Vespasian ran to the left towards the Via Sacra. Gaius lumbered after him, slowing with every rasping breath.
‘Hurry, Uncle,’ Vespasian called over his shoulder, ‘we must get back to the house in case this spreads throughout the city.’
Gaius came to a halt, hands on his knees, gasping. ‘You go ahead, dear boy; I can’t keep up. I’ll head to the Senate House; you go and see to Flavia and young Titus. I’ll join you once I have any news of what’s happened.’
Vespasian waved a hand in acknowledgement and raced off to be with his wife and young son. He turned onto the Via Sacra, heading to the Forum Romanum, as two centuries of the Praetorian Guard came clattering down from the Palatine, away from the screams and anguished cries that still emanated from its north slope. Vespasian was forced to wait as they crossed the Via Sacra. In their midst, carried in a chair, sat Claudius, twitching and drooling, with tears streaming down his face, pleading for his life.
‘Lock and bolt the door,’ Vespasian ordered the young and very attractive door boy who had just let him into his uncle’s house, ‘and then go around the house and make sure that all the outside windows are closed.’
The lad bowed and raced off to do as he had been bidden.
‘Tata!’
Vespasian turned, breathing deeply, and smiled at his thirteen-month-old son, Titus, as he hurtled across the mosaic floor of the atrium on all fours.
‘What’s the matter?’ Flavia Domitilla, Vespasian’s wife of two years, asked, looking up from her spinning by the atrium hearth.
‘I’m not sure, but thank the gods that you’re safe.’ Vespasian picked up his son and kissed him on both cheeks in relief as he walked over to join her.
‘Why shouldn’t we be?’
Vespasian sat down opposite his wife and bounced Titus up and down on his knee. ‘I don’t exactly know but I think that someone has finally—’
‘Don’t excite the child so much; his nurse has just fed him,’ Flavia cut in, looking disapprovingly at her husband.
Vespasian ignored his wife’s plea and carried on the rough ride. ‘He’s fine; he’s a sturdy little fellow.’ He beamed at his giggling son and pinched a chubby cheek. ‘Aren’t you, Titus?’ The child gurgled with delight as he pretended to be riding a horse and then squealed as Vespasian jerked his knee suddenly to the left, almost unseating the miniature cavalryman. ‘I think that someone has finally assassinated Caligula, and for Sabinus’ sake I pray that it’s not Clemens.’
Flavia’s eyes widened, excitedly. ‘If Caligula’s dead then you’ll be able to release some of your money without fear of him killing you for it.’
‘Flavia, that’s the least of my concerns at the moment; if the Emperor has been assassinated I need to work out how to keep us all safe during the change of regime. If we’re going to persist in this folly of choosing an emperor from the heirs of Julius Caesar then the obvious successor is Claudius, which might work out well for the family.’
Flavia waved a hand dismissively, ignoring her husband’s words. ‘You can’t expect me to always live in your uncle’s house.’ She indicated the homo-erotic art work littering the atrium and the lithe, flaxen-haired German youth who waited on them discreetly by the triclinium door. ‘How much longer am I going to have to endure looking at all this, this …’ She trailed off unable to find the right word for Senator Gaius Vespasius Pollo’s taste in decor and slaves.
‘If you want a change join me on my trips to the estate at Cosa.’
‘And do what? Count mules and fraternise with freedmen?’
‘Then, my dear, if you insist in staying in Rome, this is where you live. My uncle has been very hospitable to us and I’ve got no intention of throwing his generosity back in his face by moving out when there’s plenty of room here for all of us.’
‘You mean you’ve got no intention of taking on the expense of having your own house,’ Flavia retorted, giving her spindle a fractious twist.
‘That as well,’ Vespasian agreed, giving Titus another fullblown gallop. ‘I can’t afford it; I didn’t manage to make enough extra money when I was a praetor.’
‘That was two years ago. What have you done since?’
