by David Blixt
“Vale, pater!”
“Ave atque vale, mi filius!”
Tears rolling freely, father and son ran in opposite directions.
* * *
As happens when everything is lost, everyone gave orders and no one obeyed. Several of the senators and knights trapped on top of the Capitol threw away their arms and began looking for escape or concealment. Others struck those men, calling them cowards and refusing to let them escape while there was a glorious death to be had.
Through the smoke and confusion, Clemens tried to carry out his father's will. “Domitian! Domitian!” At last Clemens spied his cousin atop the western wall, using his shield to pour flaming bits of debris down on the attackers. “Domitian! We have orders!”
Descending quickly, Domitian said, “What's the plan?”
“My father is luring the attackers to the south. I'm to get you out through the north.”
“Running away? I won't—”
“Don't argue!” shouted Clemens.
They had been friends their whole lives, yet the look on Clemens' face was something Domitian had never seen. “Cos, what's—?”
“You have to stay safe, or your father will lose. My father is dying to protect you. Let's go.”
“He's what? No, we can rescue—!”
“We can't. We'd die too, and then he'll have died for nothing.” As Domitian opened his mouth again, Clemens shoved him, hard. “We don't have time! Do you need me to carry you? Or will you shut your face and come on?”
Shocked, Domitian just started nodding. But they had only made it a few steps before he skidded to a stop. “Wait! The women! Domitia Longina –”
“She'll survive them, you won't. Let's go!”
Domitian looked mutinous. “I'll not leave her.”
Clemens was tempted to clout his cousin on the head. Did he not understand the sacrifice being made for him? Was he really jeopardizing their escape for the sake of another man's wife?
But Domitian was already turning the corner to the Temple of Fortuna. Cursing, Clemens followed and spied Domitia Longina and Verulana at once. They weren't inside the small shrine, but beside it with another woman. All three were bent in prayer, their backs exposed.
Domitian proved his appreciation for the urgency of the moment by hauling Domitia to her feet and dragging her north. Verulana leapt up, sword prepared. The third woman started to hiss some kind of curse. Clemens said angrily, “We're escaping. Come with us or don't.” He turned and started running for the Asylum wall.
“Glorious!” Verulana considered calling for the other women inside, but self-preservation prevented her – the smaller their number, the better their chances.
Running away, Domitia never even thought of Abigail.
* * *
Back at the altar, Old Sabinus had entirely lost his senses. He gave a string of nonsensical orders, countermanding them almost at once, only to give them again. It was as though the ruin of Jupiter's Temple had also ruined his mind.
Abigail held his hand and began singing to him a song that she had sung to Perel as a little girl. He stopped talking and listened to the words of a language he did not understand, but that spoke to him none the less.
* * *
Standing before the southern gate alongside Mamercus and four dozen professional soldiers, Sabinus held his place in the line, waiting.
I don't want to die, he thought. But the thought did not end there. This day Sabinus had proved what he'd always suspected – he was a true Roman soldier. He could have been a great legate, even a general. Uncle Vespasian, you could have used me in your war…
For another man it would have been a bitter realization. But Sabinus accepted the sorrow without rancor. I see at last what sacrifice means. Sacra fice. 'Make holy.' It's the knowing loss of all the moments to come, all the possibilities that lie ahead, all given up for the greater good.
But I do not die a meaningless death. I die for a reason. Here, in this moment, I am protecting my son's future, and through him, Rome's. He felt a calm certainty. Knowing his fate, he could embrace it.
His certainty would not dampen his sword-arm's vigour. Every enemy slain was one who would not chase his son. Every moment spent in battle bought Clemens time to escape.
Let them come.
* * *
“Come on! Hurry, hurry!” Running across the chaotic, smoke-filled square, Clemens heard a great rending crash. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw an improvised ram splintering the ancient southern gate. The Vitellians had burst through.
With an immense feat of will, Clemens turned away. There was nothing to be said or done other than carry out his father's last wishes. He knew that death would find nothing but beauty in Titus Flavius Sabinus.
* * *
“Come on, you ivory bastard!” shouted Sabinus as he held the line against one persistent Praetorian. “Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo!”
Hearing this, Mamercus laughed. “Now you sound like a soldier!”
“Thanks!” Bashing the Praetorian's teeth out with the edge of his shield, Sabinus didn't have the heart to admit it was a verse from Catullus.
Mamercus sneered as one foe was killed on another Vitellian's sword. “Te fututo, gaudeo!”
Sabinus laughed too, feeling a wonderful freedom. Seneca was right. No man enjoys the true taste of life, but he who is ready to quit it.
* * *
To avoid being seen, Clemens picked a spot where the fire blazed brightly. Racing up the stairs to the northern ramparts just behind the blazing temple, he leapt over and dropped himself down among the burning houses. Falling to the ground, he rolled to put out any chance embers. “Come on!”
A figure came hurtling through the flames above and Clemens caught Verulana. The crash of her armour on his hurt more than his own fall had. Clinging to him in her excitement, the older woman let out a whoop of laughter. Clemens set her aside just as the slave-woman came through. Lastly came Domitian and Domitia together, emerging through the smoke to land holding hands.
