The Furies of Rome

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse,’ Flavia screeched, her voice tight with anger and her eyes dull with insomnia, ‘I find out that Magnus is taking possession of our strongbox.’

  ‘My strongbox,’ Vespasian reminded her truthfully. ‘And how did you find that out?’

  ‘Because he’s here with that big brute who alerted the Emperor to your selfishness and Hormus has just sent a couple of slaves to fetch the box for him. How am I meant to live in the style that a woman of my status deserves to if I can’t have access to that box after you’re … well … after you’re dead?’

  Vespasian rose to face his wife over the desk. ‘Because, woman, with that strongbox under Magnus’ guard I have a chance of preventing your total impoverishment.’

  ‘How will it prevent that if I don’t even have access to it?’

  ‘Firstly, if my property is confiscated they won’t get the contents of that box because Magnus has it and they don’t know about it; and secondly, if you were to have it then within a month, knowing you, there wouldn’t be anything left in it and I might as well have just left it here for the Emperor to seize. At least this way Magnus can give you a monthly income.’

  The idea of being doled out money by Magnus was too much for Flavia and she reached for the inkpot on Vespasian’s desk and threw it over his toga.

  ‘That is not helpful, Flavia,’ Vespasian said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Getting yourself executed and turning me into an impecunious widow isn’t helpful either but you’ve still gone and done it.’

  ‘Flavia, I would remind you that I’m still here and very much alive.’ He slapped her across the face to prove the point. ‘Now calm down, woman.’

  Flavia shook her head, blinking her eyes rapidly, her chest heaving as she put a hand to her reddened cheek. ‘You just hit me!’

  ‘And I’ll do it again unless you calm down, Flavia; this isn’t the time for self-pitying hysterics. You need to think clearly as the messenger will be here in half an hour and you should be gone by then; you should have already left. Tigran’s lads are still waiting around the back to take you to Domitilla’s house. I told you to take Domitian and get away from here.’

  ‘Skulk out of my own home by the back door? Who do you think I am?’

  ‘I think you’re my wife who should obey my every order.’ Vespasian paused for an exasperated deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. ‘Flavia, you must go and you must go now. By this evening we’ll know what is happening.’

  ‘By this evening you’ll be dead.’

  ‘That may well be so and if it’s indeed the case then you stay with Domitilla. Hormus will look after the house until such time as it is seized along with all our slave-stock—’

  ‘The slaves!’ Flavia looked horrified; she had evidently only just realised that the slaves, as they counted as property, would be taken and sold. ‘But who will do my hair in the mornings?’

  ‘That will be the least of your worries as I’m sure that Domitilla will lend you one of her girls. If my property is taken then you must stay at Domitilla’s, out of sight for as long as possible; don’t draw attention to yourself and most certainly do not petition the Emperor or Seneca or anyone. Just keep your head down and with a bit of luck you will be overlooked and allowed to live.’

  The thought of being overlooked did not go down too well with Flavia. ‘Like an inconsequential nobody?’

  ‘Not like an inconsequential nobody, my dear, but as one, because that is your best chance of survival. Nero has already taken to having some of the families of men he’s executed put to death; I believe it makes him feel better knowing that there isn’t anyone left to resent him for the execution. He can’t bear the thought that anyone should think badly of him, therefore he’d rather have them dead. And so, Flavia, please take Domitian and go now.’

  ‘Domitian’s run off.’

  Vespasian groaned.

  ‘His nurse said that he thought everything that was happening was an attempt solely to make him even more miserable and he wasn’t going to stay around and let the soldiers take him just because he had an idiot for a father.’

  Vespasian shook his head. ‘Well, let him go; I haven’t got time to worry about that little pest. If I don’t get a chance to say goodbye to him he won’t notice and I won’t care. He’ll turn up soon enough if I survive, and if I don’t then I’m sure he’ll arrive at Domitilla’s as soon as he realises that fending for oneself involves doing more than pulling the wings off flies and the legs off spiders all day long; or taking the eyes of newly born fawns for that matter.’