‘Managed to stay alive by seeming to be poor!’ Vespasian looked sternly at his wife, immaculately presented with the latest coiffure and far more jewellery than he thought necessary; he regretted that they could never see eye to eye about finances. However, the fierce independence in her large brown eyes, the allure of her full breasts and the pregnant swell of her belly – under what seemed to be yet another new stola – reminded him of the three main reasons why he had married her. He tried the reasonable approach. ‘Flavia, my dear, Caligula has executed a lot of senators just as wealthy as me so that he could get his hands on their money; that’s why I keep my money invested in the estate and therefore out of Rome whilst living in my uncle’s house. Sometimes being perceived as poor can save your life.’
‘I wasn’t talking about the estate; I’m thinking about that money you brought back from Alexandria.’
‘That is still hidden and will remain so, until I’m certain that we have an emperor who is a little less free with his subjects’ property; and their wives for that matter.’
‘What about their mistresses?’
A series of hiccups from Titus followed by a stream of partly digested lentils splattering onto Vespasian’s lap came as a welcome distraction. Conversations with his wife about money were never enjoyable, especially as they always led on to the subject of his keeping a mistress. He knew it was not that Flavia was sexually jealous of Caenis but rather that she resented what she imagined he was spending on his mistress while she, his legitimate wife, felt that she was deprived of some of life’s comforts; the chief amongst which was her own house in Rome.
‘There, what did I tell you?’ Flavia exclaimed. ‘Elpis! Where are you?’
A comely, middle-aged slave woman bustled into the room. ‘Yes, mistress?’
‘The child has been sick on the master; clean it up.’
Vespasian stood and handed Titus over to his nurse; the lentils slopped to the floor.
‘Come here, you young rascal,’ Elpis cooed, taking Titus under the arms. ‘Oh, you’re the image of your father.’
Vespasian smiled. ‘Yes, the poor little fellow will have a round face and just as large a nose.’
‘Let’s hope he’ll have a larger purse,’ Flavia muttered.
A loud rapping on the front door saved Vespasian from having to respond. The attractive doorkeeper looked through the viewing slot and then immediately pulled the bolt back. Gaius dashed through the vestibule and into the atrium, his body wobbling furiously under his toga; his curls were now lank with sweat, sticking to his forehead and cheeks.
‘Clemens has assassinated the monster. Reckless idiot,’ Gaius boomed before pausing to catch his breath.
Vespasian shook his head regretfully. ‘No, brave idiot; but I suppose that it was inevitable after what Caligula did to his sister. I just thought that after two years his sense of self-preservation would have re-established itself. Thank the gods that Sabinus isn’t in Rome, he would have joined him; I heard them make a pact to do it together and I would have been honour bound to help. Clemens is a dead man.’
‘I’m afraid so, not even Claudius would be stupid enough to let him live. He’s been taken to the Praetorian camp.’
‘Yes, I saw. After the madman we get the fool; how long can this go on for, Uncle?’
‘As long as the blood of the Caesars lasts and, I’m afraid, Claudius has it pumping around his malformed body.’
‘The fool was begging for his life, he didn’t realise that they were just keeping him safe until the Senate proclaimed him emperor.’
‘Which should be very soon. Get that sick off your tunic, dear boy; the Consuls have summoned a meeting of the Senate in one hour at the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline.’
Progress up the Gemonian Stairs to the summit of the Capit
oline Hill had been slow, clogged as they were not only with members of the Senate answering their Consuls’ call but also teams of slaves heaving many heavy strongboxes, the entire contents of the treasury, for safekeeping up to the Temple of Jupiter, the most sacred building in Rome. At the foot of the stairs, in front of the Temple of Concordia in the Forum, the entire three Urban Cohorts stood to, with orders from Cossus Cornelius Lentulus, the Urban prefect, to guard against any attempt by the Praetorian Guard to retrieve Rome’s wealth. Across from the Forum, on the Palatine, the temporary theatre stood silent, dead bodies still strewn about its empty seats.
Eventually over four hundred senators were assembled in the dim, cavernous chamber. The business of transferring the strongboxes went on around them as the Consuls sacrificed a ram to their host deity.
‘This could turn nasty,’ Gaius whispered to Vespasian as Quintus Pomponius Secundus, the Senior Consul, inspected the auspices, assisted by his junior colleague, Gnaeus Sentius Saturninus. ‘If they’ve brought the treasury up here they must be thinking of defying the Guard.’
