The Four Emperors

by David Blixt

  “It strikes me that it is the man who defines the role, rather than the reverse. Which makes it all the more important that the right man is chosen. If we begin with Augustus, we have had six Caesars before this year, ending with Galba. Each one defined himself. Augustus, the brilliant politician and tactician, who created the standard. Tiberius, who listened to poor advice and hid himself from the job on a small island. Gaius, who will be remembered as Caligula, and mad. Claudius, who wielded power more effectively because he was considered an imbecile. Nero, who had the love of the people and did as he pleased, until he lost their love and died. And Galba, who was a far better Caesar in theory than in practice. I think that the Princeps is defined not by what he must do, but by what he chooses to do. Caesar is as Caesar does.”

  Vespasian studied Josephus closely. “You visited Rome once, for less than two years.”

  “Yes, Titus Flavius.”

  “And you deduced all that about us in two short years?”

  “Am I mistaken?”

  “On the contrary,” said Vespasian, laughing, “you see us very clearly, Jew.”

  “It is my habit, Roman! To observe. You know I wrote a history of my own people's revolt against the Babylonians. And that I'm writing one of this war as well. I think that might be my calling. Historian.”

  “Very wise. Historians always have the final word. I hope you are kind to your captor in your history.”

  “But of course! I've never understood denigrating those who defeat you. Why would you want to say you were beaten by a worthless foe? So I shall sing your praises to the skies. Who else could best me but the greatest man in the world?”

  Placing a hand on his heart as he laughed, tears welling in his eyes, Vespasian said, “That, my friend, earns you your freedom.”

  It had never been spoken outright, but Josephus knew by Roman standards, he had become a slave at the moment of his capture. Vespasian was now releasing him from that odious condition. Pressing his lips together, Josephus said, “A freed slave must take his liberator's name.”

  “So he must. Would you care to take mine?”

  “Take the name of the most powerful man in the world? Whyever would I mind that?”

  “Very well, my friend. From this moment, you are Titus Flavius Josephus.”

  Josephus sat back and smiled in contentment, having achieved a Triumph of his own.

  But Vespasian's mirth soon clouded over again. “The greatest man in the world. I pray so. But I do not want it over a pile of Roman corpses. Please, Jupiter, let Mucianus keep this a bloodless war. I do not want to be charged with crimes I wasn't even present to commit.”

  Full of his new self, Josephus continued to hold forth. “There's every chance that when Vitellius hears of your elevation he will lose heart. He may not even offer battle. And what about your brother? He is again Prefect of the City, and commands many soldiers within Rome itself. Will he not rally to your cause?”

  “My brother!” snorted Vespasian derisively. “My brother, Josephus, is a fence-sitter. He swore his oath to Galba, and to Otho, and I'm sure he's by now sworn himself to Vitellius. He won't join my side until I'm seated in the Capitol, all opposition squashed. If even then!” Vespasian laughed nastily. “Besides, when Vitellius hears about our little insurrection, he'll replace my brother as City Prefect. If he doesn't, he's a fool.”

  * * *

  Vitellius proved himself a fool many times that year. But his choice to keep his rival's brother as City Prefect was not evidence of outright stupidity. It was simply not Roman to punish the family of a traitor – which was why Otho had spared Vitellius' brother, and Vitellius had spared Otho's. A man was not responsible for his relations, only himself.

  That was the theory, at least. Many Romans had died expecting that honourable tradition to be upheld.

  In this case, the enmity between the two Flavians was well-known. As soon as Rome learned that Vespasian was vying to be Caesar, Old Sabinus began cursing his little brother in long tirades, both public and private.

  One such rant took place in early of the month of Augustus: “All his life he's been an unambitious lump! Jupiter, our mother had to goad him to become a senator, did you know that? He never wanted power or responsibility. I remember when Claudius publicly poured shit down his toga! Did the mentula even try to fix his image after that? No. He goes and raises mules – mules! And he chooses now, at the end of his life, to grow ambitious?”

  The audience to this particular tirade was the Flavian household, on couches over supper. As they listened to this thankfully private rant, Sabinus was grim, Clemens and Tertius had their heads down into their bowls, and Domitian looked ready to spit.

