The Four Emperors

by David Blixt

  Corbulo shook his head grimly. “Yes. Gallus, that imbecile! Five thousand good legionaries, slaughtered. Those were my men! I trained them, knew them. And that's hardly the worst of it.” The old soldier took a bracing breath. “The Jews took their eagle.”

  Seated beside her mother, Perel put her hands up to her mouth. Abigail sat as if turned to stone. Her countrymen had taken a Roman eagle? Were they mad?

  “Ecastor!” Domitia was incredulous. “How could those savages do such a thing?”

  Plautius was pale as ash. “Bolanus has called a meeting?”

  Corbulo bobbed his head. “In an hour. We have to hurry. The days are growing shorter.” According to the laws of their religion, the Senate could conduct no business after nightfall.

  “What will Caesar do?” asked Plautius.

  Corbulo shrugged significantly. There was no telling what Nero would do. But after all their troubles, the accusations and whispers of treason, Corbulo was unwilling to speculate out loud. Instead he said simply, “We'll find out at the meeting. The senior consul is keeping information under tight control. Not that I blame him. All of Rome will be stirring with rumours, and he's refusing to feed them until he has read out Nero's letter to the whole Senate. But I know he's ordered the Temple of Janus opened, and we are to hold suffectus elections tomorrow for some open posts. So see your toga is pure white.”

  Plautius glanced at Abigail and Perel, who went instantly back to their work. It was Domitia who said, “Janus? Does that mean we are at war?”

  “It does,” said Corbulo, and there was an unmistakable relish in his voice. “And if we handle matters correctly, this war could be our salvation.”

  Though a foreigner, Abigail understood at once what he meant. Despite being out of Nero Caesar's favour, Corbulo was still Rome's best general. Moreover, he knew the region incredibly well, having prosecuted a war against the Parthians just a few years earlier. With his Eastern contacts and the loyalty of the eastern legions, Corbulo was the obvious man to place in charge of this war.

  The master of the house was beaming with imagined glory. Grandson of a famous cavalryman, Plautius longed to earn an equally great military name for himself.

  As the two men prepared to walk to the Capitol, Domitia turned to Perel. “Ugh! Clean yourself, girl, then get my shawl. I'm walking to Verulana Gratilla's. Now!”

  Clambering to her feet, Perel bobbed obediently and darted off to obey. Domitia spared a glance for Abigail, daring her to disapprove. But Abigail's face was stony as she worked the chalk.

  Yet the moment Domitia had left the garden, Abigail paused to shudder in fear. She was a Jew. These were her people who had done this. It was the fire all over again. She could see it now. They would blame the Jews of Rome, hunt them down again. Only this time they wouldn't single out just one sect for destruction. It would be all Hebrews. Those clever enough to side with the Romans at the start, to offer funds or arms, would survive. Those, and the slaves.

  For the rest, it would be even worse than before. Last time the Jews of Rome were innocent scapegoats, the sacrificial lambs for an accident that needed blame. Now they would suffer for what had been brewing for a hundred years. Some might even take up arms, feeling the time had come to fight for their faith, their homeland, their ancestors. Their God. The only God.

  Abigail's fingers were numb, and it had nothing to do with the chill December air. The war with Rome had come at last.

  II

  Abigail's fears were entirely justified. Within an hour Rome's streets were thronged with furious citizens demanding Hebrew blood for the loss of the eagle. Touched by Caesar's own hand, the golden aquila was the symbol of a legion's luck. Better every man should fall than let their eagle be lost, and woe to any nation that dared take one.

  In his father's home on the Quirinal, Titus Flavius Sabinus received the same urgent summons as Corbulo. Draped in his toga praetexta with its broad purple stripe along the edge, he joined his elderly father on the walk to the Forum, then ascended another of Rome's fabled seven hills, the Mons Capitolinus, towards the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus.

  As they climbed the marble steps to the Capitol, Old Sabinus groused. “Why couldn't that fool Bolanus call the meeting in Mars? Or Bellona?” Holding the fasces this month, the senior consul had the choice of meeting places.

  “Marcus Vettius is a little claustrophobic, pater,” observed Sabinus. “Jupiter has lots of space.”

