The Four Emperors

by David Blixt

  The Praetorian blinked. “Why – no one, Caesar.”

  “Nemo, no one? Then you have exceeded your orders and your self. Get out of my sight.”

  As the Praetorian turned angrily away, Galba addressed the confused senators. “If he speaks the truth, he shall be rewarded. But a real soldier cleans his sword, doesn't carry it as a bloody trophy.” He paused at a new sound outside. A mob shouting Galba's name, but if in support or revolt they could not tell. “The people are roused.”

  Vinius looked like his bowels had turned to liquid. “To what end?” Beside him, Galba's former freedman Icelus was shaking in a very unknightly fashion.

  Old and thin, Galba appeared almost laughable as he doffed his toga and strapped on a sword. But age had not sapped his courage. “Let's go and see.”

  Vinius intervened. “Caesar, I beg you, remain safe within doors. If Otho is alive, time is his enemy. By tomorrow our friends shall be up in arms, and he shall find himself squashed flatter than a beetle under an elephant's foot.”

  Despite his dislike for Vinius, Sabinus thought this was sound advice, and said so. But a military man like Galba was not of a mind to remain safe. He strode to the large doors and ventured out, followed by every man present. They would meet Fortuna in the teeth.

  Below the Palatine Hill, a huge crowd had gathered. Upon sight of Galba they swelled, raised their fists – and cheered. Despite his parsimony, his cruelty, his fuddy-duddy ways, and the added taxes, the Roman people were willing to stand with their Caesar. They did not care for usurpation.

  Galba's relief quickly transformed into anger. “Come, all of you. I shall march to the barracks and deal with this mutiny myself. Clearly this is not the will of the people. It's a military matter, and shall be dealt with in a military fashion. Discipline! That's what's required. Decimation, flogging, and decapitation. The leaders I shall throw from the Tarpean Rock!”

  The senators' spirits were further bolstered when Piso appeared, alive and well. The palace cohort had listened to him with good patience, and shown no sign of revolt. “But their commanders slipped away.”

  “So this is a move by Otho and the Praetorian officers. A very small number of men. We'll be done before dinner, and still have time to pass some laws.” Galba climbed into a litter, meaning to be carried through the crowd straight to the Praetorian camp. “Come, Piso my son!”

  As Piso joined him, several prudent senators disappeared into the crowd. Sabinus said softly, “Remember, boys – family first. If trouble breaks out, we must take care of our own. Otherwise the only young man left of our line will be Titus.”

  “Can't have that,” said Domitian roughly. He had no love for his elder brother, liked and respected by all, without a care in the world, who rumour said was carrying on affair with a Judean Queen. The bastard.

  Galba's litter was making rocky progress as the enthusiastic crowd jostled the Princeps like a cork on a storm-churned sea. Pointing past it, Tertius shouted, “Look there!”

  Without fanfare or cries, a troop of cavalry suddenly appeared in the arches of one of the Forum porticos. They all wore white cloaks. Praetorians.

  “No, look there!” shouted Domitian, pointing to the nearer Basilica Aemelia. A band of infantry in close formation had just appeared. They, too, bore white cloaks. From among their ranks, one of their officers tore the insignia bearing Galba's face from his sash and cast it to the earth.

  This was clearly a signal. The front row of infantry took a step and loosed their pila at the Princeps' litter, still bobbing upon a tide of people. One of the short spears passed through the curtains. The rest fell upon citizens and litter-bearers, who scattered, screaming.

  Galba and Piso came crawling out of the up-ended litter. The bodyguards from the palace had vanished – all save a man named Sempronius Densus, who drew his sword and stepped between Galba and the rebellious Praetorians. He died at once.

  Sabinus shoved his sons up the steps, back towards the palace. “Go! We'll escape down the Tiber side. Now move!”

  Running, Clemens glanced back to see the head of Galba come tumbling off, cleaved by a single stroke of a Praetorian sword – a sword that had been sworn to protect him. The old man had knelt for the blow, accepting his fate like the grim Stoic he had always been. Cato of Utica could not have demanded a better death.

  Below them in the street, the rebellious infantry and cavalry both wheeled to wade into the fleeing crowd.

