‘And so, Otho, I wish you joy of your appointment and promise that I will look after your wife, Poppaea, until your safe return. Although I think that in the circumstances a divorce would suit better all round. Now go.’
Otho stepped forward. ‘But, Princeps—’
‘Go! And don’t come back until I recall you.’
If he ever does, thought Vespasian, as Otho realised that there was nothing he could do to resist Nero’s will without losing his life.
Poppaea Sabina watched her husband go in triumph, holding onto the Emperor’s arm. Victorious, she looked to Vespasian, as one of the three obstacles to her becoming empress was removed from Rome leaving just Nero’s wife, Claudia, and his mother, Agrippina; both of whom were doomed by the ambition of the new Fury at Nero’s side.
‘Master,’ Hormus said as Vespasian walked through his front door a couple of hours later, leaving his escort of Tigran’s brothers to make their way home in the chill mist of a December night. ‘I’m sorry but I couldn’t stop her. She insisted.’
‘Who insisted, Hormus?’
‘Caenis, master.’ The freedman wrung his hands, not daring to meet his patron’s eyes as they passed through the vestibule and on into the atrium. ‘She came an hour after you left, tricked her way past the doorkeeper by saying that she had an important message for you from Seneca that she personally had to leave in your study and then refused to leave, even though I told her that you had given orders that she should be refused entry.’
Vespasian looked around the atrium but could see no sign of Caenis. ‘Where is she?’
‘I’m sorry, master, but she’s with the mistress.’
‘With Flavia!’
‘Yes, master; her shouting disturbed the mistress who came to see what was going on; when she saw it was Caenis she insisted that they wait for you together in the triclinium and that I should have dinner served there for them both.’
Vespasian was horrified. ‘They’ve been closeted together for almost three hours!’
Hormus cringed, wringing his hands so that his knuckles were white. ‘I know, it’s terrible. I’m so sorry, master.’
Vespasian swallowed and looked towards the closed door of the triclinium. The only other time he had seen his wife and mistress together was when they had both suffered the indignity of having their houses searched in the wake of Caligula’s assassination; it had not been a comfortable experience. And, although Flavia and Caenis had maintained cordial relations and had even become friendly towards one another whilst Vespasian had been away in Germania and Britannia for six years with the II Augusta, to the point that his two elder children referred to Caenis as ‘aunt’, the thought of seeing them both together was not a pleasant one, especially when he had so flagrantly avoided Caenis and had given her no good reason for doing so. He had purposely kept her completely unaware of his motives for his behaviour in order to keep the pretence complete but now he would have to explain.
He steeled himself, walking slowly to the triclinium door, and, with a brief pause as his hand gripped the handle, opened it.
‘There you are, at last,’ Flavia said, her tone implying that he was late for an appointment that he himself had made. She was reclining on a couch with Caenis next to her; the remains of a large meal was laid out on the table before them. ‘Where have you been?’
‘You know perfectly well where I’ve been, Flavia, as well as you know it’s not fitting that you should even ask.’ He broke off a hunk of bread and dipped it into a bowl of oil before sitting down on an unoccupied couch; Caenis kept her eyes lowered, not meeting his look. ‘How are you, Caenis?’
With a suddenness that surprised both Vespasian and Flavia, Caenis threw her cup, shattering it against the wall in an explosion of shards and wine. ‘What have I done?’ she almost screamed.
‘Nothing, my love, nothing.’
‘Then why have you cut me off? What did I do to deserve you turning around when you saw me coming the opposite way down a corridor? Why haven’t you responded to any of my notes? What is going on? Have you found a younger mistress? Am I too old now that I’m fifty-three? Have I aged like milk rather than wine?’ Her eyes had filled with tears and Vespasian wanted only to take her in his arms to comfort and reassure her; but he could not do so in front of his wife. The fact that Caenis was here with Flavia was a sign as to how desperate she had become.
‘I’ve had no choice and I’ve been unable to communicate with you for fear of a spy in one of our households getting wind of the fact that I know it was not you who betrayed me to Seneca.’
‘Of course I wouldn’t betray you to Seneca, even though I work for him.’
