Rome's Lost Son

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘It might make us more of an embarrassment and therefore make our hosts decide on a speedy disposal, if you take my meaning?’

  ‘I do, but have you got any better suggestions?’

  Magnus shook his head. ‘I believe they’re very keen on impaling people here.’

  Vespasian began to pound on the door and shout for the gaolers.

  Eventually the viewing slat opened and a surprisingly elegantly barbered face peered in enquiringly and then astonished Vespasian by asking in fluent Latin, ‘You have a problem?’

  ‘Yes, I am a man of proconsular rank and you will cause a diplomatic incident by holding me here.’

  ‘We know exactly who you are, Titus Flavius Vespasianus. We found your imperial mandate amongst your other possessions in the bag along with the swords with which you were planning on attempting to assassinate our Great King.’

  Vespasian looked at the man, aghast. ‘Assassinate the Great King?’

  ‘Of course. Why else would you arrive in disguise in Ctesiphon the day before Vologases returned here?’

  ‘We had business of our own to conduct.’

  ‘We shall see; that is up to the Great King himself to decide.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that he will decide what you were here to do and he will decide your fate when you appear before him to be judged tomorrow.’

  CHAPTER XV

  THE BARREL-VAULTED ceiling towering over the great audience chamber in the royal palace was partially veiled by a thin haze of fumes. Despite the bright shafts of sunlight flooding through a long line of identically shaped arched windows, high in the walls, slashing through the heavy atmosphere alive with motes, the cavernous, long interior burned with thousands of lamps. It was a hall of light, both natural and artificial, the like of which Vespasian had never seen before. And the light illumined the colours in the marbles of the floor and columns, in the paintwork of the statuary, in the dyes of the occupants’ clothes and beards and in the fired, glossy tiles of the walls and ceiling, each individually crafted to fit together, depicting scenes of hunting and warfare and other heroic acts of the Arsacid dynasty of Parthian kings.

  So much colour and so much decoration in one magnificent chamber; but it was not that which struck Vespasian as he, Magnus and Hormus were led through the highly polished, dwarfing, cedar doors: it was the power that emanated from the seated figure on a dais at the far end of the room.

  There sat Vologases, the first of that name, King of all the Kings of the Parthian Empire, and attending him were hundreds of courtiers, the élite of many lands, all of whom professed allegiance to the man who held the power of life and death over millions of subjects; the man who was now to judge Vespasian.

  In contrast to the abundance of light and colour was the absence of sound, and once Vespasian and his companions had been thrown to the floor and hissed at to remain still, flat on their stomachs, there was a complete hush in the great hall. No one moved or whispered a word and through the stillness Vespasian could feel the enmity radiating from hundreds of pairs of eyes as they stared at the three prone forms, so small in the midst of such vastness.

  For what seemed like an age he lay there, oppressed by the weight of the silence; it was not calm, it menaced.

  The shouted order in Greek to crawl forward cracked through the quiet, shocking Vespasian with its abruptness.

  Keeping his eyes to the floor he slithered towards the Great King, humiliated but still alive. With each foot of progress his rage at such treatment for an ex-consul of Rome grew and by the time he was ordered to stop he was seething with fury.

  ‘What are you doing in my domain, Titus Flavius Vespasianus? Answer only with the truth: to tell a falsehood to the King of Kings is not only an insult to him but an affront to Ahura Mazda.’

  Vespasian realised that this was the voice of Vologases himself speaking in the tongue of the Greek concubine who bore him. Struggling to control his anger, keeping his words to the minimum, he answered with the truth, understanding how much weight the Parthians place on honesty. He told the King of Kings briefly everything that had happened to him from the point when Radamistus gave him to Babak as surety for his false oath to his reason for looking for Ataphanes’ family here in Ctesiphon.

  ‘So your intention was not to assassinate me?’

  ‘What gave you that idea, Great King?’

  There was a yelp from the far end of the hall and Vespasian heard the sound of someone being dragged forward.

  ‘This boy swore when he reported you that he had overheard you and your companions planning my assassination as I entered the city yesterday.’

