by Allan Massie
Do I believe that story? All I can say is that if it's not true, it's been invented to fit his character.
Though I had persuaded myself that my philosophy was equal to the strains of that period of waiting, I nevertheless found myself distressed by an inability to sleep. This is an affliction which has been my companion ever since. I have seen more dawns rise ghastly to my cold sobriety than even the most debauched reveller has been amazed by. Even now, as I write this, the first cocks are summoning the awakening day.
At the time of which I write, I would go to bed early, in an effort to catch sleep unawares. I would close my eyes and sense it steal upon me. But then a tremor disturbed its advance. Perhaps it was an erotic fancy; perhaps a cold start of fear: sometimes the thought of what was to be done; sometimes sharp regret for some past action. My eyes would open, against my will. I would turn to lie on my belly, and surrender to erotic images – Domatilla's soft lips, Titus' leg lying weighty across mine, the flash of a girl seen in the street, that prostitute who used to ply for custom in a lane near the Pantheon, and who would stand, as it were indifferent, with one leg drawn up behind her so that her foot rested on the wall of the building against which she leaned, a girl so confident of her beauty and her allure that, alone among prostitutes I had ever known, she never solicited custom, but was certain of being addressed.
Such fancies would leave me shaking, the sweat standing out on my brow, and, knowing sleep had deserted me, I would rise, put on my clothes and sally out into the streets, perhaps in search of that girl though I knew she did not practise her trade after dark.
The streets were lonely and dangerous, for Flavius Sabinus, as Prefect of the City – a role he discharged with the utmost conscientiousness, even though he knew that he was keeping Rome secure for his advancing enemy – had imposed a curfew; and soldiers of the Guard paraded the streets to enforce it, arresting any whom they found loitering.
Yet their efforts were random and they were easily avoided. A great city has ever its night-hawks – criminals, debauchees, waifs, lunatics, poets (I daresay) and unhappy wretches such as myself to whom sleep denies her gentle comforts. So I wandered the streets and knew many strange encounters: quick couplings against the slimy walls of noisome alleys, rambling conversation by the braziers along the river bank where broken men and women congregated. Sometimes I found myself in sinister cellars, drinking-dens, the lowest sort of brothels, gambling-houses.
I remember one night falling in with a young man of noble birth, as evinced by his negligent dress and manner of speaking. He was only, I judged, a little drunk, but his conversation was wayward. He insisted that I accompany him to a place that he knew, where, he said, we could gamble and drink and lie with women. 'Or boys or what you will. There are Africans there,' he said, 'and my fancy is for dark flesh.' The place was mean and sordid, lit by tallow candles, and managed by a toothless crone, who laughed to see us. I heard malice in that laugh, but by the light, such as it was, I saw something in my companion which appealed to me. It may have been the soft disappointed line of his mouth or the long lashes that flickered over his deep-set eyes. I do not remember, though I remember these features. They made a gull of him there, throwing loaded dice to win the gold which, if he had not lost it, they would have stolen. I felt a savage joy as I watched his humiliation and saw him grow incoherent on the sour wine of the house. The debonair manner which had attracted me because I knew it to be assumed as a mask for the despair which consumed him, disintegrated. He wept, and then implored the woman to furnish him with a black girl, as she had done before. 'You have no gold,' she said, and the ruffians who had fleeced him, took hold of him and hurled him out into the black night. I found him in the gutter, helped him up, and then, when he shook me off with assurances that he was all right, watched him stagger out of my life.
Why does that memory stay with me? Not because I behaved badly, for I have done worse in my time. Because of the gallantry with which he accepted his humiliation? Perhaps – 'and dying he remembers his sweet Argos'. Wasn't that the condition of Rome?
