by David Blixt
The angry Praetorians now swarmed higher on the steps, clambering over the corpses of their own comrades, eager to take the gate. But just as they reached it, there was a cry as a shadow passed over them. A couple had time to look up to see the shape of a massive golden horse crashing down upon them before they were crushed. A second horse followed, and a third and fourth. Then the figure of Nero himself, in his chariot, rode down out of the sky, smashing the attackers below, leaving any white-clad Praetorian a bloody smear on the marble steps.
It was a victory. The smoke from the fire now had everyone retreating, the gate was barricaded with Nero's golden chariot and steeds, and the stairs were so clogged with dead and wounded, there was no way the Vitellians could come this way again.
Clemens was helped back up over the wall. He was just beginning the breathe normally when a figure landed just beside him, having leapt down from the arch, and he suddenly found himself grasped in his father's embrace. “Are you hurt? You fool! What were you thinking?”
“I – I just…” stammered Clemens.
But, torn between horror and pride, the Stoic-hearted Sabinus was smiling for once. “It was inspired. Well done!”
Clemens' eyes opened wide, the hint of mirth cracking the corners of his mouth. “Not as theatrical as throwing Nero's quadriga down on them.”
Laughing, Sabinus put an arm around Clemens' shoulders. “Come. Let's see if you've any dramatic ideas about how to defend the south side when they come.”
Not far away, Domitia Longina ran up to Domitian. Throwing her arms about his neck, she kissed him long and hard on the mouth.
His eyes were open the whole time, and he was not particularly responsive. She stared at him for a moment, something like pleading in her own eyes. Then she pulled away and fled across the central square, disappearing behind the obelisk.
Among all the cheering, only Old Sabinus was mute. In real dismay he looked at the billows of smoke and struck his palm to his head. “Are they mad? To use fire!”
“Come back inside,” said Abigail soothingly, drawing the elderly senator towards the building that frightened her so.
But Old Sabinus acted as one who has seen a vision. His voice croaked as he said, “What if those embers reach Jupiter's temple? It would mean the end of Rome's contract with the great god!”
* * *
Full of vim and defiance, Verulana skipped out to the edge of the Tarpean Rock, showing her armour-clad figure to the world. She felt full to bursting with life.
A sudden impulse took her. She opened her mouth and started shouting, “Amor! Amor! Amor!”
The consul Atticus was nearby her, once again lofting his vicious epigrams into the air. The moment she started her cry he whirled about and leapt to his feet, racing at her. In seconds he had his hands over her mouth, cursing at her. “You stupid, stupid little fool! Stop that this instant!”
She pulled her face away. “Whatever for? This is the end, and if we should die, then this is the right moment. Amor!”
Atticus struck her across the face. It was tempting to kill her. He would have been in the right to do so. No one would ever have challenged him. For she was doing the unthinkable. Here, upon the Capitol, she was shouting out Rome's secret name. Roma, backwards, was amor. Love. A secret so precious it could never be spoken, for it was said to be the harbinger of Rome's destruction.
Atticus lifted his hand to strike again if she began repeating her blasphemous cry. Then he spied movement below. With the Capitoline steps impassable, a group of Praetorians were mounting the One Hundred Steps. Brushing past the silly woman, the consul cried, “They're coming! They're coming!”
Atticus did not see a second cluster of men creeping along the houses on the north face of the hillside. The Praetorians' next attempt would be a two-pronged approach.
* * *
Unsure what to do, Domitia started towards her slave Abigail, but decided she did not wish to be party to whatever that withered old man was ranting about. Instead she headed for the small temple of Fortuna Primigenia, protectress of first-born children. She was not the first-born, but a protectress was a protectress.
About to enter, she was startled by a familiar snap and sigh. Hearing the sound repeated, she followed the noise around the corner where, out of sight of everyone, a slave-woman in her late forties had unslung her mantle to expose her naked back, and was using a makeshift knotted lash to flail herself in prayer.