  Flavia stared at Vespasian for a few moments and then, without saying goodbye or wishing him luck, turned and stormed from the room.

  ‘That seemed to go well,’ Magnus said, popping his head around the door. ‘But, seriously, sir: why don’t you make a run for it?’

  ‘What’s the point, Magnus? The Emperor is everywhere. I’d have to live incognito in some shithole with hardly any money so that I didn’t draw attention to myself and be in constant fear that someone might recognise me. That would be no life. For me it’s either living here in Rome as well as my status and wealth allow or living as a governor in one of the provinces; if I can’t do either of those then I’m better off dead.’

  Magnus grunted. ‘Well, if you say so; but I thought that you intended to die in your bed and I’ve never heard of a dead man making his way back into favour, if you take my meaning?’

  Vespasian did but he did not agree with it.

  ‘You will present yourself to the Emperor at the Temple of Neptune on the Campus Martius, Senator Vespasian; he’s making his way there now and is expecting you to join him immediately,’ the Praetorian centurion barked having performed a crisp salute.

  ‘Very well, centurion,’ Vespasian replied, his heart beginning to race. The Temple of Neptune did not sound good; temples were often used as courts. Vespasian had witnessed Sejanus’ downfall in the Temple of Apollo. He glanced at Hormus, standing next to him; his face was ashen. ‘I shall go immediately.’

  The centurion saluted once more, spun on his heel and began to stamp back across the atrium towards the vestibule.

  ‘Wait!’ Vespasian called after him; the centurion halted. ‘I just need to give my freedman some instructions.’

  ‘That’s fine, senator,’ the centurion said over his shoulder and carried on. ‘I don’t have to wait for you.’ With that he disappeared into the vestibule.

  Vespasian heard the doorman perform his duty and the centurion was gone; he looked at Hormus, frowned and then walked to the front door, signalling for the slave to open it. A quick glance up the street told him that the centurion was not waiting outside with his men but, instead, marching away, further up the Quirinal, in the opposite direction from the Temple of Neptune.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ Vespasian said, coming back into the atrium, ‘it seems that I’m not to be escorted, for which small mercy I’m grateful. That would have been a humiliation hard to bear.’

  ‘Indeed, master,’ Hormus said, his voice thick with emotion.

  ‘My will is lodged in the House of the Vestals, Hormus; should I be allowed to keep my property and the worst happens then retrieve it from them and have it read out here. If I’m not allowed to keep my property then let in whoever comes to seize it without any argument and get off to Domitilla’s house to join the mistress. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, master,’ Hormus said, miserably wringing his hands.

  ‘Just remember, Hormus, that you’re a freedman; no one can do anything to you unless you give them just cause.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘If I don’t come back, serve the mistress well.’ Vespasian patted his freedman’s shoulder, adjusted his toga and, with a deep breath, turned and walked out of his house for what he hoped would not be the last time.

  The morning was humid and sweat soon ran down Vespasian’s face and back as he walked at a calm pace down the Quirinal. He r
eviewed his life as he went, objectively, and found himself unable to justify throwing away all that he had achieved just for the pleasure of a little revenge; he and his brother should have got at Terpnus in a different way that did not involve a direct threat to the Emperor. But it was too late to change things now, so all he was left with was the bitter taste of regret for a future that he had dared to imagine but was probably not to be. Yet again he wondered if he had made his decision to attack Nero’s rampage because he had felt insulated from retribution as he considered his future to be prophesied and in the hands of the gods; his mother had said on her deathbed that a man should always make his choices by balancing his desires with his fears and this he had patently not done. Any reasonable man would have seen that fear of Nero far outweighed desire for vengeance for the outrage perpetrated upon his uncle. Tigran and his brethren had far less reason to fear Nero as they were from the underbelly of Rome and lived according to different rules to the élite and with very little regard for the Emperor other than enjoying his largesse; their desire to avenge their humiliation was, therefore, not balanced out by their fear of someone so remote to them as Nero. He, Vespasian, on the other hand, lived in the small section of society that revolved around the Emperor who held sway over everyone and everything by the fear that he generated; no, he had been foolish and influenced by his probably erroneous belief in a predestined future. He wished that he had paid more attention to his mother’s warning as he entered Caesar’s Forum; if he survived this day he swore to himself that he would.