XXXI
You write, Tacitus, yet again chiding me for my delay in sending you further instalments of what you call my 'copy' and, then, as an afterthought, ask me if I have been ill, since you can't understand, or imagine, why otherwise I should be failing you. As you have never once, since I embarked – unwillingly, I remind you – on this exercise which has aroused in me so many painful memories I had thought well buried, expressed a word of gratitude, you might consider that this omission of courtesy would be sufficient reason for me to desist. But then, you know me. You know I am not dependent on your gratitude, and care little for expressions of appreciation. So you are justified in supposing I may have been ill.
But not in body. My illness is of the spirit, or the will, or whatever you choose to call it. The truth is that your request from the first reminded me of the wisdom of Herodotus' line: 'you stir what should not be stirred.' History is a record of crimes and foolishness, and no more that I can see. It has no instructional value, for each generation of men is confident of its own wisdom and ability to avoid its fathers' mistakes. Nor can I agree with Aeschylus that 'lamentations are a sure relief of sufferings.' Or it may be that I have not the gift to give tongue to lamentations. I do not know. I know only that I have been wretched to trawl over past horrors.
And now I must approach the moment when Vitellius prepared to enter Rome. 'Ill-gotten gains work evil' in Sophocles' words.
You will be growing impatient again with my procrastinating literariness. Too bad.
Rumour had warned us that his army was ill-disciplined. In particular there were frequent dissensions between the legionaries and the auxiliary troops, each believing the other more favoured by their indulgent commander. They united only to loot the villages and towns through which they passed and to abuse, rape and sometimes murder, their inhabitants.
Nevertheless when word came that the new Emperor was within a few miles of Rome a throng, mostly of the baser sort, but including some Senators and equestrians eager to be among the first to welcome their master, tumbled out to meet him. They ran wild through the army and the camp, and so great was the confusion that many of the soldiers believed themselves to be insulted. They drew their swords and fell upon the people, killing upwards of a hundred. It was with difficulty that some semblance of order was restored, and then they were in the city, still armed, contrary to all law and custom. The sight of some of the auxiliaries, bristling with the skins of wild beasts, and armed with lances, terrified the citizens; and these troops themselves, many of whom were overawed by the size of the buildings, reacted brutally to the citizens' alarm. It was with difficulty that the tribunes and prefects prevented a general massacre from taking place. What a start to a new reign!
Vitellius, it was reported, crossed the Milvian bridge on a big black horse. He was in a state of intense excitement, his face shining purple and his eyes darting about. It was a moment of glory he could never have expected. He wore a military cloak and brandished a sword. But someone of sense – I never learned who, and am indeed only surprised that such a man was to be found among the members of his staff – must have told him that it would never do to enter Rome in the guise of a conquerer. So he halted and, retiring into a convenient house, assumed civilian dress.
So he was on foot when I caught sight of him, and it must be admitted he looked better on horseback. This was partly because he had a heavy limp, the consequence of a chariot crash in his youth – Caligula was driving at the time. In an attempt to disguise it he was now leaning on the shoulder of one of his officers; and this detracted from his dignity. He was very tall, and might have made an imposing figure but for his huge paunch, the result of his gluttony and drunkenness. As it was, he looked grotesque, for everything about him was exaggerated. 'They say he's got a dong the length of an Egyptian obelisk,' a bystander in a butcher's apron muttered.
This was the creature who now marched – unsteadily –
at the head of his army, Emperor of Rome.
The eagles of four legions were in the van and on either side the colours of other legions were carried. Then came the standards of twelve auxiliary squadrons of cavalry, and the cavalry themselves behind the legions. More than thirty auxiliary cohorts followed, each bearing the name or equipment of the nation from which it was drawn. The line of march was flanked by the prefects, tribunes, centurions, and the other officers.
It was a splendid sight – if the city they were entering had not been Rome, but some barbarian capital they had stormed. Even with that reflection, many thrilled at this evidence of the might and majesty of Rome, and only a few commented that it was an army worthy of a better Emperor than Vitellius.
For my part, I was fully occupied in calming Domitian's apprehension. The strength of the enemy forces threatened to unman him. 'How can we hope to overcome such an army?' he muttered.