  “Why not use Castor's temple, then? Climbing all these damn steps – no, I don't need help, thank you!” snapped Old Sabinus, wrenching his arm away. Bald as an egg, toothless, hunched with bitterness, the cantankerous septuagenarian continued to grouse as he climbed. “Fancy being in Greece when we're at war. I said it when he left, no good comes from the Princeps being out of Italia! Look at Tiberius, hiding on his island. The world went to Hades. But does Caesar listen? No! He's an 'artist!' Has to prove it. The Olympics! Pah!”

  “Father,” said Sabinus in a low, warning tone.

  Old Sabinus scowled. “Leave me be. I'm too old for Caesar's spies to bother with.”

  I'm not, thought Sabinus, exchanging wry looks with the other senators climbing the narrow steps alongside them. And I have sons.

  At the top the steps they passed through the ancient gate and under the new Triumphal monument called Corbulo's Arch. Built to commemorate the general's great victory over the Parthians, the grand structure now served as the portal to the open square on the Capitoline hill. To their right was the great Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, while before them was the more modest temple to Honos et Virtus, the cult of military commanders.

  As they paused for their servants to place their stools inside, the two Flavians saw none other than general Corbulo himself emerging from the military temple. Noting both father and son, the famous general greeted them. “Ave, Titus Flavius. Titus Flavius.”

  “Ave, Gnaeus Domitius,” grunted Old Sabinus affably. “I presume we're declaring war today?”

  Corbulo chortled. “I imagine so. Bolanus has had a letter. It will be interesting to hear what dispositions Caesar has made.”

  “If he doesn't give the war to you, he's a fool,” said Old Sabinus baldly.

  Corbulo's expression was grave. “Be careful what you say, Titus Flavius. It's too easy to fall from favour these days.”

  These words carried a hint of self-pity. In Sabinus' opinion, Corbulo's greatest sin was not his poor choices of relations. It was his popularity with the people. Never one to share the stage, Nero did not brook being outshone. Moreover, Corbulo was married to the great-great-granddaughter of Augustus Caesar, meaning his two daughters were more directly linked to the Julian bloodline than Nero himself, who was adopted. For a Caesar without an heir, Corbulo's very existence was a threat.

  “At least it will be a lively meeting,” said Old Sabinus. “It's been as dull as a German's wit since Nero banished poor Helvidius, and had Petronius whittle himself to death.” Helvidius Priscus was a senator exiled for his public sympathy with the Brutus and Cassius who had murdered Julius Caesar, while Gaius Petronius Arbiter had been a senator and novelist who wrote the most amazing satires of Nero and his court.

  “He ordered the wrong man dead,” said Corbulo. “I won't miss Helvidius.”

  “Yes,” agreed Old Sabinus. “I daresay he's right about restoring the Republic and doing away with the Caesars, but he's such a frightful man to listen to, I cannot be bothered.”

  “Interesting, isn't it? He banishes the man who spouts revolution, and murders the man who makes sport of him.”

  “Divine prerogative,” said Old Sabinus with a wicked grin.

  Chuckling, Corbulo turned to Sabinus. “What about you, Titus Flavius. Helvidius is a fellow Stoic. Surely you're sympathetic to his plight?”

  “Of course, Gnaeus Domitius,” answered Sabinus with a polite smile. “Just as you are sympathetic with every couch-general who refights your battles for you.”

  Eyebrows raised, Cor
bulo clapped his hands softly. “Well parried. Ah, at last.”

  The consul Bolanus had arrived, preceded by his lictors dressed in their plain white tunics. These were true public servants, paid by the state, charged with preceding any elected Roman magistrate during his year in office. The chief lictor bore the fasces in his arms, the birch rods bound together with red leather straps to show the strength of unity – and also to signify the magistrate's ability to chastise. Inside the walls of Rome, the bundle contained only the birch rods, meaning the bearer was merely allowed to beat offenders. Outside the walls, the bundle would also contain an axe, granting the bearer the power of life and death.

  When he'd been aedile, Sabinus had never had cause to order an axe added to his bundle, as his work had been confined to the city. And aediles were only allowed two rods, making the axe look naked. Whereas praetors were allowed six rods, and consuls twelve. As Princeps Senatus, leader of the Senate, Nero's twenty-four rods always had an axe inside, whether in or out of Rome's walls. Something no one ever forgot.