  Sabinus was at his desk, in his capacity as Urban prefect, beneath the equestrian statue of the long-dead dictator. Vespasian walked towards his brother who waved away the various petitioners surrounding him and hurried to join him.

  ‘Well?’ Sabinus asked.

  ‘Well what?’ Vespasian said with a shrug.

  ‘Well, do you really think that this is about the Terpnus affair?’

  ‘I’m sure it is; Sextus told Tigellinus that Terpnus lost his fingers in revenge for his treatment of Gaius.’

  Sabinus screwed up his face, inhaling sharply. ‘Then why aren’t I joining you?’

  ‘Who knows, Sabinus; who can really understand what goes on in Nero’s head?’

  Sabinus rubbed his forehead, thinking; sweat beaded on his brow. Brightening suddenly, he indicated to either side of his brother. ‘Look!’

  Vespasian frowned and looked about. ‘What at?’

  ‘Exactly. Nothing. There’s no one there. No escort so you’re not under arrest.’

  ‘Do I need to be? Where’s there to hide? Perhaps Nero’s just giving me the chance of suicide.’

  ‘And you’re not taking it?’

  ‘What if I’m wrong?’

  Sabinus nodded his understanding. ‘May my lord Mithras and your Mars hold their hands over us, brother; we’ll need them looking over the family today.’

  On his brother’s face, Vespasian saw the fear that all in Rome’s élite felt; the fear of Nero. The fear that preyed on one’s mind, day in and day out, ever present, ever gnawing, clouding one’s judgement and preventing coherent thought. ‘What will you do?’

  Sabinus took a deep breath. ‘What can I do but carry on in my duty, waiting to see what happens?’ Taking Vespasian by surprise, he squeezed his shoulder in the first ever physical show of fraternal affection.

  Vespasian mirrored the gesture, holding his brother’s gaze for a few moments.

  With a resigned smile, Sabinus walked back to his desk to disappear in amongst a swarm of petitioners all insisting that theirs was the most pressing problem. Vespasian turned and headed on through Caesar’s Forum cursing Nero and those who supported him in power; those men who were responsible for the intolerable way that people of his class were forced to live. Once again the élite of Rome were in the savage grip of a monster who knew no limits to his power and enjoyed searching for them. It was intolerable and surely it could not continue thus? Yet, as Vespasian walked through the Gate of Fontus, under the shadow of the Capitoline Hill, and out onto the Campus Martius, he could see no escape from Nero short of his assassination and then who would take his place? There were no direct male descendants of the Julio-Claudian line left and Nero himself was, as yet, childless.

  So what would happen if men like Piso and Rufus gathered malcontents in a successful conspiracy against Nero? The answer was obvious to Vespasian: there would be a rush to claim the Purple by the generals in the field; those men lucky enough to have the command of legions. And of them there was one stand-out candidate after his recent despatches to the Senate: Corbulo. Corbulo with the Syrian legions behind him and his kudos high, having won glory first in Germania and then in Armenia, would be foolish if he did not make a bid for empire. The Egyptian legions and the Moesian would rally to him making him the king of the East. Suetonius Paulinus in Britannia could not oppose him without losing the new province and the Governors of the two Germanias would not be able to agree as to which of them should receive the backing of their legions, so the legions themselves would more than likely back the man who had commanded many of them to victories only a few years previously. How could anyone compete with Corbulo’s record?

