yet a third force had set up outside the city gates, led by a zealous revolutionary called Simon bar Giora. He seemed mad, and there was no knowing why he was besieging his own capitol.
Vespasian chuckled. “Nice of you Judeans to besiege yourselves while Rome is distracted. So I need not fear a Judean army next year?”
“No, Caesar. Not unless those three factions unite. And I hardly see that as possible.”
“So much the better, so much the better. Now, my friend, tell me – tell me more of this man from the East who will rule the world.”
XVII
ROME, ITALIA
15 JANUARY 69 AD
A new year in Rome, with a new Caesar. As usual, the rising sun summoned the more august senators to join the Princeps inside the Temple of Apollo for the daily taking of auspices.
Among them was Sabinus, this year's praetor urbanus, the city's chief judge. He was feeling justifiably self-satisfied. Just fifteen days into his term of office and already he was being spoken of favourably – he had the courts hopping, dispensing with civil cases by the bucket-load. After years of hard work, he was finally beginning to build a reputation. Titus Flavius Sabinus Junior was a man who got things done!
Tertius and Clemens stood a few dutiful paces back, in the company of Domitian. Sabinus feared that he would soon find the lad arraigned in one of his courts. The fighting was getting out of hand. As was the whoring. And the way some of the more questionable senators looked at Domitian made Sabinus' skin crawl.
The sky was changing from pink to winter blue as the auger Caius Umbricius Melior dissected the day's sacrificial bird, looking first for its liver, then other organs.
A voice at Sabinus' shoulder said, “I wonder what he'll find.”
Sabinus turned to find Marcus Salvius Otho. Nero's former friend was clearly still a lover of leisure. Yet he had proven an excellent governor of Further Hispania, and had returned in hope that Galba would adopt him as his heir.
That hope had been dashed five days earlier. Reportedly Galba had said, “I did not replace a Nero only to enthrone an Otho.” For his heir, he chose instead young Lucius Calpurnius Piso Licinianus. Piso owned impeccable ancestry, related as he was to both Crassus and Pompey, as well as Caesar's wife Calpurnia. That ancestry apparently made up for a lack of personal achievement, for at thirty years of age he had never yet held a major office. But in appearance, he was everything a Roman man should be. Firm featured and long faced with cropped blond hair, small ears, and a bump on his very Roman nose. In short, he looked the part of a Roman Princeps.
Adding insult to injury, the Senate had named Piso not only Caesar's heir, but co-Caesar. Galba and Piso would rule Rome jointly, smoothing the eventual transition of power.
On the day of the heir's announcement, a terrible storm had raged, and every day since had been filled with bad omens.
In answer to Otho's remark, Sabinus replied, “I expect he'll find whatever Caesar wants him to find.”
Otho raised an eyebrow. “A skeptic, Titus Flavius?”
“A realist, Marcus Salvius. As Seneca said, 'Religion is regarded by the common people as true, by the wise as false, and by the rulers as useful.' Politics is a corrupting force. Mix religion with it, and the gods find themselves used to ignoble ends.”
“You dislike politics, praetor urbanus?”
“Not at all. I'm just willing to be corrupted.” Both men laughed, but Sabinus felt an acute discomfort. This afternoon Otho was going to be arraigned in court, attached for debt by several of the city's money-lenders. Expecting to be Caesar's heir, Otho had borrowed heavily. Now that he was a poor investment, the usurers wanted their money back.
Nothing was more dangerous to a senator than an accusation of debt. A conviction would expel Otho from the Senate, effectively ending his public career.
Yet if Otho was aware of his impending ruin, he appeared blithely unconcerned. He jerked his chin at Umbricius. “I've been away a long time, but I remember him as being an honest seer. Whatever he says, it'll be the truth. Hmm – Caesar looks a little bleary.”
Sabinus saw the new Princeps wiping his puffy eyes. “The vicissitudes of age.”
“Or of indulgence to one not used to it,” observed Otho.
It was true. A mere three months in power had transformed Galba from Stoic to hedonist. Nor could anyone intervene. He kept company only with his trio of confidants, who now called themselves his pedagogues. What they were teaching him was how to bask in indulgence while ever retaining a stern public face. Galba pressed the citizenry for taxes to fill the treasury, while he and his three friends enriched themselves a thousandfold. Nero had preached excess, and lived it. Galba preached thrift, but did not practice it. Throughout history, one sure cause of political unrest was hypocrisy.
Sabinus hadn't noticed his second son at hand until Clemens spoke. “It's astonishing, is it not? Given his character and the nature of his career, everyone believed he would be a phenomenal Caesar – until he became one.”
To Sabinus' horror, Otho burst out laughing and clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Write that down at once, or else I shall claim credit for it!”
“Please do,” offered Sabinus faintly. If Domitian was troublesome, so too was Clemens, but in an entirely different way. Worse, Sabinus feared he had encouraged the boy. It was the law of unintended consequences. By condoning his son's theatrical interests, had he also implied approval for voicing the odd thoughts that swirled in that head of his?