‘Yes, I know that now but I didn’t when he told me that he knew I was going to Bauli the morning after our conversation with Pallas and Agrippina; then it seemed that it had to be you.’
Her face was set hard, as hard as her voice. ‘So what made you change your mind?’
And then he let it all tumble out: Pallas’ ruse, sweetened with the promise of a governorship, for getting him down to Bauli and the whole disgraceful tale of matricide and how he was going to help facilitate it because ultimately the abhorrence that people would feel towards Nero for the crime would be to his advantage and it would also earn Titus a good posting as a military tribune.
‘Blessed Mother Isis,’ Flavia whispered when he had finished; her face left him in no doubt about her feelings for his story.
Caenis was equally as disgusted. ‘You’ve buried your own mother last month and now you’re going to help Nero to kill his? Have you no respect for the sanctity of motherhood? That is one of the crimes that can never be assuaged; it is an affront to every god, not just Isis or the great mother Cybele, but all of them. History is full of examples of men who have done wrong to their mothers and none of them comes to a happy ending. The plays written about them are all tragedies; have you ever thought about that? Not one comedy amongst them. Yes, Agrippina is a Fury who deserves all the ill that could possibly come to her but if she ends up being murdered by her own son then she will be remembered with sympathy rather than scorn. And all those who helped Nero commit such a terrible act will share the odium attached to it. So I advise you, Vespasian, to think again.’
Vespasian sat, looking first at his mistress and then his wife; he did not detect an iota of sympathy for his position in either of them. ‘I can’t refuse Seneca now; I’ve already said that I would take the invitation to Agrippina when I go to collect the land deeds.’
Caenis shook her head, looked away and with marked petulance ripped off a hunk of bread; but Flavia continued to stare at him, her face thoughtful as if making a difficult decision. ‘Titus’ posting is assured?’ she asked eventually.
‘In as much as anything can be.’
‘Then you cannot go back on what you have promised Seneca, otherwise this family’s rise will be at a standstill. He has to progress up the Cursus Honorum soon, else his career will founder as it’s almost two years since he finished his time with the junior magistrates of the vigintiviri. The question is: are we buying his advancement with a crime against the gods? And if so, will the gods’ wrath rebound onto him with some apt act of retribution?’
‘What do you mean? His son will kill him?’
‘Son, daughter, nephew, whatever.’
‘More likely to be his brother.’ Vespasian instantly regretted the remark as once again he felt he was doing Domitian down.
‘I don’t know; but what I am sure of is that the gods have a tendency to have the last word and their sense of humour is known for being macabre.’
Vespasian did not like this line of reasoning as he was afraid that Flavia might have a valid point: the gods were well known for their ability to punish with unpleasantly dark humour. ‘So what do you recommend, Flavia?’
Flavia looked at him in surprise. ‘I do believe that is the first time you have ever asked me for advice, my dear. In the past you have always gone to Caenis for that.’
‘That was for political advice,’ Caenis said, chewing on some bread. ‘This is a religious matter and your devotion to Isis makes you the ideal person to recommend a course of action.’
‘Thank you, my dear; that is very gracious of you.’
The two women smiled warmly at one another, causing Vespasian to shiver.
When they had finished being polite, Flavia thought for a few moments, running her forefinger along her lips. ‘I have worshipped Mother Isis for most of my adult life and therefore she has an interest in my family and especially in Titus, my firstborn. This crime that you’ve bought Titus’ advancement with is an affront to motherhood so therefore we need to appease the goddess who represents motherhood for my family.’
Vespasian found himself agreeing with his wife. ‘That makes sense; I shall organise a sacrifice immediately.’
‘No, husband; do it in a couple of months’ time, just before you set off, to keep the sacrifice as fresh as possible in the goddess’s mind.’
‘If you say so. What do you think will be appropriate? A white ox? A sow?’
‘No, husband; this has to be something very personal; you have to show the goddess that you really need her protection for our son. You have to make a huge sacrifice, a personal sacrifice.’
Vespasian knew where she was going and tried desperately to think of some alternative, anything, but failed. ‘Are you sure, Flavia?’
‘Yes; I can’t see any other alternative; it only has to be one of them but it has to be the fastest.’