As a devotee herself, Domitia recognized the gesture and realized that Isis was the perfect deity to pray to at this moment. Stalking forward, she said, “Give me that!” Catching the flail in one hand, Domitia's other hand caught the penitent's full head of hair…
Which came away in her hand. The wig removed, the woman's natural hair was unwashed and tied into an intricate series of knots.
Domitia gasped aloud. The worshippers of Isis believed knots commanded great power. This woman clearly held a high rank in the sisterhood. That she hid her hair was understandable – under the law, she was polluting the great god's temple with her foreign religion.
Kneeling quickly, Domitia begged forgiveness. “Will you say a prayer for me as well?”
“We shall pray together, daughter,” said the slave. Together they implored Isis to invoke the secret name of Ra to preserve them from this strife.
Atop the wall above them, Domitian was running past when he saw Domitia drop her rough gown and bare her back. Taking up a small knotted cord, she whipped herself again and again. After three strikes the knots broke skin, and a thin line of blood trickled down Domitia's naked back. Forgetting the battle, Domitian lingered, fascinated.
After a moment, Domitia looked up at him, and he down at her. There was, in that moment, perfect understanding.
* * *
Sabinus found his son again hurling clay missiles from the wall. “We need more tiles!”
Sabinus shook his head. “I've got something better! Tell your grandfather we need the money he found!”
Clemens looked at his father as if he'd gone mad. “What?”
“Just tell him! Go!”
Clemens ran down the rampart stairs and dashed to the central square. Here, defying Abigail's pleas, Old Sabinus stood at the center of the Capitol, giving random orders from atop Jupiter's great stone altar. “You there, blow Form Square! You, have the cavalry wheel around the base of the hill and cut them off!”
“Avus! We need the money you found!”
Old Sabinus' head snapped around, and for a moment he was shaken out of his daze. “Money?”
“That's what father says. We need the money!”
Old Sabinus grinned his toothless smile. “What a clever idea. It's over there, in the temple, behind the third pillar on the left.”
Clemens quickly returned to his father, hauling a sack full of silver coins.
“Perfect!” Digging both hands into the bag, Sabinus threw money over the wall in a silver shower down onto the steps below. Again and again he poured money onto the Hundred Steps. Understanding at last, Clemens cupped his own hands to help.
The Vitellians paused in their attack, mouths slack at the sight of more money than they'd ever seen. For several moments they struggled over what to do next. Fight, or get rich? Greed won, and the Vitellians took shelter as they tried to collect the coins that continued to rain down from the wall above.
Hunkering down to take a moment, Sabinus said, “'Fire is the test of gold. Adversity, of strong men.'”
Clemens grinned. “I thought it went, 'Fire tests gold, gold tests women, and women test men.'”
Sabinus shrugged, the chain links of his armour jangling. “You may be right. It's the only money quote of his I can think of at present. I can't think why I'm so distracted.”
While father and son were laughing atop the Hundred Steps, the second group of Vitellians had stealthily ascended the Asylum, picking their way up between the houses built into the side of the hill. They soon found they could leave the exposed alleys alt
ogether by entering the houses. Once inside these richly appointed mansions, they ascended to the roofs Mamercus had warned of, the ones that stood higher than the Capitol's northern walls.
There were screams of warning. With the Hundred Steps contained, Sabinus and Clemens ran together to the northern wall, reaching it just as eager Vitellians leapt down, swords raised. Mamercus was there already, lashing out with his blade. But the moment they found their footing, he would be struck down.
Wearing his antique armour, a plain gladius in his hand, Sabinus leapt into the disordered enemy ranks, bashing and shoving with his round Greek shield. Mamercus and Clemens took up places at either shoulder, and they advanced in Roman fashion, their swords working the way they were designed – stab, twist, pull, stab, twist, pull. Clemens was silent as Mamercus cursed their foes, but Sabinus' bellow of defiance was at the unseen Delphic oracle who had predicted he would die unremembered. Not today!
As more defenders came to join them, Clemens glanced around and wondered where in Hades Domitian had disappeared to. Was he still fighting on the Hundred Steps?