  The Flavians ran.

  XVIII

  The noise in Rome's streets was tremendous. To two young girls with only slaves and a nurse to provide them comfort, it was quite enough to produce shivers and tears.

  Just turned four last September, Julia Titi cried out for her absent father. “Tata! Tata!”

  “Tata's coming,” consoled the nurse Phyllis. They had taken refuge in the peristyle garden at the back of the house, far from window grilles and doors. The drawback was they could more clearly hear the street noise, the shouts and screams quite drowning out the gurgles of the modest fountain.

  As little Julia burrowed deeper into the old woman's bosoms and whimpered, Phyllis held out an arm. “Come to me, Flavia.”

  “No.” More than two years older than Julia, Flavia was cut from quite a different cloth. She would not be a beauty, yet somehow she had more presence. Red-haired and red-tempered like her father Cerialis, she loathed the hot tears that threatened her eyes.

  No one knew it, but the noise was worse for Flavia than anyone else. She had poor eye-sight, hardly able to make out a face at three paces. To compensate, she focused her attention on her hearing, which was acute. Every scream, every moan, every scrape, rang loudly in her ears.

  At another shout from outside, Julia shrieked, “Tata!”

  “Your tata is in Judea,” said Flavia harshly. “With mine. You know that. We must be strong until they return.”

  “Now Flavia…” Whatever remonstrance Phyllis was about to utter was interrupted by a hammering on the outer door. Julia scrambled up higher onto the nurse's lap. “Make them go away!”

  The porter had much the same thought, shouting, “Bugger off!” The hammering continued, accompanied now with shouts and clamours. Flavia could not be sure, but one voice sounded familiar.

  All at once the hammering stopped. Phyllis stroked Julia's hair. “You see, darling? They've gone.”

  “Promise?” Looking up into the nurse's face, Julia's eyes flicked to a point over Phyllis' shoulder and she let out a piercing shriek.

  Turning, Flavia gasped as a man dropped from the garden wall to land right in front of her. With her bad eyesight, even this close his face was a blur. Instinctively, Flavia balled her fist and hit the man in the groin.

  Doubling over, the man gasped. “Why are you always hitting me?”

  This was a voice Flavia knew well! “Clemens!” Ignoring his one-handed attempt to ward her off, she threw her arms about his neck.

  Flavia's uncle Domitian dropped down next, laughing. “I don't think she's the one needs protecting.”

  Suddenly Domitian was enveloped in a fierce hug from Phyllis. “Domitian! My lovey, I knew you would never abandon your old nurse!” Ignoring his sputters of protest, she embraced him tightly, much to Clemens' amusement.

  Armed with a shovel, the porter arrived in company with the only other male slave in the household, the cook, who clutched an iron pan. It was a comical sight that met them – Clemens doubled over covering his privates and the nurse pressing a man into her bosoms. They lowered their makeshift weapons. “Domines! Thank Jupiter you're here!”

  “We'd've been in sooner if you'd opened the damned door,” gasped Domitian, struggling free.

  “My apologies, domine,” bowed the porter. “With the rioting in the streets…”

  “Quite right,” replied Clemens, breathing deep. “Quite right. Well done.”

  Flavia mustered all her seven-year old authority. “What's happening?”

  She did not like the fact that Clemens i
gnored her in favour of the two slaves. “Pile up furniture against all but the main door, then guard it. Domitian and I will remain here – if we can climb the walls, so can the rioters.”

  “Who are they?” asked the fearful porter. “What is happening?”

  “That's what I asked!” cried Flavia.

  Uncle Domitian answered bluntly. “Galba is dead, Otho is Caesar, and his men aren't bothering to tell friend from foe. Now go!”

  The porter and cook ran obediently back into the house. Uncle Domitian followed them. “And we need weapons!”

  Clemens walked the length of the small garden, peering behind the pillars. Flavia followed him, imitating him by looking behind the spindly trees and peering into the shadows she knew to be safe. When he suddenly stopped, she bumped into him. “For Jupiter's sake..! Phyllis, get the girls inside. Someone could easily pitch rocks over the wall.”