Vespasian’s heart sank. ‘It shall be done.’ He reached across the table and took Caenis’ proffered hand, wondering just how he was going to stomach sacrificing to Isis the fastest of his team of Arabian racing horses.
‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’ Magnus asked as he stroked the muzzle of the fine Arab stallion that had had the misfortune to be pronounced the fastest of the team by the Green faction stables that housed and trained Vespasian’s horses; the beast gave a snort and rubbed itself hard against Magnus’ hand. ‘I mean, what if Flavia had just suggested this because she’s jealous and thinks that you give more attention to the horses than you do to her?’
‘Of course she didn’t; she knows just how much these animals mean to me.’ Vespasian’s voice was tight with emotion; he had grown fond and proud of his pets, as he thought of them. In the five years that his Arabs had raced for the Greens in the Circus Maximus they had competed on twenty-three occasions and had won a staggering nineteen of those races; they were the best team in the Greens’ stable and, arguably, the best team in Rome. It had squeezed his heart every day for the last two months knowing that he would have to give one of them to Isis, but he could perfectly understand Flavia’s reasoning and cursed the machinations of Pallas and Seneca for having brought him to this situation now that the day was finally here. ‘At least I’ll still have four to race as a team,’ Vespasian said ruefully, stroking the flanks of the beast that steamed as a result of the last run around the circus that he had insisted it had. He took the halter and walked towards the open gates of the Flammian Circus and then on to the Temple of Isis where Flavia and Caenis awaited.
‘I beheld a great wonder in heaven, a woman clothed with the Sun, with the Moon at her feet. And on her head was a diadem of the twelve stars. Hear me, O Mother Isis, hear and save. O Queen of love and mercy, whose raiment is the Sun, who is crowned with stars and shod by the Moon, whose countenance is mild and glowing, even as grass refreshed by rain.’
Vespasian stood with a fold of his toga draped over his head as the priestess of Isis continued to recite the ancient prayer calling upon the goddess to hear their supplication. Next to him the magnificent stallion skittered occasionally; the beat of its hoofs hitting the marble floor echoed around the dim, columned interior of the temple, fugged with incense. Flavia held her palms across her chest as she faced the statue of Isis wearing a dress of the same rich blue as the goddess’s; her eyes were brim with moisture, although whether it was from communing with her goddess or from the heavy smoke of the burning incense, Vespasian did not know. Magnus stood just staring at the stallion; his one good eye was also glistened with tears but Vespasian knew that this was a genuine show of feeling for the demise of the beast who had, along with its team mates, won Magnus more money in bets than any other horse in his long experience of betting on his beloved Greens. It was a sombre atmosphere in which the priestess finished the prayer and the time for the despatch came closer.
‘Mother Isis, hear us,’ Flavia pleaded, holding out her hands in supplication. ‘Accept this sacrifice and hold your hands over my son, Titus; keep him safe from the crime that is to be committed. Take this stallion, Mother Isis, star crowned, in atonement for my husband’s small part in this affront to motherhood. Take, hear and save.’ Flavia bowed her head and re-crossed her arms on her chest as the priestess began a chant in praise of the goddess being invoked.
Vespasian glanced at Magnus; the time had come. Four acolytes, youths dressed in Isis-blue tunics decorated with the twelve golden stars of the goddess arranged in a circle, came forward from the shadows, two bearing a great bronze basin that they set upon the ground before the stallion, who looked down at it curiously, checking whether it contained food or water – it did not.
The third acolyte handed Magnus the stunning-mallet and the fourth gave Vespasian a foot-long curved bronze blade with an ivory handle inlaid with silver moons and gold suns. The stallion took no notice of this development and stamped its foot a couple of times as if impatient as to how long things – whatever they were – were taking.