  The fasces passed and Bolanus led the rest of the senators into the Temple of Jupiter. Dedicated to the great god and his companion deities, Juno and Minerva, this was actually the second temple to stand on this spot. The original had been built in the first year of the Republic, five hundred seventy-eight years earlier. Burned down in the year Sulla had been made dictator, it had been rebuilt in grander style, under a bronze roof supported by golden eagles atop twenty-four Doric columns. The interior walls and columns were covered in garish weapons of war – shields, spears, and swords, all gifts from foreign lands wishing to honour Rome. Notably, there were no weapons from Judea.

  Sabinus settled himself upon his stool in the middle tier and waited for the clerks to make a count. Most of the prominent senators were with Nero on his fanciful tour of Greece, but there were still enough backbenchers to form a quorum.

  As they were tallying heads, Sabinus looked around at the expectant senators. Clearly many were hoping for advancement. There was Gaius Licinius Mucianus, with his ludicrous walking stick and affected lisp. He had been suffect-consul last year, and was still waiting for a governorship as a reward. There was Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, the junior consul and most likely candidate after Corbulo. Just five years earlier he had defeated a huge army in Britannia, though that victory was tarnished by the fact that the enemy general had been a woman, some mad Briton called Boudica.

  Over there was Quintus Junius Arulenus Rusticus, sitting spear-straight, the most upright among them. And the most cowardly, if rumour was true. Worse, the gods had blessed him with a mad wife, Verulana, who spent money as assiduously as he hoarded it. Then there was young Plautius, Corbulo's son-in-law. At least he might have some hope – not of being made the general, but of advancement. If Nero had the good sense to appoint Corbulo, this young man's career would be off like a catapult stone. But when has Nero ever shown good sense?

  The moment the count was made, the senior consul dismissed his lictors and stood. A mild man, too fearful to be disloyal, Marcus Vettius Bolanus was sweating, the beads gathering along the crest of his receding hairline. But his voice was clear and strong as he read from Nero's letter, making official all that was already known.

  There had been an unprovoked uprising against Gessius Florus, the Procurator of Judea. Fearful of his life, Florus had requested aid from the governor of neighboring Syria, Gaius Cestius Gallus. Gallus had obliged, bringing with him the Twelfth Legion. Having quelled the disturbance, Gallus was returning peacefully and in good order to his own province when he was attacked by thousands upon thousands of armed Judeans, who had not only slaughtered the legion, but also taken its eagle.

  This last was greeted with absolute silence. It was such a horrific omen, such an evil portent, that those who normally would have been screaming for blood were rendered mute.

  The first order of business commanded in the letter was the recall of both Gallus and Florus. Bolanus paused in his reading to call the vote. There was no debate, every man in the temple moving to the right in a unanimous vote to strip both men of their offices. But only one was summoned for trial. Having lost an eagle, Gallus would end up in exile, his property confiscated. Florus was simply removed from office. After all, he wasn't even a senator, merely a knight, hardly worth bothering about. A bad governor was nothing new.

  Everyone settled back onto their stools, eager for the real business of this meeting – war. Bolanus resumed reading Caesar's words. “ 'We declare the land of Judea, and all the people therein, hostis. At our dictate, the Fifth, Tenth, and Fifteenth legions will gather in Syria and await their commander's arrival.' ”

  That caused consternation, Sabinus saw. Those legions were presently in Aegypt, heading up the Nilus for a not-so-secret invasion of Aethiopia. Many of his fellow senators, having invested in that war, were dismayed to discover it would not be waged. It was at times like these that Sabinus was perversely grateful he was not from a wealthy family.

  However disappointed those men were, others were licking their lips. The Hebrews were known to have gold and treasure in their fabled Temple, so much that they never suffered during drought or famine. Their wealth was legendary. Even Crassus had been awed by it. Yes, there was money to be made in a war with Judea. So long as the general was the right kind of man.

  All eyes turned to the obvious choice, seated in the front row among the consulars and elder statesmen of the Senate. Corbulo knew the region intimately, having fought the Parthians for years. He had a host of clients throughout the land, and still owned the loyalty of the Syrian legions. He had commanded the Twelfth, giving him a personal stake in reclaiming its eagle, and with it, Rome's honour.