  That alarmed the blubbering nurse, and she sheltered her head with one hand as she chivvied Julia into the house. “Flavia, come inside!”

  But Flavia refused to go further than the shelter of the columns. “I need to be where Clemens can see me.”

  Clemens waved a distracted hand. “As long as they're quiet, it doesn't hurt to have them in view.”

  Uncle Domitian returned with clubs that looked very like the legs of the grand Spanish chair from her father's tablinum. Julia threw her arms about his knees, but Domitian teased her into releasing him. “Poor little thing,” he said to Clemens. “No man in her life at all. No wonder she clings.”

  Clemens made a sound at the back of his throat. “You've more patience than I. I'd've kicked her off.”

  Domitian shrugged. “I like children. Besides, they don't hit me in the nexus of life!”

  Flushing, Flavia hid behind one of the pillars. She heard Clemens say, “I'd take the punch over one of Phyllis' hugs any day.”

  “Ha! Agreed. But I wish we were out there trading blows, rather than here taking them from little girls.”

  “You're right, we shouldn't be here,” said Clemens angrily. “It isn't fair!”

  Why doesn't he want to be here? wondered Flavia mournfully.

  “In one way, your father's right,” said Domitian. “Protecting the family matters.”

  “If it were really that important,” said Clemens, “he would have sent Tertius.”

  Domitian whooped, and Flavia wondered if they were under attack. But his laugh was sinisterly joyous. “Oh-ho! Jupiter be praised, you feel it too!”

  “Feel what?” asked Clemens, sounding confused.

  “The pinch of being the second son! Unlooked-for and unwanted. Useful only as a bargaining chit, a spare if the first turns out badly.”

  “I don't think that's – no. Really, no. It's just that I could do more. I should do more.”

  “Something Heroic? Tragic? Epic?” teased Domitian. “You want to be a Tragic Hero?”

  “Go jump in the Tiber. No, I keep thinking of Galba's bodyguard – the one who didn't run.”

  “Sempronius Densus? There's a Tragic Hero. He had the right cognomen, anyway. Was he dense? What was he thinking? He threw his life away, and for what?”

  “He swore an oath,” protested Clemens.

  “His Tragic mistake was in trying to keep it,” said Domitian with harsh derision.

  There was a hammering upon the front door. Clemens and Domitian ran to it, leaving young Flavia to consider what she had heard.

  * * *

  The new arrivals were identified and the porter opened the door to admit three men named Titus Flavius Sabinus. Old Sabinus strode into the antechamber of Cerialis' house, chuckling in dark delight. “This would never have happened if Galba had left me in charge of the city troops! Serves him right, the bitter old villain!”

  “I'm glad you're well, uncle,” said Domitian with false solicitude. “I hope the crowds didn't delay you.”

  “We would have been here sooner,” groused Old Sabinus, “if we hadn't stopped to look in on that woman.”

  Sabinus spoke in a tired calm. “Pater, your great-nieces look on Antonia Caenis as family. As does Uncle Vespasian.”

  “Don't exalt her,” retorted the old man. “She's not his wife, just a clever whore.”

  “Exactly,” said Domitian, for once in complete agreement with his uncle.

  Fed up with family, Clemens was eager for news. “What's happening?”

  “Otho is calling the Senate into session,” answered Sabinus. “We wanted to be sure the whole family's safe before we set out.”

  “Who's dead?” asked Domitian.

  “Only a few senators,” answered Old Sabinus, “along with several minor knights. The rest are capite censi, Head Count, not worth noting.”

  Clemens saw his father frown at that – surely every citizen was worth noting. Stoicism declared that all men, noble or Head Count, rich or poor, were born equal. But instead of rebuking grandfather, Clemens' father pressed on with news. “Otho has the Praetorians mostly under control. The city will not burn, which I suppose is something.”

  “We must dress for the Senate,” said Old Sabinus gruffly. “I don't suppose Cerialis has spare togae pratextae about?”

  As Cerialis had taken his steward with him to the East, it was left for the porter to check. Yes, there were several purple-bordered togas in the master's cubicle. Tertius assisted Old Sabinus, while Clemens helped his father to dress.