  Oblivious to their discomfort, Old Sabinus railed on. “And what does it say about his family feeling that he exposes us to so much danger? Does he not know that my son fought in Otho's army and barely received a pardon? Has he forgotten that his own son is here in my house? Does he care that we are watched because of it? Of course he doesn't! I ask again, where is the family feeling?”

  Surprisingly, it was not Domitian but Clemens who snapped. “And where, grandfather, is the family feeling on this side?” Seventeen years old, Clemens was filled with a righteous hatred of hypocrisy. “We are his blood kin, avus. We should be declaring our support for uncle Vespasian.”

  “He can't be a worse Caesar than the one we have now,” observed Tertius.

  “Hear hear,” said Domitian hotly.

  “Stop your tongue this instant,” cried Old Sabinus with a worried look over his shoulder, as if the slaves might pass along this treasonous talk. There was a standing death penalty for any slave informing on their master, but still, it happened.

  “Let them hear us!” roared Domitian. “Let them tell whom they like! Why should we not say what Vitellius himself is ready to admit?”

  It was true. Having achieved the highest office in the world, the new Princeps was the first to admit his unsuitability for it. Or rather, the second. His mother had gotten in first.

  * * *

  If proof was required of Vitellius' ill nature, the Flavians had it the very next day. The whole family, along with the entire Senate, had been invited to a feast before a play at the massive new theatre attached to Nero's Golden House. Otho had repealed Nero's ban on public theatre, and Vitellius had not repealed the repeal. Thus actors were again employable and enjoyable, if not respectable.

  But first, the feast. A man more of appetite than ambition, this was where Vitellius excelled. The outdoor tables were covered with two thousand choice fish and seven thousand birds. Guests were presented with a massive silver serving dish which Vitellius bragged cost a million sesterces. On this platter were mingled pike livers, the brains of pheasants and peacocks, the tongues of flamingoes, and lamprey milt – the sperm and genitalia of the fish.

  Additionally, every man was gifted a silver knife in a golden sheath, affixed to an embroidered belt. “If you wish to stab me, I want to be stabbed by the best,” quipped Vitellius. Everyone laughed, though their eyes flickered to the new Praetorians, watching the crowd closely.

  This was an enormous feast, but by no means an unusual one for Vitellius. His brother Lucius had thrown one like it the day they had arrived in Rome. And since he had become Caesar, Vitellius had spent no less than four hundred thousand sesterces on each meal. And Vitellius Caesar consumed four meals a day. This, when a loaf of bread cost half a sestertius.

  During the feast, the Flavians encountered a surprising person – none other than Domitian's brother-in-law, Cerialis Rufus. Having arrived in Rome to treat with Otho, he'd decided to stay to see what happened. His daughter was naturally thrilled, though Caenis was less-so – she now had no excuse to visit the girls.

  Then had come the declaration from Judea, proclaiming Vespasian as Princeps. Since that moment, both Domitian and Cerialis had been shadowed.

  “Brave of you to come,” said Sabinus, embracing his relation and giving the kiss of greeting. “Being o
ne of Vespasian's generals can't make you welcome here.”

  “I had to get out,” the thin man confided softly. “I hardly leave the house, save to go to the Senate.”

  “It's much the same with us,” said Sabinus, hoping his father had the sense not to start ranting here as well.

  But Old Sabinus preferred the dagger to the axe. “I'm surprised you haven't done anything foolish, Quintus Petillius. After all, isn't that what you red-headed men are famous for? Your rashness?”

  Cerialis blushed to the roots of his hair. He had indeed been rash years ago in Britannia, and was just now regaining his reputation. He'd been at the siege of Jotapata, and during the feast he regaled them all with the tales of those fifty days. It was a relief, to be talking of a war in a foreign land. Until everyone remembered that the victor of that war was now at war with Rome.

  At one point, an inebriated Vitellius stopped by their cluster of couches. “No no, don't rise. It's just that I seem to recall that I owed Domitian here for a bet we made while in Greece.”