‘Then we should get out of here, Uncle; Claudius becoming emperor is inevitable.’
‘Not necessarily, dear boy; let’s listen to what people have got to say before jumping to any rash and maybe dangerous conclusions.’
Satisfied with what he saw, Pomponius Secundus declared the day auspicious for the business of the Senate and took the floor; the bruise on his face that he had received from Caligula earlier was now swollen and discoloured. ‘Conscript Fathers and fellow lovers of liberty, today is the day when our world changed. Today is the day when the man whom we hated and feared in equal measure has finally been brought down.’
To emphasise the point he nodded towards the statue of Caligula standing next to the sedentary statue of Rome’s most sacred god; a group of slaves pushed it from behind and the image of the late Emperor crashed to the marble floor, shattering into many fragments. A mighty cheer from the senators echoed around the chamber. For a moment Vespasian remembered the good-natured, vibrant youth he had known and regretted the loss of a friend, before the memories of the monster he had become returned and he began to cheer along with the rest.
‘Today is the day,’ Pomponius Secundus continued, raising his voice above the celebrations, ‘when all of us who so fearlessly opposed the tyrannical regime of Caligula can, once again, call ourselves free men.’
‘I wouldn’t call kissing Caligula’s slippers in the theatre this afternoon fearless opposition,’ Gaius muttered as this statement was greeted with more cheering. Judging by the looks on many faces Vespasian guessed that his uncle was not the only person to hold that opinion.
The Senior Consul pressed on, unaware that some of the cheers were, now, ironic. ‘The Praetorian Guard has taken it upon itself to try and impose a new emperor on us: Caligula’s uncle, Claudius. Conscript Fathers, I say no! Not only does Claudius stutter and drool and stumble in a way that would bring dishonour to the dignity of government but also he is not known to, and therefore not loved by, the legions. We cannot allow the Praetorian Guard to force an emperor like this onto us; if the legions of the Rhenus or Danubius decide to nominate their own more martial candidates we could face another civil war. As free men we should choose one from our number as the new Emperor to rule in conjunction with a loyal senate. He should be a man acceptable to us, the legions and the Guard. He should be …’
‘You, is what you’re trying to imply,’ Gnaeus Sentius Saturninus, the Junior Consul, shouted as he got to his feet, jowls and belly quivering. He raised an accusatory finger at his colleague and then cast his piercing blue eyes around the temple. ‘This man would have us replace the known tyranny of one family with the unknown tyranny of another; is that what free men do? No!’ A rumble of agreement met this assertion and Saturninus took as statesmanlike a pose as his flabby figure would allow, with his left arm folded across his body, supporting his toga, and his right down at his side. ‘Conscript Fathers, today we have a historic opportunity to take back our ancient powers and become once again the legitimate government of Rome. Let us rid ourselves of these Emperors and return to the true freedom of our forefathers, a freedom so long denied us that very few here present have savoured its taste; a freedom that belonged to a time when the eldest men here were mere boys: the freedom of a Republic.’
‘Keep your face neutral, dear boy,’ Gaius hissed in Vespasian’s ear. ‘Now is not the moment to be seen to have an opinion.’
Almost half of the assembled company broke into enthusiastic applause and cheering but a goodly minority scowled and muttered to one another; the rest stood and watched impassively, preferring, like Gaius, to wait and see which faction was more likely to prevail.
Gaius tugged at Vespasian’s elbow, pulling him back through the crowd. ‘We would do well to remain as inconspicuous observers until this matter has been decided, one way or the other.’
‘At which point we’ll profess our loyalty to the winning side, eh, Uncle?’
‘It’s a sensible course of action that has a far higher survival rate than rashly cheering for what one believes in.’
‘I quite agree.’
The cheering began to subside and the ex-Consul, Aulus Plautius, took to the floor.
‘This should be telling,’ Gaius muttered, ‘Plautius has a knack of staying in favour.’
Vespasian gave a wry grin. ‘He has a knack of changing sides, you mean.’ Almost ten years previously, Aulus Plautius had managed so survive being a supporter of the doomed Sejanus by leading the demand for his erstwhile benefactor’s death.