* * *
“Yes! Yes!” cried Domitia, as Domitian hammered away at her, hands on her bloody back as she bent over the plinth of Fortuna Primigenia at the shadowy rear of the small temple. He grunted and cursed as his engorged manhood thrust again and again into her, as if this action could end the attack outside. “Bitch! Whore! Cunnus! Fellatrix!”
“Yes!” cried Domitia. “Oh, yes..!”
* * *
The sounds of fighting brought the consul Atticus away from his perch atop the Tarpean Rock towards Jupiter's temple. As he entered the central square, he saw an enemy leap from one particularly close house down onto the defenders. An elegantly simple solution presented itself: destroy the house and eliminate that point of entry.
Without advising anyone of his plans, the consul of Rome ran to the still-burning east gate, by the Arch of Corbulo. Reaching over the rampart, he poked though the flaming debris. “They're using fire as a weapon,” he muttered, snatching up a burning plank. “Why shouldn't we?” Waving the broken timber overhead to fan the flame, Atticus circled along the wall behind Jupiter's Temple. Stopping well behind the fighting, he drew back his arm to launch the firebrand over the wall into the house.
The movement of the flames caught Sabinus' eye. “Atticus, no!” He reached out his arm, then yanked it instantly back to avoid having it chopped off. He methodically knocked the Praetorian back with the edge of his shield and stabbed the man in the throat. Freed, he spun back towards Atticus—
Too late. The brand was aloft, sailing through the air in a lazy arc, barely turning at all at it entered a window high overhead.
The plan worked. It took only a few minutes before the flames in the house quelled the incoming tide of Vitellians.
Covered in blood and soot, Sabinus turned to his son, who looked much the same. They butted metal-clad arms. “Pater, you were brilliant!”
Sabinus was absurdly pleased by his son's praise. “You too. I'm proud you came.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I do. I – wait. Atticus!” Spying the consul coming close, Sabinus scowled. “You fool!”
The consul was dancing a little jig of victory. “Fool? I've turned back the enemy with a single blow. Strategy, my boy, not force of arms, shall carry the day!”
Grabbing Atticus' shoulders, Sabinus squeezed hard. “And what happens when the fire reaches the temple?”
Startled, Atticus' mouth fell open. He looked in horror up to where the burning house nearly touched the back of Jupiter's temple. “Water! Water, this instant!”
But even if the combatants had ceased their fighting and begun fetching buckets in the instant, there was no water to be had. The Vitellians had at last thought to cut off the water running to the Capitol.
Whatever the unintended consequences, the spreading fire had its desired effect. Vitellian forces along the north side were forced back down into the Asylum. Meanwhile the fighting on the Hundred Steps was over – hands full of silver, the Vitellians had pulled back.
Clad in man's armour, Verulana danced on the wall's edge. “We showed them! We warriors of Rome!” She looked around suddenly and wondered where Domitia had gone – she was missing all the fun!
* * *
As they emerged from the small temple, the pair parted at once. Placing his helmet on his head, Domitian darted off to see what had happened. Domitia rejoined the priestess of Isis at the back of the small temple to an aspect of Fortuna, wondering if either goddess had watched, and if they had enjoyed what they saw.
Domitia herself felt strangely calm. She was dirty, foul, and broken. She had always known it.
But now she was no longer alone.
* * *
With his son at his side, Sabinus hurled a few roof tiles after the last of the Vitellians on the southwest slope. But it was pointless to cheer. A quick glance over their shoulders told them they had staved off a minor irritant, and caused a tragedy.
A pillar of smoke rose into a windless sky, a twisting column that stretched all the way to high Olympus. The great temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus was on fire.
Not content with rapine alone, we've denied the Great God a home. Pythia's prophecy had been accurate after all.
“What do we do?” asked Clemens in horror. “What can we do?”
“What we always do,” answered Sabinus. “Make sure the family survives. Come.”
They ran back to the heart of the Capitol and found exhausted men standing all round the burning temple, staring up in amazed horror. With Abigail supporting him, Old Sabinus was kneeling upon the central altar. The duo watched silently as flames licked out from under Jupiter's roofline.
