The Course of Honour (38 page)

Nero's public response to the situation in the provinces had been merely to summon Rome's chief citizens to hear a demonstration of a new kind of water-organ with a lecture by himself about the various models, of which he was by this time an unrivalled connoisseur. (Caenis still did not like them.) Now his vain composure seemed to have cracked. Here he was, hair neatly ranged in a perfect double row of curls, looking as though he did not know what was expected of him next. Caenis had no idea either, though she supposed as a general's lady she must try to be polite.

Three-quarters asleep and halfway through her meal, she paused to collect herself. Aglaus whispered to her discreetly that Nero had been told in a dream the night before to bring the sacred chariot here. Caenis, who still wished breakfasting in Flavian houses could be less alarming, surveyed the Emperor dourly. He was thirty-one, and had the smell of a man who would not see thirty-two. As Antonia's great-grandson, this washed-out wreck could be viewed as her own patron; they both knew, she had never recognised that duty.

Ridiculously she remembered Vespasian's mild greeting to the unexpected ox: ‘Hello, boy! Lost your way?'

‘Welcome,' she managed instead. ‘Dear me—' She was addressing the imperial charioteer as sweetly as she could at an hour of the morning when she was never at her best. ‘The house of Flavius Vespasianus
lacks adequate stabling for a vehicle so opulent as this! He will be so sorry he was not at home—' Nero was still looking uncertain. ‘May I suggest, Caesar,' Caenis told him in a low confidential tone, ‘a quick turn around the Circus Maximus then straight back up to the Temple and give thanks to Jove for the loan? Unless, that is, the gods inspire you otherwise!'

Rather to her surprise, Nero meekly acquiesced.

‘I don't think,' she suggested cautiously to Aglaus, as they watched their visitor depart, ‘we ought to excite sir with this nonsense.'

‘Oh madam! It's just the sort of story sir would like!'

‘Exactly,' said Caenis. ‘He'll be sure it is a symbol; he'll keep worrying about what it could mean.'

By June Nero took fright at Galba's approach. He was in serious trouble; the Senate had declared him a public enemy. He fled to the suburban villa of his freedman Phaon where after some hesitation and some dramatic posturing he committed suicide just as the soldiers came galloping down the road to finish him. He begged his attendants not to let his body be mutilated after death, then one of his freedmen helped him stab himself in the throat. His funeral was arranged at the tomb of the Domitii on the Pincian Hill by Actë, the former slavegirl he had loved in his youth, who had stayed loyal to him through three wives and innumerable affairs: Actë, who had once been described to Caenis as a safe mistress for an emperor because she was a common girl who bore no grudges.

In Judaea the Emperor's death compelled Vespasian to halt his campaign while he waited for the new ruler to confirm or revoke his appointment as commander. Seizing advantage of the unexpected breathing space, a Jewish leader called Simon son of Gioras managed to overrun parts of Judaea and Idumaea which Vespasian had previously subdued, so all that was to do again: Vespasian grumbled irritably.

Galba took his time over reissuing Vespasian's command. Although they were both old soldiers, Galba was an inbred aristocrat, a homosexual, and a man who had governed Tarraconensian Spain for eight years on the principle (which he openly admitted) of doing as little as possible so there was nothing for which he could be called to
account. Galba and Vespasian lacked common ground. Indeed, Galba was the type of man Vespasian could hardly despise more. He made one or two bad moves. The worst, perhaps, was not giving the Governors of Syria and Judaea much more to keep them occupied.

The following year was what people were to call the Year of the Four Emperors.

 

 

 

 

O
nce, afterwards, Caenis overheard her freedman Aglaus giving his pet version of that tumultuous pageant of events on which so many historians would break so many pens. It was rather like the actor she had once seen mime a four-minute version of the
Aeneid.
It amazed an audience because it did seem so complete. It was magnificent. The outrageousness made her want to laugh and cry, but there was no time for either as well-known events whistled past in his brilliant quick-fire summary. The skill was that one recognised triumphantly all that was included—and forgot what had been left out.