‘Conscript Fathers,’ Plautius declaimed, pulling his broad shoulders back and puffing out his muscular chest; the veins on his thick neck bulged. ‘Whilst I can quite understand our two esteemed Consuls’ differing opinions and can see that each in its own way has merit and is worthy of discussion, I would remind the House that one thing has been overlooked: the power of the Praetorian Guard. Who can stand against them?’ He picked out the Urban prefect, Cossus Cornelius Lentulus. ‘Your Urban Cohorts, Lentulus? Three cohorts of almost five hundred men against the nine cohorts of the Guard, each nearly a thousand strong? Even if you added the Vigiles to them you would be outnumbered three to one.’
‘The People would join us,’ Lentulus retorted.
Plautius’ lip curled disdainfully. ‘The People! And what would they use to fight against the élite force of Rome? Eating knives and meat cleavers with baking trays for shields and stale bread for sling shots? Pah! Forget the People. Conscript Fathers, however much it offends your dignitas to hear this, I put it to you that, pragmatically, the matter is out of your hands.’
Vespasian looked around from his position at the rear of the gathering to see that the unpalatable truth in Plautius’ words was sinking in.
Plautius’ eyes hardened as he too saw that his argument had traction. ‘This is what I suggest, Conscript Fathers: that we send a delegation to the Praetorian camp to meet with Claudius. We need to ascertain whether he really wants to be our Emperor and, if he does, how he intends to rule? If he doesn’t, and he can be persuaded to refuse the Guard’s offer, whom would they accept in his stead? Because I can tell you this for sure: the Guard will not accept a return to the Republic.’
The senators were silent as the last word echoed around the chamber until it was finally lost, like the vague memory of a pleasant dream that disappears upon waking to the reality of daily existence.
‘We should leave immediately,’ Vespasian whispered in Gaius’ ear, ‘and present ourselves to Claudius.’
‘And what if the Senate persuade Claudius to step down? Where would we be then? It’s too soon to make a decision; we stay with the flock.’
Vespasian frowned, doubt clouding his thoughts. ‘At this point whatever we do is dangerous; we should take a gamble on the most likely course of events.’
‘Would you gamble with the lives of your wife and child?’
Vespasian did not need to th
ink about the answer. ‘No.’
‘Then stay anonymous; don’t make a decision until you have all the information.’
The Senior Consul stepped forward, his demeanour now subdued. ‘I am forced to agree with the ex-Consul and suggest that we nominate a deputation representing the full dignity of this House; all Consuls and praetors, past and present, should go.’
There was a murmur of assent.
‘Very good, Consul,’ Plautius jeered, ‘and who should head this delegation?’
‘Naturally as Senior—’
‘No, not naturally at all; you’ll just be seen as a prospective candidate for the job and not impartial. This has to be led by someone who, although he has senatorial rank, is not eligible to be emperor or even consul. It must be someone whom Claudius considers to be a friend so that he won’t feel that he’s being bullied or manoeuvred. In short it cannot be anyone here present.’
Secundus looked puzzled. ‘Who then?’
‘King Herod Agrippa.’
Night had fallen by the time the Judaean King had been found and summoned before the Senate. Torches and sconces had been lit in the temple making its polished marble interior a place of dancing light, far brighter than during the day. The sedentary statue of Rome’s guardian god watched over the deliberations. If Jupiter’s stern face had been able to register emotions it might have taken on a look of contempt as it looked down on the depleted gathering. Over the last couple of hours, now that it was apparent that the Guard had the upper hand, many of the senators who had openly supported a restoration of the Republic had suddenly remembered urgent reasons to hurry to their country estates outside Rome. Vespasian and Gaius had stayed, safe in the knowledge that they had, as yet, expressed no opinion.
Herod Agrippa’s dark eyes glinted with amusement as they looked around the remaining senators from either side of a beaklike nose. ‘I’m very happy to head your delegation, Conscript Fathers; you honour me by your invitation. However, I fail to see what it can achieve.’
‘We wish to know Claudius’ mind,’ Pomponius Secundus replied testily. ‘Perhaps he would be willing to refuse the Guard’s offer of making him emperor.’
Rome’s Fallen Eagle Page 3
