by Allan Massie
Yet this letter disturbed me, more than for some days I dared to admit to myself. Is it because I am no longer a Roman?
I snarled at my woman, betook myself to a wine-shop, and soaked my questioning spirit in liquor. There was a German boy serving whom I had not seen before. Was it because he appeared modest and shy that I commanded a chamber and had the woman of the inn send him to me? Or was it his so red lips and dark troubled eyes that aroused my brief demanding lust? I stripped him of his tunic, ran my hands over his thin body, felt his revulsion, and compelled him to submit. He cried a little when I gave him gold.
'You would not understand,' I said. 'I am searching for something which I lost many years ago.'
His name is Balthus. His arms were so thin I could have cracked them. There was a delicacy to his behaviour that intensified my lust and brought me shame.
Tacitus denies that Galba took Icelus as his lover. He was not that sort of man, he says. Does he not realise that everyone is more complicated in his nature than he would have the world know? Does he not realise that if we knew the thoughts and desires of our companions, we would shun all society?
Balthus is in no way like Titus. But, without Titus, would I have arranged to have him again next week? He was born a slave, I a free man and a Roman noble. But what is freedom, what slavery, when the passions are aroused? Yet I was almost perfunctory when it came to the moment. Afterwards I felt a rare tenderness because I had wronged him.
And actually it was like what I came to feel for Domatilla when I knew we had, without willing it, so deeply wronged each other. I didn't tell Tacitus all I might have said of Piso. I might for instance have mentioned that there were those who said then that the young Piso, only exiled on account of his complicity in his uncle's plot against Nero, was thought by some to have been among those who laid information against the conspirators.
I have no proof that he did so. What I do know is that Lucan distrusted him and expressed jealousy of him. He told me that this was because they had quarrelled over a woman. It may be so. Piso however was never otherwise known to have taken any interest in women. Nor in boys either; I can be sure of that because the first or second occasion I met him at the baths, I embarked on a little flirtation with him – entirely on account of his beauty and before I had taken note of his mean mouth – and he rebuffed me coldly. When I told Titus of this, for in those days I told him everything, or near everything, he was greatly amused and assured me it was common knowledge that Piso was addicted to masturbation because he could never love or trust anyone except himself. Lucan's story he refused to believe.
I shrink from giving my account of the 15th January. Wine is a comforter, wine and my Greek-Scythian woman, Araminta. I rely on her, she satisfies me, she arouses no feeling in me; and that is a species of, at least, contentment.
XIV
Flavius Sabinus sent to us before dawn, advising us to keep the house that day. Domatilla and the aunt added their pleas to this counsel, which was undoubtedly good. But Domitian and I were young and bold. At any rate each was eager to impress his courage upon the other; and we would not obey.
What is strange is that we never questioned why Flavius Sabinus should have so advised us. It was not till later that I realised he must have been privy to the conspiracy.
Not, of course, that we knew there was any such thing brewing, or not precisely, or what form it might take. It was rather that the hum of rumour in the city was irresistibly disturbing. Every day for the last week more reports of the mutiny of the German legions had excited the Forum. Though it was impossible that they could have advanced even to the northern Alps, men talked as if they might be in the city any day. The price of bread and wine and oil soared as traders took advantage of the public alarm.
Then a second message came from Flavius: there had, he said, been talk the previous evening of seizing Otho, and putting him to death. Otho, he added, was desperate. He had been heard to say that he might as well be killed by an enemy in battle as by his creditors in the Forum. The streets, Flavius wrote, were no place today for us.
So naturally, dismissing such fears, we sallied forth. I have to say that Domitian showed no sign of cowardice that day.
We learned in the Forum that the Emperor was sacrificing in the Temple of Apollo. The word was that the omens were bad. The priest told him the entrails had a sinister colour, that an enemy threatened and that he should stay at home that day. Everyone in the Forum seemed to know of this. 'Have they arrested Otho, then?' a fat equestrian called out.
'Not yet, but the Senate are about to meet in order to declare him a public enemy.'