  Vespasian kept his eyes to the floor but guessed that Bagoas had been dragged in. ‘How could he? He speaks no Greek and only one of my companions speaks Aramaic. I can only imagine that he made up that falsehood in order to make himself seem more important so as to get a greater reward.’

  There was a pause as the Great King considered Vespasian’s words.

  ‘Can anyone here vouch for this Roman?’ Vologases’ voice echoed around the hall and faded into silence.

  That silence held, still and clear.

  And then, from the far end of the chamber, it was shattered.

  ‘I can, Light of the Sun.’

  Vespasian did not recognise the voice nor could he see the speaker as he was still lying with his face down. He heard footsteps walk the length of the hall and was aware of the whimpering of Bagoas somewhere behind him; a sharp slap silenced the boy.

  The footsteps stopped next to him; in the corner of his vision, he saw a man, dressed in the Persian manner. He began to bow and then carried on until he was on his knees with his forehead touching the floor; but he did not stop there and, with remarkable elegance, the movement continued until he was flat on his belly, his lips kissing the floor before his Great King and his hands palms down either side of his face.

  ‘Your name?’ Vologases’ voice betrayed a hint of surprise.

  ‘Gobryas, Light of the Sun.’

  ‘You may get to your knees and speak, Gobryas.’

  Gobryas raised himself gracefully. ‘I’m honoured, Light of the Sun.’ He paused to compose himself, taking a couple of breaths as if calming galloping nervousness. ‘Just over fourteen years ago a caravan came in from Alexandria; it carried the normal goods that you would expect coming from the Roman province of Egypt. However, there was one item that had been entrusted to the caravan’s owner by his cousin, the Alabarch of the Alexandrian Jews. It was for my father, whose name I bear; it was a box and inside this box there was gold, a lot of gold. There was also a letter telling my father of the life of his youngest son, my brother, Ataphanes. Fifteen years a slave with a Roman family and then subsequently a freedman in their service for nearly the same duration. During that time he amassed a small fortune. When he died, in the service of the family who had owned him and freed him, he asked his patrons to send his fortune back to his family here in Ctesiphon. The Roman family must be truth-speakers because, despite the very obvious temptation to keep a dead man’s gold to themselves, they did return it.’

  There were murmurs of agreement from all sides of the hall.

  Vespasian lay, hardly daring to breathe as he listened to the voice of the stranger who was saving his life.

  ‘Yesterday morning a rumour came to my ears that there had been some people, foreigners, looking around the great market for a family of spice traders whose youngest son, Ataphanes, had been killed in the service of one of your predecessors. At first I thought that these people couldn’t be looking for me because my brother was enslaved, not killed. However, I then realised that until the letter arrived we had no idea that Ataphanes had been in captivity, we had thought him dead; we had not told our acquaintances the shameful truth once we found out – who would admit to having a slave in the family? I admit it now only to defend a man in whose debt I find myself. These foreigners were being considerate; they didn’t bandy about the word “sl
ave”, they understood our sensitivity. When I heard that some foreigners had been apprehended in an attempt to do harm to your person and that one of them was a Roman by the name of Titus Flavius Vespasianus I knew that they were the same people; and so I decided to exercise my right as head of the Ctesiphon Guild of Spice Merchants to attend your court and fight the Lie with Truth.’

  Vespasian’s mind was filled with prayers of thanks to his guardian god Mars and the chief god of the Zoroastrian religion, Ahura Mazda, who abjures the Lie.

  ‘You speak forcefully for this man, Gobryas,’ Vologases said after a few moments in thought. ‘How can we be sure that there is no mistake or confusion after all this time?’

  ‘Because, Light of the Sun, I still have the letter that came with my brother’s gold. I have it here and it is signed by Titus Flavius Vespasianus.’

  Vespasian saw from the corner of his eye a man walking forward from the dais, take the folded letter that Gobryas proffered and with great reverence hand it to Vologases.

  There was absolute silence apart from the rustle of Vologases perusing the letter.

  ‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus,’ the Great King said after a short while, ‘you may rise but your companions will stay where they are.’