Checking each other quickly, they found they suffered more from anxiety than burns. Verulana asked, “Now what?”
“Into a house,” said Clemens. “Any house not burning.” Under cover of smoke and screams, the quintet of fugitives entered the nearest building not alight.
It was deserted. “Quick, find water. Wash yourselves – make yourself presentable. Domitian, help me get this armour off.”
The women obediently scrubbed their arms and faces in the central fountain. Freed from his mailed shirt, Clemens dunked his head in the water. Following suit, Domitian came up gasping. “What now?”
Trying not to think what was happening just yards up the hill, Clemens' voice sounded a little inhuman. “We dress and try to look as if nothing has happened. Innocent bystanders.”
“We could find a place to hide,” opined Domitia.
Clemens shook his head. “They'll soon know Domitian got out. Someone's bound to tell them he was there. The longer we wait, the more likely they'll find us.”
“If we hide,” offered Domitian, “they'll call off the search.”
“Where could we hide that they wouldn't search?” demanded Clemens.
He hadn't expected an answer, but Verulana clapped her hands in excitement. “The Iseum! They won't look inside the shrine of Isis Capitolinus!”
Domitia flushed with enthusiasm. “Yes!” Isis would preserve them!
Clemens recoiled. “Men don't worship Isis.”
Verulana was pitying. “Of course they do.”
“Eunuchs and foreigners, not Romans. Besides, priests of Isis shave their heads.”
“He's right,” said Domitian. “We'd stick out like dog's balls.”
Verulana had a solution close to hand. “Not if you dress as women!”
“What?” said Clemens. “No.”
But Domitian was already laughing. “Come on. Think of it as theatre!”
“Mistresses,” said the slave-woman with the knotted hair
. “This is sacrilege.”
“Quiet,” ordered Domitia harshly. Despite the woman's high rank as priestess, she was still a slave and had no right to contradict the great-great-great-granddaughter of Augustus. “Help us find clothes.”
As the women scampered off, Clemens said, “Maybe we could pull up a cloaca, hide in the sewer instead…”
Domitian shook his head. “We'd be seen in an instant.”
Frustrated, Clemens said, “I don't like this at all.”
Domitian clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It's perfect. The last place they'll look. Besides, if dressing as a woman was good enough for Achilles…”
The women returned with loose linen vestments that resembled the shapeless garments worn by priestess of Isis. Hearing the battle sounds from just up the hill, they all hurried to dress. They solved the question of hair by placing the slave's wig atop Domitian's head and bundling Clemens' head in an oddly-styled wrapping of cloth.
It was difficult for Clemens and Domitian to leave their weapons behind, but if they were going to pull this off, they had to appear the part. Humiliated, Clemens followed Domitian and the three women out the door and down the hillside path, listening to the fighting that raged on above them, amazed it had lasted so long.
* * *
“It is better this way,” said Old Sabinus to Abigail as smoke swirled about them. “Better that I should die before I see my brother elevated above me. For, honestly, I could never forgive him. I only wish I had some legacy that would outlast him.” Casting a glance up at the burning hulk of Jupiter's Temple, he felt a tremor run through him, a private earthquake. “This is my legacy. I will be remembered for bringing down the wrath of the gods upon Rome's poor head.”
“There is only one god,” said Abigail. “And his name is Yahweh.”
Old Sabinus' laugh was quite demented. “Now you tell me!”
* * *
The Vitellians were now coming from all sides to stamp out this defiant cluster of sixty men at the southern gate.
“Form square! Form square!” bellowed Mamercus, and the remaining men from the urban cohorts formed a crude square, each man protecting the fellow on his left. Their swords flicked out from between their shields, making their attackers pay dearly.
Bodies piled up outside the square, forcing the Vitellians to struggle over their own corpses to reach these defiant fools.
Sabinus was so engrossed in killing that he hardly felt the cut that drew his first blood. A mere trace of heat in his leg. “Hold them!” he shouted, stabbing from inside the square.
Mamercus grinned. “We can hold them until the sun grows cold!” The other soldiers cheered. It was the kind of bravado that only doomed men engaged in.
My one real regret is that I'll never know how the prophecy ends. But Clemens will see it, and he'll remember me. It's not fame eternal, but it is enough that my son will remember me.
Clemens, and a Jew…
* * *
Disguised, the band of fugitives walked openly down the far side of the Arx. Remarkably, they reached the Iseum without any raised shouts or queries.
“Follow us, and do as we do,” ordered Verulana softly.
“I hope they don't notice these women haven't shaved today,” muttered Domitian.
The hair on the back of his neck prickling, Clemens entered the small temple to the Aegyptian goddess. The entryway to the first room was coated with rippled plaster, resembling moving water. One wall displayed statues of the goddess in all her different forms: a woman in a long sheath dress and crown, with a lotus flower in her hand; a Sycamore tree; a woman with the horns of a cow, and also an entire cow. Finally she appeared seated, nursing her child Horus – Clemens knew the name of Isis' son, if not his story.