'But that's wrong,' another cried. 'What harm has Otho ever done? He's a true friend of the Roman People, that's for sure.'
'Galba, Otho, Piso – what difference will it make to the likes of us?' the keeper of the tavern into which we had retired demanded. 'The question is only, who will keep the German legions from marching on the city?'
'They say Piso has already set off to negotiate with them – with full power to conclude a bargain.'
'Piso? He's a long streak of piss, if you ask me,' said another. 'Conclude a bargain? Him? Pardon me if I fart.'
In fact, as we now know, Otho himself had been at the Temple of Apollo, and had seen and heard what the priest said. There he had been approached by friends who told him that his architect and the contractors were waiting for him. So he excused himself, saying that he was thinking of buying a properly, but, being unsure of its condition, had ordered a survey. I suppose this was a joke as well as a deception. He was certainly thinking of taking over a property.
Why Otho had attended the ceremony in the Temple of Apollo I do not pretend to guess. By doing so he had put himself in great danger. But it may be that, uncertain whether the troops would indeed rise in his support, he thought it safer to disguise his disaffection by attending. For, if he had not done so, and if the troops had refused to move in accordance with the prompting of his agents, then his absence, being remarked on, would have been taken as evidence of disloyalty. But it may simply be that the gamble of attendance appealed to his peculiar sense of humour; he was ever a gambler.
Now, leaving the temple, leaning on a freedman's arm to suggest that he felt no urgency, despite the speed of his departure, he passed through the Palace of Tiberius to the Velabrum, and from there to the golden milestone which stands near the Temple of Saturn. All this we learned later.
Had it been immediately known that scarce two dozen of the Guard were there to salute him as Emperor and raise him aloft on a gilded chair, then Galba could have snuffed the conspiracy before it was properly underway. But Otho's agents were active, and it was at once the talk of the Forum that the whole of the Praetorians had revolted, and were marching on the palace to make an end of their aged and despised Emperor.
Word came confusingly to Galba, so that he did not know which report he should believe. It was resolved that the loyalty of the cohort stationed in the palace should at once be put to the test. If it was involved in the revolt, then all was lost. So they were paraded before the palace to be harangued by Piso.
I have no doubt, Tacitus, that, favouring Piso and wishing to honour his memory, you will compose a noble speech supposed to have been given by him. But I was there and the truth is that he spoke haltingly and in a confused manner, as one who has been overtaken by events which he does not understand. His only sensible act was to promise the soldiers a donative for their loyalty – better late than never – but he spoiled this by adding that it would be at least as great as any payment they might receive for treason. This was feeble. It put the idea of desertion in the minds of any who were not already entertaining it.
Messengers were then sent to the troops belonging to the army of Illyricum who were stationed by the Portico of Vipsanius Agrippa in the Campus Martius, and to those legions recruited to serve on the German frontier which were then encamped by the Hall of Liberty on the Aventine. But they hesitated to send to the legion l
evied from the fleet, for it was known that these troops hated Galba on account of the murder of their comrades who had remained loyal to Nero. Yet, so feckless had been Galba's short rule, these soldiers had not been disarmed. Within the hour it was known that they had declared for Otho. Finally, tribunes were despatched to try to recall the Praetorians to their duty: a hopeless, if necessary, endeavour.
How argument raged among those around Galba I do not know. But it is probable that some were for barricading themselves in the palace, and defying the conspirators to storm it. This plan had something to commend it, since, in order to approach the palace, Otho would have had to force his way through the swirling mob of citizens, drawn to the events of the day as to the theatre. Domitian and I were among them and, at this moment, their sentiments were still inclined to Galba. A butcher near me was shouting again and again for Otho's head, and each time his words were greeted with cheers. But even then I was aware of the fickleness of a mob.
Others in the palace were for action. Galba must gather such troops as he had and march out against Otho.
Whether either party gained the mind of the aged Emperor, no one knows. Some say Galba was rendered speechless by the shock of the revolt, others that he conducted himself boldly. From my knowledge of him, and from what I learned later, I suggest that he swayed from one view to another.