These worries were interrupted by a cry as Umbricius suddenly rose from the eviscerated sparrow, a small shiny piece of offal in his blood-dappled hands. Whatever it was, the thing was entirely black and visibly withered.
Deep in conversation with Piso, Galba turned to the priest. “What is it?”
Umbricius held out the blackened bit of bird innard. “Cancer, Caesar. The traitor within. And the liver, the liver is clear, but warped. The meaning is indisputable. There is a plot underway, a plot against Rome, and the traitor is already within the gates!”
Far from alarmed, Galba was visibly annoyed. As the head of the state religion, he could not proceed with the day's business until a favourable omen was found. Thus all the senators resigned themselves to waiting while another animal was procured and dissected, hoping (and praying) that it would contain a classical liver and no sign of cancer.
“Interesting,” observed Otho. He alone appeared impressed by the augury. “Titus Flavius, grant me the pleasure of your company this night. A solemn little supper, for my close friends.”
Startled by this bizarre juxtaposition of prophecy and invitation
, Sabinus stuttered out an acceptance. Just then Otho's freedman and major domo, a Greek called Onomastus, arrived. “Master, the architect and contractors are waiting for you at home.”
“Yes. Very well.” Otho reacted with more gravity than such news deserved. “Titus Flavius, I shall look for you tonight. And please give my regards to your noble father.” He gathered up the folds of his toga, plucked his brother Titianus by the sleeve, and turned to exit Apollo's temple.
Sabinus caught him by the arm. “You're not leaving? Galba – excuse me, Caesar – will be furious.
Otho shrugged happily. “I'm afraid I must. There is a house I mean to purchase, and I must have it surveyed. If I were to wait until the omens are propitious, I may lose my chance.”
“If you require an independent assessment,” offered Sabinus, “my cousin Gaudentius is a sound man.”
Otho clapped his hands in pleasure. “The Conveyer of Concrete, and Architect of Aurea? With my penurious state, I doubt I could afford him. But when I am in more funds, I shall look him up. You may count that a promise.” With a significant look at the grumbling Caesar, Otho departed in the company of his brother and freedman.
Sabinus turned to his young men, but found only Tertius remained. “Where's your brother?”
Tertius shrugged. “He and Domitian slipped out a minute ago.”
A prickling feeling ascending his spine, Sabinus looked up to see yet another bad omen – four crows perched together atop Apollo's roof. Not quite a murder of crows, but significant nonetheless. Despite his earlier claim of religious indifference, Sabinus felt his hackles rising.
* * *
Clemens hustled down the slope of the Palatine Hill towards the Forum. As he and Domitian passed the palace built by Tiberius, a multitude of stucco putti peered down on them, creations of Nero's fevered brain – a hundred Cupids, all armed and full of mischief.
Domitian was nothing loath to be away from the stuffy temple, but he was curious. “What are we doing?”
“I'm not sure,” said Clemens as they passed the back wall of the Basilica Julia. “Something about Otho has my thumb pricking. He's hiding something.”
“Of course he is! It's called 'despair.' Debt will be the end of him.”
“Maybe,” said Clemens dubiously. “But I think that… there!”
Just ahead, Otho and his brother had stopped at the Miliaurum Aureum, the Golden Milestone from which all the great roads of Rome spoked outwards. Waiting beside it were twenty-three men. Clemens recognized them. They were Speculatores, high level Praetorians, allowed to carry arms inside the city walls. They indulged that privilege now, drawing their swords and raising them to Otho. “Ave, Imperator!”
Otho saluted them in return, then climbed into a covered litter and was whisked away.
Domitian glanced to his cousin, eyes wide. “Was that what I think it was?”
Clemens' brows were raised as well. “I think we just witnessed the start of an insurrection.”
Domitian's laugh was strangled. “They can't be serious! Twenty-three men? This has to be a joke!”
“It's a joke alright,” agreed Clemens. “But we don't yet know who the joke is on. I should tell my father.”
He turned to go, but Domitian clasped him by the arm. “We should follow them, see where they're headed.”
Clemens wavered. The information that Otho was staging a coup was vital. But it would be better to have more concrete news. “Very well. But only until we see where they've gone.”
They followed Otho through the Forum to the Praetorian camp, where the tribune on guard allowed the litter in without protest. Clemens and Domitian strolled close, pretending to stare at some slave-girls doing their masters' wash.
They heard raised voices within the camp. Otho shouted something, then all at once the whole Praetorian camp began to ring out with cries of, “Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!”
Turning the corner, Clemens unwrapped his toga and stuffed it into a shrubbery. “Time to inform Caesar.”
Doffing his own toga, Domitian was ruddy with excitement. “Don't you mean Galba? He's not Caesar any more.”
* * *
Galba was at that moment discussing the possible mutiny of the two discontented Germanic legions. “I shall decimate them.”
“Pater, I think you should refrain,” said Piso, humbly addressing his newly-adoptive father. “Why not instead pay out a donative? It's customary, and what a man believes is his due, he views the withholding of it as theft, not thrift.”