  But if the old warhorse was hopeful, he didn't show it – though clearly his son-in-law in the back tier was. Plautius was leaning forward, jaw clamped, grinding his teeth in impatient hunger for the general's name to be read aloud. For Nero must have chosen someone to lead this great campaign. It was out of the realm of possibility that Caesar had left that decision up to the Senate. They would vote, yes, but Nero was not only the Princeps Senatus. He was also Imperator, the supreme commander of the Roman military. It was a title that once had only been granted to victorious generals upon the battlefield, an acclaim handed spontaneously by the soldiers. Now tradition gave it to each new Caesar, earned or not. That Corbulo had won it in the old fashion was just another mark of how dangerous competence combined with popularity could be.

  Plautius was hardly alone in his strained eagerness. Half the Senate was at the edge of their stools to hear the name of the lucky man to whom Caesar had given this plum of a war. But Sabinus was not among them. He knew Nero too well to even dream he could predict the name. He would do better than Caligula, at least, and not nominate his horse. But of the many cronies who had traveled with Nero to Greece, Sabinus had no idea who the Imperator might choose. The man was utterly unpredictable. Is it genius? Or madness? Or was Seneca correct that they are inextricably linked?

  Upon the raised dais with the three curule chairs (two of which were empty, Nero and the junior consul being absent), Bolanus was reading again, speaking slowly and clearly for this most important announcement. “ 'As general of our legions we, Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, Imperator, Princeps, and Divus, Pater Patriae, bestow the scarlet cloak upon the honourable senator, consular, and general, our beloved Titus Flavius Vespasianus, already dispatched from our company to command Rome's legions in the region. He is to hold proconsular imperium for Judea and Syria for the duration of Caesar's pleasure. Long live Rome!' ”

  Vespasian! The shock of that name nearly had Sabinus falling off his seat. Uncle Vespasian? A more unlikely name could not be conjured. Just last week it had been rumored that Vespasian was out of favour, having once again fallen asleep during a Neronian concert. But there was his name on the parchment Bolanus was handing around, scrawled above the wax likeness of Nero's sphinx seal.

  The Senate was murmuring i
n confused wonder, and Sabinus was as shocked as everyone else. Nero had no love for Uncle Vespasian. Called him the Old Muleteer, a reference to what the impoverished Vespasian had turned to between wars – raising military mules to sell to the armies.

  But in truth, it was not a senseless choice. A born organizer, Vespasian had done surprisingly well in Britannia, gaining decisive victories while never putting the Senate out of purse. And he had been a fair governor in Africa as well. No, it was a decent choice, perhaps even a wise one. More, it made Nero seem magnanimous, handing this gem of a command to a man he so clearly disliked. Clever! Whatever gave Caesar the idea..?

  Sabinus realized with utter certainty who was responsible for his uncle's sudden elevation. Had he not been a Stoic, he would surely have laughed.

  Meanwhile all eyes had turned from the dais to Sabinus' father, seated in the front ranks among the men who had been consuls. Everyone knew there was no love lost between Vespasian and his brother, no bond of fraternity. Old Sabinus had always accused his little brother of being a plodder, a functionary, a non-entity. He still loved to tell the story of the time Claudius Caesar had poured the entire contents of a chamber pot into Vespasian's toga. Their enmity stemmed from some childhood dispute, and extended into money – Old Sabinus had refused financial assistance to his younger brother many times over the years. The only concession had been to house Vespasian's younger son in his house.

  Hearing his brother's name now, in such prominence, seemed to have struck Titus Flavius Sabinus Senior like a sacrificial stunning hammer. Seated two rows behind his father, Sabinus wondered if the old man was about to have a stroke.

  The consul Bolanus cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Conscript Fathers, I will see a division.”

  Now all eyes turned from Old Sabinus to Corbulo. This was the moment. If he wanted to dispute Caesar's dispositions, declare himself the only man with the experience and talent to wage this war successfully, he would stand and speak. In the old days, someone else might have done so. But these days a brave speech might not just end one's career, but also one's life.