Approaching, Sabinus called to him. “Father!”
“It was well-made, you see,” muttered the old man. “Catulus built it with proper old timbers, and put a good roof on it.”
“Father!”
Abigail was shaking her head at him. “Titus Flavius…”
“Old timbers, kept dry last night by the good roof. Ironic, isn't it? If the roof hadn't been so good—”
“Father!”
“Titus Flavius,” pleaded Abigail, “don't.”
“—the wood might have gotten damp last night, and some of it could have been saved.”
Sabinus leapt onto the altar and grasped his father, shaking him by the shoulders. “Father, they'll see the smoke! They'll assault us on all sides! You have to go, hide, get out of it!”
But Old Sabinus could not tear his weeping eyes from the flames. “Last time it burned, the great god punished us with Dictators, who became Caesars. What will he do to us now? What price will we pay this time? What cost will he exact for little brother's delusions of grandeur?”
Sabinus' eyes narrowed in incredulity. The old man blamed Vespasian for this day's deeds? Releasing his grip, Sabinus jumped down. His father, it appeared, was lost.
As am I, he thought, understanding at last what the teaching sacrifice was, and who would make it.
First he turned to Abigail. “You should go. Hide anywhere.”
She smiled wanly back at him. “There is nowhere to hide. I will stay with him.”
Sabinus did not have time to argue. “You don't have to.”
“I owe you a debt. You made a sacrifice for my daughter. I will make one for your father. Like, for like.” And dying here was better than the death the Vitellians would give her. It was a fact both of them understood.
Sabinus leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “If you see the chance, escape.”
Abigail nodded. “I will.”
Turning away from his father, Sabinus grabbed Clemens by the shoulder and dragged his son into a sheltered spot. “We don't have much time. Domitian cannot be found here. Vespasian is going to win this war, and soon. The only thing that might prevent that victory is if his son is taken hostage.” Sabinus grasped Clemens' arm. “It's up to you to get him out of here. T
he family must survive. You understand?”
“Yes, pater.”
There was a shout from the Hundred Steps, the Clivus Capitolinus, and the Asylum. As he'd predicted, the Vitellians were massing to attack on three fronts at once. “Quickly now, listen. Mamercus and I will rally everyone to the Hundred Steps. The Vitellians will follow the sounds of the fighting. You have to find Domitian and wait along the north wall until they're engaged, then find a way over the wall. Use the Asylum houses. Weave in and out of them, lose anyone chasing you in that rabbit-warren. If you can, hide in a house – wash your faces, disguise yourselves.”
“What about you?” asked Clemens.
Sabinus shook his head, wearing an odd expression – half amused, had sad. “I'm a consular, I'm expected to lead. The price of high office is sometimes you have to act in a greater interest than your own.”
Realizing what his father intended, Clemens said, “Domitian can run! Let me fight with you!”
“No! One of us needs to create a distraction, and the other must make sure Domitian escapes. I think our roles are clear.” Sabinus looked gravely at his son, almost his own height now. “You were right.”
“About what?”
“Laocoon.”
Clemens was utterly confused. “Pater, what are you talking about?”
“You said Laocoon should have told his sons to run. You were right. I'm telling you now – run.”
Turning slowly white, the child in Clemens wanted to cry out. Willing his tears not to fall, he managed a Stoic nod.
“Titus Flavius! They're coming!” called Mamercus from the center of the square.
“Rally at the Hundred Steps!” Sabinus called back before addressing his son for the last time. “One more thing. You know the cupboard containing the wax masks of our family? Inside there is a paper you must see. Only you.”
The speed of this parting was breathtaking. Clemens protested, “Pater, I'm sorry, I never—”
Their armour clinking, Sabinus wrapped his son in a hug. “No time, mi filius! Your duty is survival, and there is no shame in doing your duty. Honour me with your life.” Sabinus gave Clemens the kiss of parting, then smiled. “Life's like a play, Seneca says. It's not the length, but the excellence of the acting that matters.” Swallowing, Sabinus pushed his son from him. “Now go! Go!”