Vespasian moved forward to be level with the horse’s neck as two of the acolytes held the beast’s halter, worrying it so that it began to pull against them. Vespasian and Magnus shared another quick look; Magnus’ right arm arced in a blur of motion. There was a crack as the mallet slammed into the stallion’s forehead just above the eyes. Its front legs shook and the animal staggered but remained upright as Vespasian rent a gash, slow and deep, across its throat, releasing a torrent of warm, iron-tanged blood that turned his arm red as it gushed down to be collected in the basin. Too dazed by the blow to comprehend in its equine mind what was occurring to it, the stallion just stood, trembling as the blood cascaded down, splashing its fetlocks. Its eyes rolled back so they were nothing but white and its mouth and nostrils foamed red; its plight must have then become clear to it for it began to struggle against the halter and kick out with its back legs. But to no avail, the acolytes held firm and the beast’s struggles diminished as its strength waned until, with a hideous gurgle from the gaping wound, its front legs collapsed and its head sank to the floor just as the basin, now full, was dragged out of the way. Death followed slowly but surely as the back legs lost their power and the stallion fell onto its side, its eyes still rolling. Vespasian fought back the tears that Magnus was now openly shedding as the horse made pitiful attempts to lift itself back up, each more feeble than the last, until it lay still, its chest barely rising and falling.
And then that too became still.
Vespasian performed the rest of the sacrifice in a haze of misery, barely aware of removing the heart and liver to the accompaniment of the prayers and chants of the priestess and Flavia and hardly remembering the pouring of blood libations on the altar and at the goddess’s feet. But still it was done and it was done well so that the procedure did not have to be repeated and he should lose another of his prized possessions. It was with relief that Vespasian completed the ceremony in the knowledge that Isis had accepted the sacrifice, but it was with foreboding as to what was to happen that Vespasian walked with Magnus down the steps of the temple and began his journey south to assist in a matricide.
CHAPTER VI
‘I DON’T BELIEVE IT!’ Agrippina threw down the invitation, which she had barely glanced at, and stared at Vespasian; he could feel the venom. ‘My son has tried to poison me twice to my certain knowledge and would have succeeded had it not been for a fr
iend writing to warn me and to advise me as to which antidote to take. And then, the last time I slept under his roof the ceiling of my bedchamber mysteriously collapsed; I would have been crushed had it not been for the fact that my bed was next to a tall and sturdy piece of furniture. After going to all this trouble why would he want to be reconciled with me and pretend that we are a loving mother and son?’
‘Perhaps he feels the anger of the gods at attempting such a hideous crime,’ Pallas suggested, ‘and he wants to make up for such deeds by showing you the filial honour that you deserve, which is why he has, seemingly spontaneously, chosen to invite you to celebrate the feast of Minerva with him.’
Vespasian was not astonished by Pallas’ brazen lie as he stood before the couple sitting in the shade of an olive tree on a terrace overlooking the Bay of Neapolis with the hulking presence of Vesuvius in the distance; it was what he had become used to in the years of wading through imperial politics. It was what came next that caused him to start.
‘Besides,’ Pallas went on, ‘when you’re with Nero he would hardly dare to kill you in public and receive the opprobrium of all for being a matricide; so if there is to be an attempt on your life then it will be aboard the ship. I suggest that Vespasian and Magnus accompany you there and back with your freedman, Gallus, to defend you against any assassination attempts out at sea.’ Pallas looked at Vespasian innocently. ‘You’d be only too pleased to do that for me, Vespasian, wouldn’t you?’
Vespasian gritted his teeth; he could not let on that he knew what was to happen. ‘Only too pleased, Pallas.’
‘There you are, my dear; problem solved.’
Agrippina did not seem convinced and gazed out over the sea, glimmering with warm afternoon sun and speckled with fishing boats; in the distance a trireme pulled south, headed for one of the ports at the other end of the bay. ‘I don’t know, Pallas; I don’t trust this, it’s too sudden and has no logic to it. Last time I saw him, at the beginning of the month, we had a major row about how he was comporting himself with Otho’s wife, Poppaea Sabina, now that he’s as good as exiled Otho by sending him to govern Lusitania. I tried to explain to him that if he divorced Claudia Octavia he would be losing quite a substantial piece of his legitimacy as she is Claudius’ blood-daughter. He laughed at me and showed no inclination to reconciliation, quite the opposite in fact; he told me that he would sleep with whomever he wanted to and would marry Poppaea even if it meant having Claudia executed and ordering Otho to commit suicide if he continues refusing to divorce Poppaea. And he threatened to kill me, yet again, if I tried to interfere.’
The Furies of Rome Page 11