  Vespasian slowly got to his feet and raised his eyes to the Great King seated on his elevated throne. Vologases was a young man, early thirties, with solemn, dark eyes and a thin beak of a nose. On his head he wore a bejewelled gold diadem that held the shoulder-length, tight black ringlets of his hair in place. His beard was of a matching style and each ringlet was oiled and sheened like a raven’s feathers setting into sharp contrast his pale skin that had had very little contact with the direct rays of the sun.

  Vologases surveyed Vespasian, sitting bolt upright and perfectly still. ‘Was it indeed you that sent the gold to Gobryas’ family?’

  Now that he was able to stand, the rage at being humiliated on his belly faded. ‘It was, Light of the Sun.’

  A flicker of amusement passed across the Great King’s face at the Roman’s use of his title. ‘Then you are a follower of the Truth.’ He looked beyond Vespasian. ‘Bring them here!’

  Vespasian turned and saw not only Bagoas but also his cousin, the innkeeper, their eyes watering in terror, being brought forward by two guards each. They were thrown to the ground and grovelled in their fear.

  Vologases looked at the pair in distaste. ‘Which one told the Lie?’

  One of the guards answered the question by pulling Bagoas’ head up by the hair.

  ‘Take his tongue, nose, ears and one eye; the other I shall allow him to keep so that he can always see his mutilation in reflection.’

  Bagoas had not understood the Greek and it was more in startled surprise rather than agony that he screamed as the guard flashed his knife from his sheath and severed his left ear. His right ear quickly followed, slapping onto the marble as Bagoas’ screams intensified. The guard brought his knife to the base of the boy’s nose and with a savage heave sliced through flesh and cartilage to leave a blood-spurting orifice in the middle of Bagoas’ face. A second guard then squeezed Bagoas’ mouth, forcing it open with one hand and, brandishing a knife in the other, pierced the tip of his tongue and pulled it out; his mate’s wrist flicked down and with a gurgling wail Bagoas watched his tongue, quivering on the point of the knife, being taken away from him by a maniacally grinning guard. As Bagoas stared in catatonic horror at the macabre sight half his vision disappeared; but he barely registered the pain of his left eye being gouged out as his body and mind became rigid with shock.

  ‘Take him away and let it be known that they who give the Lie to the Great King will receive no mercy.’ As the bleeding, hyperventilating, mutilated boy was dragged away, leaving a trail of blood, Vologases turned his attention to the innkeeper shaking on the floor, his face rubbing in a pool of his own vomit. ‘To him I will give death; impale him.’

  Writhing and shrieking, the innkeeper was hauled off and Vologases graced Vespasian with the slightest of smiles. ‘What was your purpose in seeking out Gobryas?’

  ‘I had hoped that if he’d received the gold he would repay the favour by helping me and my companions back to Judaea or Syria with one of his caravans.’

  ‘Would you have done this, Gobryas?’

  ‘Light of the Sun, I am in this man’s debt for, although his family kept my younger brother as a slave for such a long time, that was not by design. We all have slaves and those slaves all have families. It was not the fault of the purchaser that they came to own Ataphanes; it was the will of Ahura Mazda that he was spared death and enslaved. In all respects this man’s family have acted properly. I shall repay him and, if you would sanction it, give him passage west on my next caravan that leaves at the full moon.’

  ‘I do sanction it. Gobryas, you may take them and show them all hospitality until they leave.’

  ‘It shall be as you command, Light of the Sun.’ Gobryas bowed and backed away.

  Vologases inclined his head a fraction. ‘Take your companions, Titus Flavius Vespasianus, and go with the light of Ahura Mazda shining upon you.’

  ‘My thanks, Light of the Sun,’ Vespasian said; and he meant it with all his heart. He found himself bowing to the Great King and then backed away in imitation of his new host. Magnus and Hormus got to their feet and also backed off, out through the door, past the writhing body of the innkeeper, his hands bound, struggling on his tip-toes to stop the pointed stake upon which he was perched intruding further up his rectum. As the doors to the audience chamber closed they turned and looked at each other and then at the man who had betrayed them, suffering so painfully.