I assured him that if he had seen the splendour of his father's legions, he would not lose heart so easily. This was true but unhelpful. He did not care to be reminded that I knew more than he did of Vespasian's readiness for war.
The next day Vitellius appeared at the rostra and delivered a eulogy of himself. It was as if he was recommending his virtues to the Senate and people of a conquered state. He spoke of his energy and moderation, though his progress to the city had been marked by sloth, self-indulgence and cruelty.
He spoke in a manner which would have appeared absurdly boastful in the Divine Augustus himself. No man of sense or judgement could listen to him without feeling contempt. Yet the mob, mindless of how they had cheered Otho a few weeks before, and being unable or unwilling to distinguish between truth and falsehood, were delighted. They raised loud huzzas and, since they had long ago learned how to flatter Emperors, begged him to assume the name and title of Augustus. He graciously assented. At any rate, I suppose his assent was intended to seem gracious. To my mind, as he swelled with self-importance and swayed, as a result either of emotion or wine, so that, when he tried to raise his hands, they had to be supported above his head by his attendants, he appeared ridiculous.
Then he announced that there should be a great public feast and that he himself would bear all its cost. Nothing offered clearer testimony to the corruption of the times than this; for many remembered that when Vitellius had set out to assume command on the Rhine, he had left his wife and children in a rented attic in a poor quarter of the city, and had financed his journey by pawning a pair of pearl ear-rings, belonging to his mother. Some said he had torn the jewels from her ears; others that he had stolen them while she slept. And now, from the loot of Italian cities and the sale of offices to his friends and flatterers, he was providing a public feast for hundreds of thousands of citizens.
It was soon known that feasting, not business, occupied Rome's new master. He banqueted three or four times a day, and these were not the hasty snacks with which Augustus had contented himself, snatching a mouthful of bread or cheese and a few dates, figs or apples while he worked with his secretaries. On the contrary, Vitellius spent many hours at the table and could always be tempted to remain longer by the arrival of some other delicacy and bottle of wine. If he was rarely incapably drunk, he was never sober; and some of his more foolish and degraded acts may be attributed to his habitual inebriety. All the same, when one learned of a new dish he had proudly devised and named 'The Shield of Minerva the Protectress', one didn't know whether to laugh, weep or curse the self-indulgent booby. The recipe called for pike-livers, pheasant-brains (can such things be found?), flamingo-tongues and lamprey-milt; and the ingredients, collected, it is said, in every corner of the Empire were brought to Rome by naval triremes. Only this last allegation was invented: all the ingredients were available in the Roman markets. The dish must have been perfectly revolting. Minerva, being the Goddess of Wisdom, could not have been a less appropriate dedicatee.
If Vitellius' private life was offensive, his public acts were still more deplorable. Some, it may be, were only injudicious. He took for himself the office of Supreme Pontiff, as other Emperors had done. Naturally he was quite unsuitable, but this might have been passed over, in the circumstances. But he chose as his Inauguration Day the 18th July – that is, as I don't need to remind you, the anniversary of the disaster of the Allia where the army of the Republic was defeated by the Gauls – a day which has ever since been regarded as inauspicious. Even Vitellius' supporters were dismayed by this.
The creature Asiaticus was summoned from his tavern and restored to favour at court. It was soon understood that only by approaching him could anyone hope to obtain office, preferment or favours. Even some of those who had crawled before Nero were shocked to discover that they must now humiliate themselves before this pimp.
It was not long before the great army he had brought into the city abandoned all discipline. Their numbers overflowed the camp. So the soldiers were scattered through the city, being billeted, or finding a billet, in porticoes, temples and private lodgings. They were to be found in every tavern. Many did not know where to find their officers or their headquarters; and the centurions had little idea where to seek their troops. Drill was forsaken, the parade ground deserted. Many of the auxiliaries, Germans and Gauls, found quarters or rather, based themselves in Trastevere. They drank the water of the Tiber and, since the summer heats were now upon them, were soon weakened by dysentery and other diseases.