The women genuflected to the altar, to the sky, and to a small basin of water. Clemens followed suit. He was disturbed to see traditional Roman deities lined along the side walls, subservient to the foreigner. But what dismayed him most was that this room was open to the air, bringing the smells of the fire and the sounds of battle from up the hill clearly to his ears.
* * *
Sheer weight of numbers broke the square. Suddenly it was man-to-man fighting. Standing beside Sabinus, Mamercus used sword and shield, elbows and knees, even his head, to beat back the Vitellian mob. At last a long spear hooked Mamercus' hamstring, dropping the old centurion to the ground. Like a pack of jackals the others were upon him, stabbing with their blades and tearing with their fingers, rendering the career soldier unrecognizable.
With Mamercus dead, Sabinus was next. A sword-point pierced the chain-link armour at his shoulder. He shouted as his sword fell from his senseless hand. Another blade came for his throat. He dodged it, but a blow from behind brought him to his knees. Spears and swords came at him from all sides. Sabinus closed his eyes and composed himself as a Roman should, with one final quote from his favourite author in his mind.
The body is not a home, but an inn. And that only briefly…
* * *
Domitian and Clemens were not the only men who used the distraction created by Sabinus and the others to slip past the Vitellians. The junior consul Simplex was one of many who bought his escape with the lives of braver men.
But three defenders neither fought nor fled. One was the senior consul, Atticus, kneeling before the blazing temple and weeping over what he had wrought.
The others were Old Sabinus and Abigail. The elderly senator stood upright. Watching his only son fall had at last brought him to his senses. “Go now, girl. Hide. Save yourself.”
“Titus Flavius, I promised your son—”
“Hush, woman. I will surrender myself. Hopefully my execution will blunt the Vitellians' rage. Perhaps make the search for Domitian less vigourous. But if you're caught here, you know what will happen. Go. Now.” Patting her on the arm, Old Sabinus walked out of the smoke-filled square, his hands held high.
Abigail knew what he did not seem to realize. There was nowhere to escape to. The time for flight had passed. Already she heard the screams of the slave-women still alive upon the Capitol. The Vitellians were taking their spoils.
There was a shout. They had seen him, and would be here any moment. Watching the angry victors coming through the patches of smoke, Abigail knew the old man was right about at least one thing. She knew what they would do to her. She had been captured by Romans once before, when she and Symeon and the rest had been arrested and sold into slavery. Youth and the threat of disease had spared Perel, but not Abigail. It was hard not to view it as the Lord's justice for her sinful life. She had knowingly taken up with a married man, bourne his child, lived with him in sin. Been in all ways unto him as a wife. She regretted nothing, not even the end. For she had known love, and purpose. More than a poor Hebrew girl had ever dreamed of.
But she was damned if she would let Romans take her a second time. Never again.
The old man's sword lay at her feet where he had dropped it. But the Lord had decreed self-slaughter a sin. So instead Abigail turned and, quite deliberately, walked into the burning temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus.
* * *
After several minutes of prayer, the worshipers of Isis moved into another room that bore murals of the goddess' story. Clemens pieced it rudely together for himself, glad of the distraction.
Was that snake biting the sun? There was Isis bringing the remedy. Next she was using magic water to revive some other god – Clemens assumed it was to have his child, for in the next image she held a bird-headed infant to her breast. But the infant was in danger, and she had to flee with him away from some dark god with a lean dog's head. The infant grew and returned as a falcon-headed hero, with his mother proudly watching as he conquered snakes, lions, crocodiles, and finally the dog-headed god.
All around him women were flagellating themselves. Clemens accepted the knotted cord and swatted at his own back. The lash broke the skin with surprising ease, and Clemens found himself unable to hold back thoughts of his
father, who must surely be dead by now.
Weeping, Clemens recalled his father's words the day Galba had been killed: “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.”
Whipping himself harder and harder, Clemens punished himself for his own failure. I was a bad son. Never diligent, never devoted to anything but my own interests. Feckless, a feather on the wind. He used to talk about my potential. When did he stop? When did he decide I was past hope? Before today, did I ever make him proud?
I'll make you proud of me, father. I'll live a life that honours the family. And when I die, it will be for a cause I believe in.
Just like you.
* * *
The inside of Jupiter's temple was still strangely whole. Clumps of burning oakum fell from the ceiling, and flames scorched the walls. But the center of the temple was still whole.
Coughing, eyes watering, Abigail knelt in the open space, her head bowed in prayer. For deliverance, if the Lord willed it. Or else to be reunited with her love. Either was welcome.
Just preserve my daughter, Lord. She is entrusted with a great task. An impossible task, for any mere mortal. She will need Divine Guidance, and protection. Please, continue the protection you have shown her so long. My life has been full of sin. But from those sins, one perfect thing emerged. I know there was a reason.
Please, if I am to die here, in this place, offer me a sign that my life has pleased you. That in raising her and honouring him, I have done well.
A cracking sound made her raise her head. Through reddened eyes, Abigail watched as the terracotta image of the great Roman god shattered and collapsed in upon itself.
An omen. A sign. A gift.
Lightheaded from the smoke, smothered in heat, Abigail closed her eyes once more. “Thank you, my Lord.”