  ‘Jupiter’s arse, cock and balls, that was close,’ Magnus whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ Gobryas agreed, ‘I have never known the Great King to be so merciful.’

  Gobryas’ garden was cool and peaceful, its atmosphere calmed by the gentle patter of fountains and the trilling of songbirds. It was a garden in bloom; some of the plants were exotic to Vespasian’s eye and some familiar, but all shared a sweetness of scent that infused him with a sense of wellbeing. Over the last ten days since the interview with Vologases, Vespasian had sought refuge in this little paradise, healing the wounds of the long months of darkness that had been reopened by his brief reincarceration.

  During this time he had had many conversations with his host and the two other surviving brothers of his late freedman; the family had proved courteous and surprisingly free from rancour and he answered their questions about Ataphanes’ life at Aquae Cutillae, the Flavian estate near Reate, fifty miles up the Via Salaria to the northeast of Rome. He told them of Ataphanes’ great friendship with his fellow freedman, Baseos the Scythian, who had also been a master of the bow; he spoke of their shooting competitions and their deadly accuracy with the weapon when it came to defending the estate from mule-thieves and runaway slaves. He also told the family of Baseos’ lack of interest in gold and how he had given all that he earned to Ataphanes. He confirmed that, as far as he knew, Baseos was still alive and he promised that he would extend an invitation to the old Scythian to visit the family and receive the honour due to such a good friend of the dead youngest son.

  The talk of Aquae Cutillae and the doings of the freedmen there made him long to return home and enjoy the rural life for a while, a life of mule breeding, wine making and olive pressing. He began to yearn for the peace of the estate and also of his other one at Cosa that had been left to him by his grandmother, Tertulla. He was sure that his lot was not to retire to the country life, at least not yet, not until he had done all that he could to follow the path set out for him; however, he was weary and he promised himself six months to a year of tranquillity upon his return to Rome. It would be time to rest while he watched from a distance the battle to succeed Claudius unfold and to see whether Tryphaena’s grandiose scheme to secure both sides of her family in power would work. And then, if it did, how best to exploit the inevitable mayhem and misery that the ince
stuous reign of Nero and his mother Agrippina would bring. As he contemplated the realities of that, he began to think that perhaps he would be best served by remaining inconspicuous during that time; perhaps he would spend a few years on the estates after all.

  It was as he was mulling these things over in the shade of a mature almond tree on the last afternoon before the caravan departed that a worried-looking Gobryas approached him accompanied by another man, grey of beard and with dewy eyes.

  ‘Vespasian, this is Phraotes,’ Gobryas said, showing courteous deference to the stranger.

  Phraotes stepped forward and gave him the Parthian greeting-kiss of an equal, on the lips. ‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus, the Light of the Sun, Vologases, the King of Kings, commands that you join him to enjoy the sport provided by the game in his paradise.’

  Vespasian clung onto the side of the two-horse chariot with his left hand as its driver steered around a majestic Cedar of Lebanon; in his right hand he hefted a light hunting spear over his shoulder as he gauged the ever-changing distance between him and the Persian Fallow Deer doe that both he and Vologases were chasing. Both chariots were driven with prodigious skill over the smoothly manicured lawns of the royal hunting paradise; the speed at which they travelled was exhilarating and Vespasian managed to forget the two horse archers following him with their bows ready to take him down should he threaten the Great King with his weapon. Vespasian had no intention of doing harm to Vologases but he understood the precaution; Vologases was showing him, as a Roman, a great deal of trust to allow him to bear both a bow and a spear in his presence.

  The doe twisted to her left and Vespasian braced his knees as his vehicle swerved accordingly to keep the quarry to his right. He felt the wind pulling at his long beard and he smiled involuntarily at the thrill of the high-speed chase. As the chariot straightened up he glanced ahead to Vologases; the Great King stood tall on the platform of his chariot, ready to cast his spear; however, he looked back to Vespasian and with a small head gesture invited him to throw first.