  As he draped the folds of toga, Clemens said, “Pater, there is a man who should be honoured for his loyalty this day. Sempronius Densus.”

  That earned him a searching look. “Son, to even utter the word is to invite a charge of treason against the new Caesar. Please remember, these are dangerous times.”

  “Yes, they are. And in a time when soldiers are choosing our leaders, shouldn't we reward loyalty, no matter to whom it is given?”

  “Only in Plato's Republic, son. Densus will be branded a traitor, and even a coward by the Senate.”

  “Shame on the Senate, then,” answered Clemens, placing the final fold of toga over his father's left arm. His eyes narrowed in that thoughtful way his father dreaded. “Our family possesses an army.”

  “Yes. Which is why we must be very careful to support the new regime, and pray that Domitian's father does nothing rash.”

  “I don't understand, pater. You lecture me on duty, and fill me with Zeno's philosophy, that a man is defined by his deeds. Then Densus does his duty, and you say we should ignore it. What is duty, then?”

  Sabinus patted his son on the shoulder, surprised to discover it was now level with his own. “Honouring the death of a man like Densus speaks well of your character. And you're right, death is not to be avoided just because we're afraid. As Zeno says, self-preservation is not in itself a Right Act – it doesn't aid happiness. But son, you must know the difference between heroic deeds in epic poems or plays and the real-life choices of men in this world, where heroism is rarely rewarded.”

  “Only because it is itself so rare,” replied Clemens.

  Sabinus took a moment to consider. “You deem Densus a hero because he kept his oath, where more practical men ran.”

  “Yes. He died a valiant and noble death.”

  “True,” agreed Sabinus. “And the gods will honour him. But, mi filius, a death means more if it serves some purpose. Think of Leonidas at Thermopylae. Every man under his command save one died fighting the Persians. But did he stop the Persian invasion? No. His death was heroic, but served no greater purpose than his own glory. So too with Densus, who died nobly, but did his master no good in that death. No, to me the best death is one that ensures future good, preserves Rome and our family. Death in battle is noble. But death to save another, or even one's nation – that is the best death imaginable. If one must sacrifice…” Sabinus paused, and Clemens saw his father's eyes turn inward. “A teaching sacrifice…”

  It was such a curious look on his father's face that Clemens reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Pate
r, what is it?”

  Sabinus shook his head brusquely. “Sorry. Nothing. I was saying, if one must sacrifice his life before his time, let it not be only to glory, but also to some purpose.”

  For the first time either could recall, Clemens looked satisfied with an answer he had been given. Sabinus said, “Come. The chaos is past. You may walk me to the Temple of Apollo.” He grimaced as he moved towards the door. “How very like Otho to hold his inaugural Senate meeting in the same temple that Galba heard the ill omens of the morning.”

  Clemens was slow to follow, deep in thought over his father's words. He did not know it, but this conversation would haunt him the rest of his days.

  * * *

  On the Esquiline Hill, things were even more confused. The house of Plautius was in an uproar, and the noise within threatened to drown the tumult without.

  “Go! Go now! You must go now!”

  “I will not! I swore an oath to Galba! He made me Tribune of the Soldiers!”

  “Galba's dead, you fool! And do you imagine the other twenty-three tribunes won't be surrounding him this moment with sponge-sticks? You must go!”

  “Must? Must?” Lucius Aelius Plautius Lamia Aelianus had to clasp his hands to keep from striking his wife. “How dare you talk to me of must? Have you no shame? No honour?”

  “No!” shrieked Domitia Longina. “No, I have neither! Not when this could be our ruin, or our salvation. Go to Otho now! Go!”

  “No! If he wants me, let him send for me!”

  “Ecastor, how could I have married such a fool?”

  “You married me to save your father's life!”

  “The more fool I, as he is dead!”

  “No, more fool I for accepting damaged goods!”

  “My father's name got you into the Senate.”

  “And stained me forever as a traitor. I'll not add to that stain!”

  “So you'll keep faith with a dead man who cannot help you?”

  “I'll keep my honour, even if it means my death!” shouted the twenty-four year old Roman senator.

  “I hope it does! I hope it does mean your death, you coward!” screamed his seventeen year-old wife.