  A bitter smile crossed Vespasian’s face as he remembered thinking at his mother’s deathbed: if it were to be someone like him then why not him?

  No, it was not to be him; Corbulo was the best and obvious choice and Corbulo could do it, Vespasian was now convinced of that. And that thought sealed Vespasian’s conviction that he was doomed as he mounted the steps of the Temple of Neptune His mother, indeed, his whole family, had been mistaken about the prophecy and he cringed inwardly at the thought that he could ever have considered entertaining such grandiose ambitions for himself.

  ‘Ah, there you are at last.’ Nero’s voice was husky from much talk already that morning; he was accompanied by a couple of dozen senators whom, apart from Caratacus, Vespasian recognised as being mostly the same men as witnessed Agrippina’s last supper. ‘I hope you brought the money.’

  ‘The money, Princeps?’

  ‘Of course, the twelve thousand.’ Nero looked at him as if he were being deliberately obtuse.

  Vespasian felt his knees buckle; he stumbled, saving himself from crashing to the floor by supporting his weight on the plinth of a statue of the host deity. His head span and he sucked in a couple of quick, deep breaths as he realised what all this was about and the relevance of meeting in the Temple of Neptune, the god, amongst other things, of horses. All that anguish had been over a chariot race, a race he was obliged to lose and with it twelve thousand denarii. ‘It’s lodged with the Cloelius Brothers in the Forum,’ he improvised.

  ‘Good, you can pick it up after the race.’

  Vespasian noticed that Nero had made no mention of where his twelve thousand was lodged, no doubt because he did not expect to lose as he never had.

  Nero peered at him. ‘Are you feeling all right? I don’t want you saying that you lost because you were ill as we know that wouldn’t be true.’

  Vespasian felt his equilibrium returning and took on his most sincere expression as he looked up at the Emperor. ‘I’m fine, Princeps; it’s just … er … nerves at competing with someone of your talent; I always get them.’

  ‘Of course you do. We’ll sacrifice a bull to Neptune Equester before going to my circus on the Vatican. All my teams are waiting there for you to choose your favourite. Your Arabs are being fetched from the Greens’ stables at the moment.’

  ‘Very good, Princeps; I am honoured that you should go to such trouble on my behalf.’

  ‘It’s for everyone here, Vespasian.’ Nero gestured with an arm around the chamber to include all within. ‘I intend to show people just what can be achieved by a man of my skill driving a less-favoured team against my best team driven by a man of your meagre accomplishment.’

  There were sage nods and murmurs of impatience from the assembled senators, all of whom, like Nero, chose to ignore the fact that Vespasi
an’s Arabs were one of the most successful teams in Rome.

  But then, Vespasian reflected, that was all part of the delusion.

  Vespasian had never seen all of Nero’s racehorses assembled together before; lined up in one long row they were an impressive sight. However, as he moved along the teams of varying coats and builds he saw nothing that could compare to his Arabs who, having arrived, stood opposite the parade, observing without a great deal of interest.

  ‘Would you like some advice?’ a voice asked from behind his right shoulder.

  Vespasian turned to see Caratacus. ‘You’re here to witness Nero’s triumph on the track too, are you?’

  The former Britannic chieftain smiled. ‘Who would wish to miss the opportunity to witness a master-class in charioteering? But I got the impression that it wasn’t what you were expecting when you entered the temple.’

  Vespasian stroked the muzzle of a chestnut mare before moving on to an all-black team. ‘I thought I was coming to be condemned; I know I didn’t hide my relief very well when I realised that the worst that was going to happen today was to lose twelve thousand denarii to Nero.’

  ‘I won’t ask what’s on your conscience; but I would say that losing twelve thousand is a lot better than losing your life. It must be your lucky day.’

  Vespasian smiled as he moved on to a team of greys. ‘That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. Another way is … well, it’s best not to say anything about he who weighs us down with constant fear.’