All this was, however disgraceful, good news for those of us who hoped for Vespasian's victory. Flavius Sabinus, who had sufficiently ingratiated himself with Vitellius to be permitted to retain his post as Prefect of the City, looked on the disintegration of the enemy forces with a caustic smile.
Since Flavius Sabinus had honoured me with his regard, and included me among the intimate friends with whom he took counsel on his brother's behalf – Domitian was also perforce included, though he contributed little of value to our discussion – I made so bold as to ask him how it was that he had contrived to avoid dismissal from his post; for it was a matter of wonder that he should have retained it, not only on account of his relationship to Vespasian, but more particularly since he was a man whose virtue was acknowledged by all who knew him; and vice, not virtue, was the passport to office in Vitellius' time.
He was embarrassed by my question, and for a little I thought he would deny me an answer. Then he said:
'You do well to ask and, if I hesitate to answer, it is because my answer will do me no credit in your eyes. This displeases me, for I have come to recognise your own virtue and abilities. But in shameful times it is sometimes necessary to do what one would be ashamed of, if the world was not what it is. I swallow my pride partly because it is expedient that you yourself should learn what a man may have to do to survive. I learned this myself long ago when Nero was still young. Indeed, before then, in the time of Claudius, when my patron was his freedman Narcissus…'
He paused here, on that name, and fixed me with his mild grey eyes. It occurred to me that he knew that Narcissus was my true father. This was something which was not widely known and, indeed, it was only a few years previously that I had learned it myself. Perhaps now I in turn betrayed some embarrassment, for Flavius Sabinus, as if to calm me, said, 'Narcissus was an able man, and a better man than his reputation might suggest, or indeed than most of those who have found themselves in like positions at court. But that is by the way. Yet it is not entirely so. For I must confess to you that the intermediary I employed to secure my position as City Prefect was Asiaticus.' 'But I have heard that he is completely loathsome.'
'Few men are entirely so, though he comes close to it. But it happens that I have myself done him some service in the past as, from what you have learned of him and from what you know of the work of City Prefect, you may imagine it might have been in my power to do. I won't go into the details: an unsavoury case, quite revolting indeed. Why I was of service to him I should prefer not to say, nor how. It suffices that I was. And the creature is not en
tirely devoid of gratitude, which is why I say he is not, as you put it, "completely loathsome". So he spoke up for me.'
I couldn't believe that gratitude alone had prompted this, and wondered what other hold Flavius Sabinus might have that would persuade, even compel, Asiaticus to help him now. However it was not for me to probe. I had already learned more than I could have expected to learn, and felt honoured by the old man's confidence in my discretion. Indeed that was evidently so great that he did not demean either of us by asking me to keep his confidence.
He added: There is another matter. Asiaticus is no fool. He may be wallowing in the sunlight of prosperity now, but such as he never trust the weather to stay fair. He knows he may need my friendship in the future as much I need his now.'
From this time some half a dozen of us met regularly to consider how Vespasian's cause might be best advanced. These meetings in his aunt's house gave me a further insight into my friend Domitian's unsettled state of mind, his febrile character. On the one hand he was ever eager for positive measures, even rash ones. He would sit picking at the skin of his thumb, and propose plans for fomenting a mutiny among the troops quartered in the city. On the other, he would start and grow pale at any alarm.
Vitellius, or rather his lieutenants, had reconstituted the Praetorian Guard, formerly distinguished by its loyalty to Otho, by drafting some 20,000 men indiscriminately from the legions and the cavalry.
'They have no esprit de corps,' Domitian insisted, flourishing the Greek term (though his knowledge of Greek was much inferior to mine and, at that stage in his life he could not converse freely in the language). They are,' he continued, 'a mere rag-bag assembly, open, I have no doubt, to the highest bidder.'
'And therefore useless,' said Rubrius Gallus, an officer of the city guard in whom Flavius Sabinus had long placed an absolute trust. 'In any case,' he said, 'attempts to suborn them could not be kept secret.'