“You sound like Sabinus there,” groused Galba. “He's been bleating about the grain dole. The one good thing Nero did was to stop the apportioning of free wheat to the masses. Of course, he wasted more money than he saved by a thousandfold. As for my legions – pfah! I recruit my soldiers, I do not purchase them.” It was becoming a favorite line of his.
“Then they may opt for another leader,” said Piso, totally innocent and totally prophetic.
Galba's grin was wolfish. “Lucky, then, that none of the German commanders know their military arse from their military elbow.”
“Vitellius has never led troops,” warned Piso. “He's an unknown.”
Galba rolled his eyes. “One cannot fear a man whose only thought is of eating.”
“They say he was the picture of activity when he arrived in Germania. You never know. He might surprise us.”
A bustling at the back of the temple made Galba squint intently. Expecting to see several caged birds ready for sacrifice, he instead beheld a pair of young Flavians urgently addressing the urban praetor. Annoyed, Galba raised his voice. “Pray tell us, Titus Flavius, what it is you find so diverting!”
Rather than answer aloud, Sabinus crossed to Caesar's side and whispered in his ear. Galba's jaw dropped. “You're joking!”
“Caesar, my son and cousin saw it with their own eyes, and will swear upon anything you like. Tell him, boys.”
Clemens explained what they had seen. From the Princeps to the lowliest back-benchers, all listened to the tale in growing astonishment.
“Can it be true?” demanded Titus Vinius, now elevated to junior consul. Friendship had blinded Galba to Vinius' corrupt nature, doubtless one of the objections Otho had used to win over the Praetorians.
“I think it can,” replied Galba gravely.
“What shall we do?” asked one man.
“How seriously should we be taking this?” This came from a loud-mouthed senator named Helvidius Priscus, recently returned from exile. “I mean, the tale comes from two lads hardly in adult togas, and Flavians to boot.”
“Tace, inepte!” Bristling at this slight to his family, Sabinus forced himself back to the point. “Caesar, we should test the loyalty of the guard housed in your own palace. They're just a stone's throw away and will immediately tell us if the treason is widespread, or simply the depth of Otho's purse.”
As this was perfectly good sense, Galba turned and called for his Prefect of the Praetorian Guard. “Laco! Will the palace cohort be true?”
“Caesar, I have no knowledge of any discontent in the Praetorian cohorts,” said Cornelius Laco, demonstrating his complete uselessness. As a leader of men, he made an excellent business manager. Even Galba knew the Praetorians had been grumbling for months.
“I shall speak to them at once,” said Galba.
A dozen men protested. If the palace guards had any inclination towards treason, a brusque speech of the kind Galba was likely to make would send them into full-out revolt. It was decided that Caesar's heir should go instead.
As a white-faced Piso departed, more men arrived with confirmation of Otho's treason. With brisk militarism, Galba sent men to sound out the other troops stationed near the city. No one held high hopes of maintaining any legion's loyalties. If only Galba had not sent away his personal legion!
They waited three-quarters of an hour. In the end only one legion declared for Galba, and it was stationed a mile outside the city, and the three men sent to the Praetorian barr
acks did not return at all.
Senators and knights milled about uncertainly. Amid the confusion, Sabinus led his sons and cousin behind one of the large crimson-painted pillars. “Keep close. If trouble arises, Domitian, you are to go at once to the house of your brother-in-law, Cerialis. Both your nieces are there. Clemens, they know you, so you go with him.”
Clemens was outraged. “A poor reward for bringing news of Otho's revolt – protecting two troublesome girls!”
“It is your duty, something you would do well to pay attention to.”
“I did my duty by following Otho, and reporting him!”
“Did you follow him for duty, or for curiosity? Duty would have had you stay. That your shirking of duty had good consequences is of no moment. You need to learn that duty is paramount, so you will kindly go look after those girls.”
Domitian was staring at the roof while Tertius grinned. Unmanned, Clemens blinked rapidly. “Where will you be?”
“Your brother and I will head for the Quirinal to find your grandfather. He's still beloved by the city cohorts. They may follow him.”
“On which side?” Removed from commanding the city cohorts by Galba, Old Sabinus might easily side with Otho.
Domitian was flushed with an unworthy excitement. “You honestly think there will be fighting in the streets?”
“I'm preparing for the possibility,” answered Sabinus sternly. “Remember, our duty is to Rome. But Rome is made up of her families, so we must first look to the survival of our own. Do you understand?” He was pleased when all three young men nodded.
Tertius was struck with a thought. “Otho was making an overture to you earlier!”
Sabinus had already come to the same conclusion. “You think I should accept?”
Before Tertius could answer, Clemens shrugged. “The die is in the air. See where it falls.”
Suddenly a Praetorian strode in. Bloody sword in hand, he declared, “Otho is dead, Caesar! I have slain him.”
The relieved senators cheered, but Galba's face grew grave. “Who gave you such orders?”