Aglaus was talking to Julia, Titus' daughter. Julia was a vivid little soul, though Caenis preferred Vespasian's elder granddaughter, his daughter's orphan, Flavia. Flavia was a quieter, level-headed young girl, something of a favourite with Sabinus, to whose own grandson she was betrothed. Flavia would never seek a freedman's comments on the Year of the Four Emperors. She talked about it cautiously with Caenis, then in public she stayed silent. Of all his family it was Flavia who shared most acutely her grandfather's sense of morality and duty.

Not so the bubbling Julia. ‘Tell me the story of the Year of the Four Emperors!'

‘No; no; old history, child.'

‘Oh, it's exciting; tell me!'

‘Well . . . all right. I remember,' Aglaus began, ‘the Year of the Four Emperors. I remember it for two reasons. One was that it never stopped being exciting. Also, it was that year my lady gave me my freedom. It seemed to me then, something had gone wrong. She had already told me she had put it in her will. So I imagined she must have fallen ill; some secret woman's business that she didn't want to mention—she was at that age; I kept an eye on her. The way she looked, I really saw myself having to supervise the nurse and bury her . . . So; a freedman! I felt wonderful and terrible all at once.'

There was a shuffling as narrator and listener prepared to start.

‘Go on; go on! Come to the year!'

‘What a year! “The Year of the Four Emperors.” Sounds quite organised. One after the other, nose to tail like elephants. No such luck. Utter confusion. Listen: Nero eventually topped himself in June the year before—'

‘Do his eyes!'

Aglaus altered his voice to a thrill of horror: ‘When the centurion rushed into Phaon's villa trying to capture him alive, Nero finally found courage to stab himself, crying, “What an artist perishes here!” He died with his eyes glazed, and boggling out of their sockets so that everyone present was horrified!'

Julia screamed happily. In his everyday voice Aglaus commented, ‘So! Nero's last song;
enter Galba.
So old he's frightened he'll drop dead from sheer excitement; hastily names Calpurnius Piso as his successor: five days later, young Piso murdered; old Galba murdered;
enter Otho.
Otho is the poor dunce who had been married to Poppaea to cover up Nero's adultery, then packed off for ten years to govern Lusitania while Nero married her anyway: Lusitania is all right if you're
very
fond of sardines! Otho lasts from January to April. Next, Vitellius decides the legions in Germany need to stretch their legs. They start marching to Rome. We're off: civil war. Otho's nerve seems to crack. Keeps sending for his hairdresser to take his mind off things. Nice thatch; not much under it.'

Julia was giggling. Otho's thatch was a joke: it had been a clever wig.

‘Vitellius smashes Otho's legions at Bedriacum. Otho decently tops himself;
enter Vitellius.
'

This was Aulus Vitellius, one of the sons of Lucius Vitellius who had once been a client of Antonia, the close friend and long-term supporter of Claudius, and once patron to Vespasian. But Aulus the son had other loyalties—primarily to himself.

‘The German legions storm into Rome. Rome thinks it best to welcome them; they have a serious reputation. Vitellius sticks it from April to December—not bad for a loose type so drunk he can barely keep upright on the throne. And devious as they come. Your Great-uncle Sabinus would be alive today if that bastard Vitellius had accepted the thumbs down on 1 July. So what now? The legions in Moesia—
where the hell is Moesia?
we all wonder, except Sabinus, who once lived there—decide it's their turn to pick a Caesar. They beat up Vitellius' messengers, rip their flags, steal their money, then stick a pin in a list to decide whose name to attach under their silver eagles next. And who does Moesia choose?
We
know, Julia, don't we?'

Julia giggled hysterically.

 

Caenis had known as early as March. She anticipated what would happen exactly as Titus did. In many ways it was Titus himself who decided events.

They had been expecting Titus home; he was supposed to be coming to intercede with Galba about his father's still unconfirmed command. He never arrived. Caenis stood in the room that servants had opened and aired for him, with his letter in her hand, telling her so guardedly that he had decided not to come. Always polite, still he gave her no reason. She sensed it was one he could not yet formulate. She bent to smooth the coverlet on his newly made bed, while mentally she cancelled preparations and plans. As she listened to the silence, she realised that this was not simply a matter of disappointing the butcher and the fishmonger, of removing a pot of scillas from his window-ledge and piling his pillows back into the blanket-chest. A chill caught her, as she dreaded that because of what he was doing now Titus might never again be able to return to Rome.