Be that as it may, Piso was seen to lead a detachment of soldiers from the palace. The crowd parted to let them through, still encouraging them with protestations of loyalty. That's our boy,' the butcher yelled, 'you go and sort these fuckers out.' The mob will ever applaud what appears to be decisive action. But Piso's face was a frozen mask.
Piso had hardly gone – to the camp of the Praetorians? or wherever? – when someone cried out that Otho was slain. He had seen him fall with his own eyes. A great cheer was raised. Many were relieved to think that there would be no great shedding of blood.
Domitian said: 'We must get into the palace and display our loyalty.'
Others had anticipated him. Several Senators and equestrians, who had been hovering uncertainly on the fringes of the crowd, now had their slaves clear them a way forward. They burst open the doors of the palace (Domitian and myself in their wake) and thronged round Galba, protesting their loyalty and crying out that they had been denied the opportunity to display it, denied also their revenge on the traitor Otho. It was a contemptible exhibition.
To his credit Galba seemed unimpressed by their performance. That was how it first seemed to me. Then, observing the blankness of his eye, and his wrinkled face quite without any expression, I wondered if the old man had any firm understanding of what was happening. Not that that was clear.
Someone, not the Emperor himself, gave an order, and a slave began to fasten him into his cuirass. This was not easy. He could scarcely stand. Then, when he was armed, it was evident that he was in danger of being knocked over by the turbulence of the crowd, more and more of whom were still invading the palace to assure him of their undying devotion. So, at the order of Icelus, he was placed in a chair, and raised on the shoulders of four Nubian slaves above the level of the people. He was in this elevated position when a member of the bodyguard shoved his way forward, his sword extended and dripping blood. The sight silenced the babblers. Whose blood is that?' Icelus asked. 'It is the blood of Otho, who I have slain,' the soldier said. If he expected a reward (as he must have), he was disappointed. 'Who gave that order?' Galba said.
'What a stupid old man,' I whispered to Domitian. 'Come on. This is not where we should be.' He followed me out, reluctant and puzzled.
'I don't understand,' he said, when we were beyond the palace. (I'd had to take him by the arm and half-drag him with me.) 'Why shouldn't we have stayed? It could have done me only good if I had had a chance to impress Galba with my loyalty. Now you've deprived me of the chance.'
'You'll be grateful one day,' I said, and hurried him down the flight of steps that serve as a short-cut to the Forum. It wasn't till I had got him into a wine-shop, and sat us down before a flask of Marino that I was ready to explain.
There's something wrong. I don't know just what, but there is. For one thing, that soldier was lying. Oh, he may have thought it was Otho he killed, I can't say, but I don't believe it was.'
You're crazy,' Domitian said, 'and I'm to lose my chance of impressing myself on the Emperor because you take a foolish notion in your head…'
'Remember what your uncle advised,' I said, 'that we should keep the house. Today's not over yet. Now let's drink this wine and wait on events.'
For the moment there was a lull. The crowd still jostling to and fro in the Forum was tossed on waves of anxiety. It was certain Otho was dead; it was not certain. On the contrary, the Guards were even now advancing from their camp and preparing slaughter for the city. Not so; they were indeed coming but to express their loyalty to Galba and do obeisance to him. Piso had collected a troop of cavalry and was hunting down the last of the rebels; Piso had been seen fleeing the city disguised as a woman. In short everything was said, and for a moment everything was believed, till it was contradicted by what was said next. So, knowing nothing, the crowd was held in a state of constant apprehension. There was a cheer when a litter bearing Galba was seen to emerge from the palace, and begin the descent to the Forum, guarded by the cohort that had been stationed on palace duty that week.
'Galba has come to give thanks to the gods for his deliverance,' some cried. 'Long live the Emperor.'
Though many had come to see him destroyed, all now felt it prudent to applaud his deliverance; and those who hated him most cheered loudest. Domitian, too, would have cheered, but I laid my hand across his mouth.