  Domitian frowned, not remembering any such bet. But still he held out his hand as Vitellius Caesar pressed a single coin into it. Clemens leaned over to look at it. The coin was a new aureus, freshly minted in gold with Vitellius' own face on it. The reverse, however, was the significant part. It depicted Vitellius' father Lucius, seated in the consul's curule chair. All around him were palm fronds.

  In one sense, it was perfectly appropriate. Thirty years earlier, Lucius Vitellius senior had been governor of Syria, and had famously removed Judea's governor, Pontius Pilatus, from office. So the palm fronds were to signify his power in Judea.

  But of course, the real meaning was clear. Vitellius was taking unto himself Vespasian's victories in the war. After all, a Roman general served at the pleasure of the Princeps. Vitellius was using coins to point out that there was only one Princeps, and that it was not Vespasian.

  “Thank you,” said Domitian, clenching the coin tight in his palm. “And I'll remember to repay you what I owe the moment I have the chance.”

  Delighted that his barb had gone home, Vitellius laughed as he staggered away. “I told you he'd keep it. The Flavians are so poor, you see, they'll stand any insult.”

  It was impossible to eat after that, so they waited for the meal to finish in sullen silence.

  It was two hours past noon when several hundred men trooped down to the artificial half-bowl above the most modern stage Rome owned. Tonight's performance was of 'The Rape Of Proserpina', with a full company of professionals eager to don their masks. Though it was rumoured that the actor playing Proserpina herself would at some point be unmasked, the better to display her torment. How thrilling! A real face! Daring!

  Despite the unpleasantness at the feast and the wide berth men showed the Flavians as they arrived, Clemens was excited to finally be seeing a play in public. It had been so long!

  Yet they were hardly in their seats when a messenger arrived looking for Clemens. “Titus Flavius, one of the actors is looking for you.”

  Everyone frowned, Clemens included. “One of the actors?”

  “Yes, Titus Flavius. He is waiting for you below.”

  Clemens exchanged a blank look with his father, then rose to descend the tiers of stone seating he had just climbed. Behind him he could hear his grandfather pose an accusing question. “Has he been consorting with actors? Is that the way he is?” Clemens flushed and walked faster.

  Following the messenger, he found himself led under the bowl of seats into a labyrinth of tunnels that allowed actors to escape from one side of the house to the other. There was hurried activity all over, and men in robes and masks and capes and fringed tunics and false bosoms all ran past him, or else stood drinking alone, or talking to themselves.

  They approached an actor in the rich yet simple, close-fitting feminine garb of the ingénue. Under the ring of garlands that crowned her hair, Proserpina wore a mask of beauty and joy, one that would normally be swapped for one of torment later in the play.

  The messenger scurried off, leaving Clemens alone with the thin actor. Awkwardly, Clemens straightened his toga. “Forgive me, player. Do we know each other?”

  “Not well,” replied the actor. “But I have no one else who has shown me kindness. And I wanted to see a kind face before I'm taken off to the Underworld.”

  Clemens' eyes went wide. There was no mistaking the voice. Lowering his own tone, Clemens said, “Is this where you've been? After Otho died, no one knew where to find you.” It had been the topic of speculation and gossip all over Rome.

  “I made a mistake,” said the actor, removing his mask. Spiros was made up as a woman, his face made up just as the mask, but with a mournful mouth painted around his own. “I did not leave at once. And when I did try to go, no one knew what to make of me. Was I a hostage? A victim? A noble? A slave? No one knew, and no one wanted the responsibility for letting me go. So I was locked away on the Palatine until Aulus Vitellius arrived.”

  Here Spiros broke off, and there seemed to be a slight and involuntary shudder. “And?” urged Clemens.

  “And – he chose to degrade me. A million petty revenges for a petty slight I once gave him. Even now, I am here for his mockery. This whole play is staged for my benefit. He got the idea from the gift I gave Nero Caesar last New Year's day. I am to be unmasked as Pluto drags me to the Underworld, where – where the title of the play is to be made clear.”

  Clemens felt his stomach clench. Spiros had always been a figure of sport, of ridicule. But behind it there had been a sick kind of love. In both Nero and Otho, Spiros had represented their lost Poppaea. But for Vitellius, the boy was simply the butt of the joke. Literally, it seemed. “You cannot leave?”