He had actually sailed for home; that made it worse. His letter was written from Greece. When Galba had still not forwarded instructions to Judaea by March, with the campaign season at hand Vespasian had sent Titus back to Rome, to bend the knee in homage and ask formally for a new commission, releasing the Flavians to be up and at Jerusalem as they wanted. That was all they wanted, whatever foolish rumours flew about it in Rome afterwards.

In fact by the time Titus put to sea, Galba was already two months dead. There had been trouble with the army, because he had promised them a bounty which it soon became clear he did not intend to pay. Detachments of soldiers, particularly those in Upper Germany who originally helped quell the Vindex rebellion, refused to take the New Year's Day oath of allegiance to a mean-handed Spanish appointee, and asked the Praetorian Guards to nominate another emperor who would be acceptable to all. Galba's adoption of Piso was intended to reassure them. Instead it antagonised Otho, who had been Galba's most significant supporter and who was not unnaturally expecting the privilege of imperial adoption himself. Hence Otho's bid. Hence Galba's murder. Hence young Titus Flavius Vespasianus, now abruptly yachting on a strange new tack in the eastern Mediterranean.

Titus had reached Greece when he met messengers bringing news of Galba's death. He should have continued his journey to salute Otho instead. His companion, King Agrippa, did indeed go on to Rome. Titus turned back alone. He visited Paphos. There stood a prophetic oracle, which he consulted at length. He spent a long time on his own, lost in thought. Then quite suddenly he sailed back to his father.

Nothing was said. But from that moment Caenis knew what was happening. Aglaus, who had been with her for nearly twenty years, saw the change in her face. It was, as he told Julia, enough to make him believe his mistress might be terminally ill.

There are two ways at least of being brave. In a sudden emergency, when the adrenalin floods, people act with courage because they have no time or no imagination to appreciate how much danger they are in. To have courage in a sudden crisis is comparatively easy. There are obvious and positive things to do. But to remain brave over
a long period is a very different matter. To wait and to watch, for month after month, while inevitable tragedy stalks closer, that is the test. That exacts courage of a deliberate, self-wounding kind.

Life was hard. Caenis had always known it. Some people endure that certainty all their lives. If ever they dare think otherwise life restores their bitter understanding soon enough. Like her steward, Caenis would remember the Year of the Four Emperors. She would remember because it would be when her shared life with Flavius Vespasianus had to come to a swift, unplanned end.

She was not ill. Her freedman worked that out eventually. Some time at the beginning of that summer it struck Aglaus that the lifeless look on his lady's face was one which of course he recognised: it was the classic expression of an old, exhausted, badly beaten, dismally broken-down slave.

 

 

 

 

O
nce Titus had sailed back to Syria there was never any question what he wanted his father to do.

He himself began working towards it immediately. Titus could always attract the friendship of the most unlikely men: so with adept diplomacy he persuaded Licinius Mucianus, the Syrian Governor, who was one of several statesmen who might himself have joined in the free-for-all, to set aside any jealousy he had felt towards Vespasian and abandon his own possible claim for power. The two provincial governors had previously loathed one another with cordial contempt; Titus brought them together. Mucianus joined Titus in urging Vespasian to act.

Spanish troops had made Galba. Otho was acclaimed by the Praetorian Guards. The German army raised Vitellius: now in Judaea the Fifth, Tenth and Fifteenth Legions sat in their camps deprived of action, all talking politics. Soldiers should never be allowed to do that. Yet Vespasian held his men in a firm discipline. He made no move; neither did they. Titus and Mucianus continued their private pressure for long hours in Vespasian's tent.

 

Otho's reign was so short, only four months, that Vespasian's views on him as a ‘pea-brained Neronian pimp', which he wrote to Caenis,
were soon redundant. When Aulus Vitellius pranced through Gaul to snatch the Empire like a bullying child with a coveted toy, Vespasian grew more angry. Both he and his campaign-hardened soldiers were seized with indignation. Vitellius in his youth had been one of the aristocratic boys who entertained Tiberius in debauchery on Capri. He had raced chariots with Caligula. He was a glutton. He was a drunkard. Now he was being carried towards Rome in extravagant triumph, crossing rivers in barges wreathed with garlands while a huge train of hangers-on made merry at the expense of the populace, looting and terrorising the countryside. It accorded ill with the Sabine ideal of public service.