'It's the cavalry.' That was the new cry, and the crowd was seized with terror. I drew Domitian into the portico of a temple, I forget which now. As I did so I saw the standard-bearer of the cohort that guarded the Emperor seize Galba's effigy, hold it aloft, and then hurl it to the ground. It was a moment of horror, affecting all. The populace fled the Forum seized with panic sudden as a thunder-storm. And indeed it began to rain, heavily, the rain flung by a gust of wind in the faces of the slaves who carried the litter. The bodyguard hesitated, then with one accord, cried out, 'Otho for Emperor.' The terrified bearers ran now this way, now that. Near the little lake which goes by the name of Curtius, Galba was thrown out of the litter. He lay on the ground, then I could see him no longer as he was surrounded by the soldiers who had sworn to guard him, and they hacked at his head and body with their swords.
I had heard accounts of murder, seen gladiators killed, often. I had never seen anyone who mattered butchered. One soldier cut through the throat, trampling his sword down on it. They vied with each other to acquire merit.
Others died also. Vinius cried out that Otho had not commanded his death. He attempted flight. A circular swing of a legionary sword caught him behind the knee. He fell to the ground and another legionary pinned his body to the earth. This happened just outside the Temple of the Divine Julius. Laco was, I believe, murdered soon after his master. Icelus, being a freedman, was reserved for public execution.
The whole thing was over in less time than it takes to tell it. We had a new Emperor, Otho, who later in the day, when it was already dark, attended the Senate where he was greeted with cheers and acclamation. They hurried to confer the tribunician power on him, rendering his person inviolate. 'Like Galba's,' Domitian muttered.
Piso survived till near night. He had crept into the temple of the Vestal Virgins and remained hidden for some hours. But information was laid and a soldier belonging to the British auxiliary infantry (and therefore indifferent to the crime of sacrilege) forced his way in, disregarding the protest of the priestesses, dragged that morning's deputy-emperor into the street, and cut his throat. Otho is said to have received Piso's head with unmingled joy. By this time Domitian and I had returned to his aunt's house. It was from Flavius Sabinus that I later received the full and exact account of these murders or execu
tions – call them what you will. During the day we had been buoyed up by excitement and the quivering uncertainty of the changing moment. We had not even felt the cold tremble of fear. Now, safe before the stove, nursing goblets of mulled wine and listening to the scolding of the aunt – she had a voice like a seagull when alarmed – I found I could not stop shaking. Domitian sat still as a monument but for a nerve that twitched in his right cheek. Twice he lifted his hand and placed it on the side of his face, as if to arrest that movement. But, when he lowered it again, the twitch still zig-zagged.
A rap at the door brought us to our feet. My hand stretched out in search of a weapon. But it was Flavius Sabinus who entered. And he was smiling.
XV
I cursed Tacitus for making me relive that day. He will judge (when he has doctored my account) that its horrors were the consequence of the degeneracy into which the loss of Republican virtue and liberty had thrust us. 'Never surely,' he wrote in a recent letter in which he urged me to delve more deeply into the putrid sink of memory, 'was there more conclusive evidence that the gods take no thought for our happiness, but only for our punishment.' I would not dispute that, merely observe that licence was as unbounded in the days of the Republic from which only the wise government of Augustus and Tiberius rescued us. The horror of the years that succeeded Nero was not the result of one particular form of government, as my old friend, so full of imaginative sympathy with the distant past, supposes; it was the ineluctable consequence of the failure of government.
Philosophers have argued much concerning the nature of men, whether we are actuated by virtue or by fear. For my part, I know from bitter experience, from reflection and self-study, from the observation of others and from my reading of history, that men are born wicked; that virtue is something only laboriously achieved, in spite of nature; and that the driving force in any man who has achieved any degree of power – even power over his own household, family and slaves – is fierce, dictatorial, destructive, even if also self-destructive. Pride, jealousy, anger, the desire for revenge on account of slights real or imagined, are forces few can, or wish to, resist.