  “I have been under guard every hour. There are soldiers at either end of this tunnel, and doubtless the cast have all been paid to watch me. I am not allowed to eat alone, walk alone, urinate alone. The rehearsals have gone on at the palace. I am not even allowed a razor, to take Tigellinus' way out. I attempted to hang myself one night. But I was watched, and barely had the noose about my neck before they stopped me. I am to live for Aulus' amusement. I am his revenge on Nero. With every insult he heaps on me, he puts coals on poor Caesar's head.”

  Poor Caesar? thought Clemens in wonder. How can he feel pity for the man who did all this to him? “I – I am so very sorry, Spiros. I don't know what to say. I don't have any sway. That is, my family is already looked at with disfavour. If I spoke up for you, I would only make your situation worse.”

  The Greek shepherd, just Clemens' own age, flashed a brief smile through the mournful painted mouth. “I know. Please, tell your uncle that there are many who pray nightly for his victory. No, I only wanted to see you to – to thank you.”

  “Thank me?”

  “For never once treating me as anything but what I am. Whatever that is.” Another smile, this time of self pity. It was accompanied by an outstretched hand. Clemens took it, and they shook. Unexpectedly, Spiros pulled him close into a sudden embrace. It was brief, but fierce.

  At once the Greek stepped back, clasping his hands penitently before him in the folds of his dress. “Forgive me. Though we've met only twice before, you are the closest I have to a friend in Rome. Our conversation has remained with me these last two awful years. But I think that you were wrong, and I was right. Life is like theatre. Comedy, and Tragedy. It will be one or the other if you wait long enough. And tonight, it is Comedy. At my expense.”

  A prompter came along to inform Spiros it was time. The Greek replaced his mask and looked at Clemens. “Wish me luck.” But before Clemens could even reply, the figure of Proserpina had swirled her skirts and vanished down the torchlit corridor.

  Clemens was tempted to leave the theatre there and then. He wasn't sure he could endure the spectacle about to occur onstage. But he knew that, like Spiros, his whole family was being watched. What would be thought if he left? That he was plotting some treason?

  Besides,
he owed it to the man. Spiros had reached out a hand. During this coming trials, he ought to have at least one friendly pair of eyes to suffer for him, empathize with him, weep for him. With heavy legs and a heavier heart, Clemens returned to the crowd above.

  The play had already started, and there were grumbles as he moved down the row of senators and knights. Finding his seat, Clemens clasped his hands before him and bowed his head.

  “Took long enough,” muttered Old Sabinus.

  Sabinus noted his son's posture. “What's the matter?” he whispered.

  “Something awful is about to happen.”

  On his other side, Domitian frowned. “Where's your knife?”

  Startled, Clemens groped past the folds of his toga to find the golden sheath in the embroidered belt empty. He had a flash of his embrace with Spiros, and the way the Greek had hidden his hands in his dress afterwards. “Oh Jupiter. Oh no, no…”

  At that moment there was some confusion onstage. Proserpina was meant to enter, singing her song. The waiting actors repeated a few lines, then extemporized as best they could while a low hum grew backstage.

  At last the prompter who had fetched Spiros walked out to the very center of the stage, where his voice would ring out for all to hear. “Senators, Equites, Romans, forgive us. Our star attraction, the actor playing the part of Proserpina, was meant to be Sporos, Nero Caesar's boy-wife.” There were shocked and amused murmurs from the crowd. The prompter waited until the voices died down, then added, “Sadly, it seems he suffered an extreme case of stage fright. He has killed himself. We are presently preparing his replacement, but we have to send for a new costume, as this one is ruined. If you will all be patient, the play will resume momentarily.”

  The whole crowd was laughing, enjoying the delicious prank Vitellius had meant to play, condemning the Greek boy who had been too weak to endure it, cheating them of their fun. Domitian said something coarse, Tertius laughed, Old Sabinus was sneering. Only Sabinus was quiet as he watched his son suffering some kind of deep loss.

  For Clemens knew he would never enjoy the theatre again.